Our National ParksJohn MuirMy First Summer in the Sierra" "The Mountains of California" "The Story of my Boyhood and Youth" "Stickeen: The Story of a Dog" "The Yosemite" "The Giant Forest (chapter 18 ofThe Mountains)Stewart Edward WhiteThe Pines (chapter 8 ofThe Mountains)" "The Blazed Trail" "The Forest" "The Heart of the Ancient WoodC.G.D. RobertsThe Story of a Thousand-year Pine(inWild Life on the Rockies)Enos A. MillsThe Lodge-pole Pine(inWild Life on the Rockies)" "Rocky Mountain Forests(inWild Life on the Rockies)" "The Spell of the Rockies" "Under the Sky in CaliforniaC.F. SaundersField Days in CaliforniaBradford TorreyThe Snowing of the Pines (poem)T.W. HigginsonA Young Fir Wood (poem)D.G. RossettiThe Spirit of the Pine (poem)Bayard TaylorTo a Pine TreeJ.R. LowellSilverado SquattersRobert Louis StevensonTravels with a Donkey" "A Forest Fire (inThe Old Pacific Capital)" "The Two Matches (inFables)" "In the Maine WoodsHenry D. ThoreauYosemite TrailsJ.S. ChaseThe Conservation of Natural ResourcesCharles R. Van HiseGetting Acquainted with the TreesJ.H. McFarlandThe Trees (poem)Josephine Preston Peabody
For biographical material relating to John Muir, consult: With John o' Birds and John o' Mountains, Century, 80:521 (Portraits); At Home with Muir, Overland Monthly (New Series), 52:125, August, 1908; Craftsman, 7:665 (page 637 for portrait), March, 1905; Craftsman, 23:324 (Portrait); Outlook, 80:303, January 3, 1905; Bookman, 26:593, February, 1908; World's Work, 17:11355, March, 1909; 19:12529, February, 1910.
Serene, I fold my hands and wait,Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,For lo! my own shall come to me.I stay my haste, I make delays,For what avails this eager pace?I stand amid the eternal ways,And what is mine shall know my face.Asleep, awake, by night or day,The friends I seek are seeking me;No wind can drive my bark astrayNor change the tide of destiny.What matter if I stand alone?I wait with joy the coming years;My heart shall reap where it has sown,And garner up its fruit of tears.The law of love binds every heartAnd knits it to its utmost kin,Nor can our lives flow long apartFrom souls our secret souls would win.The stars come nightly to the sky,The tidal wave comes to the sea;Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor highCan keep my own away from me.
Serene, I fold my hands and wait,Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,For what avails this eager pace?I stand amid the eternal ways,And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,The friends I seek are seeking me;No wind can drive my bark astrayNor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?I wait with joy the coming years;My heart shall reap where it has sown,And garner up its fruit of tears.
The law of love binds every heartAnd knits it to its utmost kin,Nor can our lives flow long apartFrom souls our secret souls would win.
The stars come nightly to the sky,The tidal wave comes to the sea;Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor highCan keep my own away from me.
This poem is so easy that it needs little explanation. It shows the calmness and confidence of one who feels that the universe is right, and that everything comes out well sooner or later. Read the poem through slowly.Its utmost kinmeans its most distant relations or connections.The tidal wavemeans the regular and usual flow of the tide.Nor time nor space:—Perhaps Mr. Burroughs was thinking of the Bible, Romans 8:38, 39.
Does the poem mean to encourage mere waiting, without action? Does it discourage effort? Just how much is it intended to convey? Is the theory expressed here a good one? Do you believe it to be true? Read the verses again, slowly and carefully, thinking what they mean. If you like them, take time to learn them.
For a list of Mr. Burrough's books, see page177.
Song: The year's at the springRobert BrowningThe Building of the ChimneyRichard Watson Gilder
With John o'Birds and John o'Mountains (Century Magazine, 80:521)
A Day at Slabsides (Outlook, 66:351) Washington Gladden
Century, 86:884, October, 1915 (Portrait); Outlook, 78:878, December 3, 1904.
Try writing a stanza or two in the meter and with the rhyme that Mr. Burroughs uses. Below are given lines that may prove suggestive:—
1. One night when all the sky was clear2. The plum tree near the garden wall3. I watched the children at their play4. The wind swept down across the plain5. The yellow leaves are drifting down6. Along the dusty way we sped (In an Automobile)7. I looked about my garden plot (In my Garden)8. The sky was red with sudden flame9. I walked among the forest trees10. He runs to meet me every day (My Dog)
It was a pleasure to feel one's self in Provence again,—the land where the silver-gray earth is impregnated with the light of the sky. To celebrate the event, as soon as I arrived at Nîmes I engaged a calèche to convey me to the Pont du Gard. The day was yet young, and it was perfectly fair; it appeared well, for a longish drive, to take advantage, without delay, of such security. After I had left the town I became more intimate with that Provençal charm which I had already enjoyed from the window of the train, and which glowed in the sweet sunshine and the white rocks, and lurked in the smoke-puffs of the little olives. The olive-trees in Provence are half the landscape. They are neither so tall, so stout, nor so richly contorted as I have seen them beyond the Alps; but this mild colorless bloom seems the very texture of the country. The road from Nîmes, for a distance of fifteen miles, is superb; broad enough for an army, and as white and firm as a dinner-table. It stretches away over undulations which suggest a kind of harmony; and in the curves it makes through the wide, free country, where there is never a hedge or a wall, and the detail is always exquisite, there is something majestic, almost processional. Some twenty minutes before I reached the little inn that marks the termination of the drive, my vehicle met with an accident which just missed being serious, and which engaged the attention of a gentleman, who, followedby his groom and mounted on a strikingly handsome horse, happened to ride up at the moment. This young man, who, with his good looks and charming manner, might have stepped out of a novel of Octave Feuillet, gave me some very intelligent advice in reference to one of my horses that had been injured, and was so good as to accompany me to the inn, with the resources of which he was acquainted, to see that his recommendations were carried out. The result of our interview was that he invited me to come and look at a small but ancient château in the neighborhood, which he had the happiness—not the greatest in the world, he intimated—to inhabit, and at which I engaged to present myself after I should have spent an hour at the Pont du Gard. For the moment, when we separated, I gave all my attention to that great structure. You are very near it before you see it; the ravine it spans suddenly opens and exhibits the picture. The scene at this point grows extremely beautiful. The ravine is the valley of the Gardon, which the road from Nîmes has followed some time without taking account of it, but which, exactly at the right distance from the aqueduct, deepens and expands, and puts on those characteristics which are best suited to give it effect. The gorge becomes romantic, still, and solitary, and, with its white rocks and wild shrubbery, hangs over the clear, colored river, in whose slow course there is here and there a deeper pool. Over the valley, from side to side, and ever so high in the air, stretch the three tiers of the tremendous bridge. They are unspeakably imposing, and nothing could well be more Roman. The hugeness, the solidity, the unexpectedness, the monumental rectitude of the whole thing leave you nothing to say—at the time—and makeyou stand gazing. You simply feel that it is noble and perfect, that it has the quality of greatness. A road, branching from the highway, descends to the level of the river and passes under one of the arches. This road has a wide margin of grass and loose stones, which slopes upward into the bank of the ravine. You may sit here as long as you please, staring up at the light, strong piers; the spot is extremely natural, though two or three stone benches have been erected on it. I remained there an hour and got a complete impression; the place was perfectly soundless, and for the time, at least, lonely; the splendid afternoon had begun to fade, and there was a fascination in the object I had come to see. It came to pass that at the same time I discovered in it a certain stupidity, a vague brutality. That element is rarely absent from great Roman work, which is wanting in the nice adaptation of the means to the end. The means are always exaggerated; the end is so much more than attained. The Roman rigidity was apt to overshoot the mark, and I suppose a race which could do nothing small is as defective as a race that can do nothing great. Of this Roman rigidity the Pont du Gard is an admirable example. It would be a great injustice, however, not to insist upon its beauty,—a kind of manly beauty, that of an object constructed not to please but to serve, and impressive simply from the scale on which it carries out this intention. The number of arches in each tier is different; they are smaller and more numerous as they ascend. The preservation of the thing is extraordinary; nothing has crumbled or collapsed; every feature remains; and the huge blocks of stone, of a brownish-yellow (as if they had been baked by the Provençal sun for eighteen centuries), pile themselves,without mortar or cement, as evenly as the day they were laid together. All this to carry the water of a couple of springs to a little provincial city! The conduit on the top has retained its shape and traces of the cement with which it was lined. When the vague twilight began to gather, the lonely valley seemed to fill itself with the shadow of the Roman name, as if the mighty empire were still as erect as the supports of the aqueduct; and it was open to a solitary tourist, sitting there sentimental, to believe that no people has ever been, or will ever be, as great as that, measured, as we measure the greatness of an individual, by the push they gave to what they undertook. The Pont du Gard is one of the three or four deepest impressions they have left; it speaks of them in a manner with which they might have been satisfied.
I feel as if it were scarcely discreet to indicate the whereabouts of the château of the obliging young man I had met on the way from Nîmes; I must content myself with saying that it nestled in an enchanting valley,—dans le fond, as they say in France,—and that I took my course thither on foot, after leaving the Pont du Gard. I find it noted in my journal as "an adorable little corner." The principal feature of the place is a couple of very ancient towers, brownish-yellow in hue, and mantled in scarlet Virginia-creeper. One of these towers, reputed to be of Saracenic origin, is isolated, and is only the more effective; the other is incorporated in the house, which is delightfully fragmentary and irregular. It had got to be late by this time, and the lonelycastellooked crepuscular and mysterious. An old housekeeper was sent for, who showed me the rambling interior; and then the young man took me into a dim old drawing-room, which had noless than four chimney-pieces, all unlighted, and gave me a refection of fruit and sweet wine. When I praised the wine and asked him what it was, he said simply, "C'est du vin de ma mère!" Throughout my little journey I had never yet felt myself so far from Paris; and this was a sensation I enjoyed more than my host, who was an involuntary exile, consoling himself with laying out amanège, which he showed me as I walked away. His civility was great, and I was greatly touched by it. On my way back to the little inn where I had left my vehicle, I passed the Pont du Gard, and took another look at it. Its great arches made windows for the evening sky, and the rocky ravine, with its dusky cedars and shining river, was lonelier than before. At the inn I swallowed, or tried to swallow, a glass of horrible wine with my coachman; after which, with my reconstructed team, I drove back to Nîmes in the moonlight. It only added a more solitary whiteness to the constant sheen of the Provençal landscape.
The Pont du Gard:—A famous aqueduct built by the Romans many years ago.
Provence:—One of the old provinces in southeast France.
Nîmes:—(Nēēm) A town in southeast France, noted for its Roman ruins.
calèche:—(ka lāsh') The French term for a light covered carriage with seats for four besides the driver.
Octave Feuillet:—A French writer, the author ofThe Romance of a Poor Young Man; Feuillet's heroes are young, dark, good-looking, and poetic.
château:—The country residence of a wealthy or titled person.
Gardon:—A river in France flowing into the Rhone.
nice:—Look up the meaning of this word.
dans le fond:—In the bottom.
Saracenic:—The Saracen invaders of France were vanquished at Tours in 732a.d.
castel:—A castle.
C'est, etc.:—It is some of my mother's wine.
manège:—A place where horses are kept and trained.
Can you find out anything about Provence and its history? By means of what details does Mr. James give you an idea of the country? What is meant byprocessional? Why is the episode of the young man particularly pleasing at the point at which it is related? How does the author show the character of the aqueduct? What doesmonumental rectitudemean? Why is it a good term? What is meant here by "a certain stupidity, a vague brutality"? Can you think of any great Roman works of which Mr. James's statement is true? What did the Romans most commonly build? Can you find out something of their style of building? Are there any reasons why the arches at the top should be smaller and lighter than those below? What does this great aqueduct show of the Roman people and the Roman government? Notice what Mr. James says of the way in which we measure greatness: Is this a good way? Why would the Romans like the way in which the Pont du Gard speaks of them? Why is it not "discreet" to tell where the young man's château is? Why does the traveler feel so far from Paris? Why does the young man treat the traveler with such unnecessary friendliness? See how the author closes his chapter by bringing the description round to the Pont du Gard again and ending with the note struck in the first lines. Is this a good method?
A BridgeCountry RoadsAn Accident on the RoadA Remote DwellingThe StrangerAt a Country HotelRoman RoadsA Moonlight SceneA Picturesque RavineWhat I should Like to See in EuropeTraveling in EuropeReading a Guide BookThe BaedekerA RuinThe Character of the RomansThe Romans in FranceLevel CountryA Sunny DayThe Parlor
At a Country Hotel:—Tell how you happened to go to the hotel (this part may be true or merely imagined). Describe your approach, on foot or in some conveyance. Give your first general impression of the building and its surroundings. What persons were visible when you reached the entrance? What did they say and do? How did you feel? Describe the room that you entered, noting any striking or amusing things. Tell of any particularly interesting person, and what he (or she) said. Did you have something to eat? If so, describe the dining-room, and tell about the food. Perhaps you will have something to say about the waiter. How long did you stay at the hotel? What incident was connected with your departure? Were you glad or sorry to leave?
The Bridge:—Choose a large bridge that you have seen. Where is it, and what stream or ravine does it span? When was it built? Clearly indicate the point of view of your description. If you change the point of view, let the reader know of your doing so. Give a general idea of the size of the bridge: You need not give measurements; try rather to make the reader feel the size from the comparisons that you use. Describe the banks at each end of the bridge, and the effect of the water or the abyss between. How is the bridge supported? Try to make the reader feel its solidity and safety. Is it clumsy or graceful? Why? Give any interesting details in its appearance. What conveyances or persons are passing over it? How does the bridge make you feel?
A Little Tour in FranceHenry JamesA Small Boy and Others" "Portraits of Places" "Travels with a DonkeyR.L. StevensonAn Inland Voyage" "Along French BywaysClifton JohnsonSeeing France with Uncle JohnAnne WarnerThe Story of FranceMary MacgregorThe Reds of the MidiFelix GrasA Wanderer in ParisE.V. LucasAn American in Europe (poem)Henry Van DykeHome Thoughts from AbroadRobert BrowningIn and Out of Three Normandy InnsAnna Bowman DoddCathedral Days" "From Ponkapog to PesthT.B. AldrichOur Hundred Days in EuropeO.W. HolmesOne Year AbroadBlanche Willis HowardWell-worn RoadsF.H. SmithGondola Days" "SaunteringsC.D. WarnerBy Oak and ThornAlice BrownFresh FieldsJohn BurroughsOur Old HomeNathaniel HawthornePenelope's ProgressKate Douglas WigginPenelope's Experiences" "A Cathedral Courtship" "Ten Days in SpainKate FieldsRussian RamblesIsabel F. Hapgood
For biography and criticism of Mr. James, see: American Writers of To-day, pp. 68-86, H.C. Vedder; American Prose Masters, pp. 337-400, W.C. Brownell; and (for the teacher), Century, 84:108 (Portrait) and 87:150 (Portrait); Scribners, 48:670 (Portrait); Chautauquan, 64:146 (Portrait).
The eldest son of his father's house,His was the right to have and hold;He took the chair before the hearth,And he was master of all the gold.The second son of his father's house,He took the wheatfields broad and fair,He took the meadows beside the brook,And the white flocks that pastured there."Pipe high—pipe low! Along the wayFrom dawn till eve I needs must sing!Who has a song throughout the day,He has no need of anything!"The youngest son of his father's houseHad neither gold nor flocks for meed.He went to the brook at break of day,And made a pipe out of a reed."Pipe high—pipe low! Each wind that blowsIs comrade to my wandering.Who has a song wherever he goes,He has no need of anything!"His brother's wife threw open the door."Piper, come in for a while," she said."Thou shalt sit at my hearth since thou art so poorAnd thou shalt give me a song instead!"Pipe high—pipe low—all over the wold!"Lad, wilt thou not come in?" asked she."Who has a song, he feels no cold!My brother's hearth is mine own," quoth he."Pipe high—pipe low! For what care IThough there be no hearth on the wide gray plain?I have set my face to the open sky,And have cloaked myself in the thick gray rain."Over the hills where the white clouds are,He piped to the sheep till they needs must come.They fed in pastures strange and far,But at fall of night he brought them home.They followed him, bleating, wherever he led:He called his brother out to see."I have brought thee my flocks for a gift," he said,"For thou seest that they are mine," quoth he."Pipe high—pipe low! wherever I goThe wide grain presses to hear me sing.Who has a song, though his state be low,He has no need of anything.""Ye have taken my house," he said, "and my sheep,But ye had no heart to take me in.I will give ye my right for your own to keep,But ye be not my kin."To the kind fields my steps are led.My people rush across the plain.My bare feet shall not fear to treadWith the cold white feet of the rain."My father's house is wherever I pass;My brothers are each stock and stone;My mother's bosom in the grassYields a sweet slumber to her son."Ye are rich in house and flocks," said he,"Though ye have no heart to take me in.There was only a reed that was left for me,And ye be not my kin.""Pipe high—pipe low! Though skies be gray,Who has a song, he needs must roam!Even though ye call all day, all day,'Brother, wilt thou come home?'"Over the meadows and over the wold,Up to the hills where the skies begin,The youngest son of his father's houseWent forth to find his kin.
The eldest son of his father's house,His was the right to have and hold;He took the chair before the hearth,And he was master of all the gold.
The second son of his father's house,He took the wheatfields broad and fair,He took the meadows beside the brook,And the white flocks that pastured there.
"Pipe high—pipe low! Along the wayFrom dawn till eve I needs must sing!Who has a song throughout the day,He has no need of anything!"
The youngest son of his father's houseHad neither gold nor flocks for meed.He went to the brook at break of day,And made a pipe out of a reed.
"Pipe high—pipe low! Each wind that blowsIs comrade to my wandering.Who has a song wherever he goes,He has no need of anything!"
His brother's wife threw open the door."Piper, come in for a while," she said."Thou shalt sit at my hearth since thou art so poorAnd thou shalt give me a song instead!"
Pipe high—pipe low—all over the wold!"Lad, wilt thou not come in?" asked she."Who has a song, he feels no cold!My brother's hearth is mine own," quoth he.
"Pipe high—pipe low! For what care IThough there be no hearth on the wide gray plain?I have set my face to the open sky,And have cloaked myself in the thick gray rain."
Over the hills where the white clouds are,He piped to the sheep till they needs must come.They fed in pastures strange and far,But at fall of night he brought them home.
They followed him, bleating, wherever he led:He called his brother out to see."I have brought thee my flocks for a gift," he said,"For thou seest that they are mine," quoth he.
"Pipe high—pipe low! wherever I goThe wide grain presses to hear me sing.Who has a song, though his state be low,He has no need of anything."
"Ye have taken my house," he said, "and my sheep,But ye had no heart to take me in.I will give ye my right for your own to keep,But ye be not my kin.
"To the kind fields my steps are led.My people rush across the plain.My bare feet shall not fear to treadWith the cold white feet of the rain.
"My father's house is wherever I pass;My brothers are each stock and stone;My mother's bosom in the grassYields a sweet slumber to her son.
"Ye are rich in house and flocks," said he,"Though ye have no heart to take me in.There was only a reed that was left for me,And ye be not my kin."
"Pipe high—pipe low! Though skies be gray,Who has a song, he needs must roam!Even though ye call all day, all day,'Brother, wilt thou come home?'"
Over the meadows and over the wold,Up to the hills where the skies begin,The youngest son of his father's houseWent forth to find his kin.
The stanzas in italic are a kind of refrain; they represent the music of the youngest son.
Why does the piper not go into the house when his brother's wife invites him? What does he mean when he says, "My brother's hearth is mine own"? Why does he say that the sheep are his? What does he mean when he says, "I will give ye my right," etc.? Why are his brothers not his kin? Who are the people that "rush across the plain"? Explain the fourteenth stanza. Why did the piper go forth to find his kin? Whom would he claim as his kindred? Why? Does the poem have a deeper meaning than that which first appears? What kind of person is represented by the youngest son? What are meant byhis pipe and the music? Who are those who cast him out? Re-read the whole poem with the deeper meaning in mind.
The ProphetJosephine Preston PeabodyThe Piper: Act I" " "The Shepherd of King AdmetusJames Russell LowellThe Shoes that DancedAnna Hempstead BranchThe Heart of the Road and Other Poems" " "Rose of the Wind and Other Poems" " "
I do not think that we ever knew his real name. Our ignorance of it certainly never gave us any social inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar in 1854 most men were christened anew. Sometimes these appellatives were derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of "Dungaree Jack"; or from some peculiarity of habit, as shown in "Saleratus Bill," so called from an undue proportion of that chemical in his daily bread; or from some unlucky slip, as exhibited in "The Iron Pirate," a mild, inoffensive man, who earned that baleful title by his unfortunate mispronunciation of the term "iron pyrites." Perhaps this may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry; but I am constrained to think that it was because a man's real name in that day rested solely upon his own unsupported statement. "Call yourself Clifford, do you?" said Boston, addressing a timid newcomer with infinite scorn; "hell is full of such Cliffords!" He then introduced the unfortunate man, whose name happened to be really Clifford, as "Jaybird Charley,"—an unhallowed inspiration of the moment that clung to him ever after.
But to return to Tennessee's Partner, whom we never knew by any other than this relative title. That he had ever existed as a separate and distinct individuality we only learned later. It seems that in 1853 he left Poker Flat to go to San Francisco, ostensibly to procure a wife. He never got any farther than Stockton. At that place he was attracted by a youngperson who waited upon the table at the hotel where he took his meals. One morning he said something to her which caused her to smile not unkindly, to somewhat coquettishly break a plate of toast over his upturned, serious, simple face, and to retreat to the kitchen. He followed her, and emerged a few moments later, covered with more toast and victory. That day week they were married by a justice of the peace, and returned to Poker Flat. I am aware that something more might be made of this episode, but I prefer to tell it as it was current at Sandy Bar,—in the gulches and bar-rooms,—where all sentiment was modified by a strong sense of humor.
Of their married felicity but little is known, perhaps for the reason that Tennessee, then living with his partner, one day took occasion to say something to the bride on his own account, at which, it is said, she smiled not unkindly and chastely retreated,—this time as far as Marysville, where Tennessee followed her, and where they went to housekeeping without the aid of a justice of the peace. Tennessee's Partner took the loss of his wife simply and seriously, as was his fashion. But to everybody's surprise, when Tennessee one day returned from Marysville, without his partner's wife,—she having smiled and retreated with somebody else,—Tennessee's Partner was the first man to shake his hand and greet him with affection. The boys who had gathered in the cañon to see the shooting were naturally indignant. Their indignation might have found vent in sarcasm but for a certain look in Tennessee's Partner's eye that indicated a lack of humorous appreciation. In fact, he was a grave man, with a steady application to practical detail which was unpleasant in a difficulty.
Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee had grown up on the Bar. He was known to be a gambler; he was suspected to be a thief. In these suspicions Tennessee's Partner was equally compromised; his continued intimacy with Tennessee after the affair above quoted could only be accounted for on the hypothesis of a copartnership of crime. At last Tennessee's guilt became flagrant. One day he overtook a stranger on his way to Red Dog. The stranger afterward related that Tennessee beguiled the time with interesting anecdote and reminiscence, but illogically concluded the interview in the following words: "And now, young man, I'll trouble you for your knife, your pistols, and your money. You see your weppings might get you into trouble at Red Dog, and your money's a temptation to the evilly disposed. I think you said your address was San Francisco. I shall endeavor to call." It may be stated here that Tennessee had a fine flow of humor, which no business preoccupation could wholly subdue.
This exploit was his last. Red Dog and Sandy Bar made common cause against the highwayman. Tennessee was hunted in very much the same fashion as his prototype, the grizzly. As the toils closed around him, he made a desperate dash through the Bar, emptying his revolver at the crowd before the Arcade Saloon, and so on up Grizzly Cañon; but at its farther extremity he was stopped by a small man on a gray horse. The men looked at each other a moment in silence. Both were fearless, both self-possessed and independent, and both types of a civilization that in the seventeenth century would have been called heroic, but in the nineteenth simply "reckless."
"What have you got there?—I call," said Tennessee quietly.
"Two bowers and an ace," said the stranger as quietly, showing two revolvers and a bowie-knife.
"That takes me," returned Tennessee; and, with this gambler's epigram, he threw away his useless pistol and rode back with his captor.
It was a warm night. The cool breeze which usually sprang up with the going down of the sun behind the chaparral-crested mountain was that evening withheld from Sandy Bar. The little cañon was stifling with heated resinous odors, and the decaying driftwood on the Bar sent forth faint sickening exhalations. The feverishness of day and its fierce passions still filled the camp. Lights moved restlessly along the bank of the river, striking no answering reflection from its tawny current. Against the blackness of the pines the windows of the old loft above the express-office stood out staringly bright; and through their curtainless panes the loungers below could see the forms of those who were even then deciding the fate of Tennessee. And above all this, etched on the dark firmament, rose the Sierra, remote and passionless, crowned with remoter passionless stars.
The trial of Tennessee was conducted as fairly as was consistent with a judge and jury who felt themselves to some extent obliged to justify, in their verdict, the previous irregularities of arrest and indictment. The law of Sandy Bar was implacable, but not vengeful. The excitement and personal feeling of the chase were over; with Tennessee safe in their hands, they were ready to listen patiently to any defense, which they were already satisfied was insufficient. There being no doubt in their own minds, they were willing to give the prisoner the benefit of any that might exist. Secure in the hypothesis that heought to be hanged on general principles, they indulged him with more latitude of defense than his reckless hardihood seemed to ask. The Judge appeared to be more anxious than the prisoner, who, otherwise unconcerned, evidently took a grim pleasure in the responsibility he had created. "I don't take any hand in this yer game," had been his invariable but good-humored reply to all questions. The Judge—who was also his captor—for a moment vaguely regretted that he had not shot him "on sight" that morning, but presently dismissed this human weakness as unworthy of the judicial mind. Nevertheless, when there was a tap at the door, and it was said that Tennessee's Partner was there on behalf of the prisoner, he was admitted at once without question. Perhaps the younger members of the jury, to whom the proceedings were becoming irksomely thoughtful, hailed him as a relief. For he was not, certainly, an imposing figure. Short and stout, with a square face, sunburned into a preternatural redness, clad in a loose duck "jumper" and trousers streaked and splashed with red soil, his aspect under any circumstances would have been quaint, and was now even ridiculous. As he stooped to deposit at his feet a heavy carpetbag he was carrying, it became obvious, from partially developed legends and inscriptions, that the material with which his trousers had been patched had been originally intended for a less ambitious covering. Yet he advanced with great gravity, and after shaking the hand of each person in the room with labored cordiality, he wiped his serious perplexed face on a red bandana handkerchief, a shade lighter than his complexion, laid his powerful hand upon the table to steady himself, and thus addressed the Judge:—
"I was passin' by," he began, by way of apology, "and I thought I'd just step in and see how things was gittin' on with Tennessee thar,—my pardner. It's a hot night. I disremember any sich weather before on the Bar."
He paused a moment, but nobody volunteering any other meteorological recollection, he again had recourse to his pocket-handkerchief, and for some moments mopped his face diligently.
"Have you anything to say on behalf of the prisoner?" said the Judge finally.
"Thet's it," said Tennessee's Partner, in a tone of relief. "I come yar as Tennessee's pardner,—knowing him nigh on four year, off and on, wet and dry, in luck and, out o' luck. His ways ain't aller my ways, but thar ain't any p'ints in that young man, thar ain't any liveliness as he's been up to, as I don't know. And you sez to me, sez you,—confidential-like, and between man and man,—sez you, 'Do you know anything in his behalf?' and I sez to you, sez I,—confidential-like, as between man and man,—'What should a man know of his pardner?'"
"Is this all you have to say?" asked the Judge impatiently, feeling, perhaps, that a dangerous sympathy of humor was beginning to humanize the court.
"Thet's so," continued Tennessee's Partner. "It ain't for me to say anything agin' him. And now, what's the case? Here's Tennessee wants money, wants it bad, and doesn't like to ask it of his old pardner. Well, what does Tennessee do? He lays for a stranger, and he fetches that stranger; and you lays forhim, and you fetcheshim; and the honors is easy. And I put it to you, bein' a fa'r-minded man, and to you, gentlemen all, as fa'r-minded men, ef this isn't so."
"Prisoner," said the Judge, interrupting, "have you any questions to ask this man?"
"No! no!" continued Tennessee's Partner hastily. "I play this yer hand alone. To come down to the bed-rock, it's just this: Tennessee, thar, has played it pretty rough and expensive-like on a stranger, and on this yer camp. And now, what's the fair thing? Some would say more, some would say less. Here's seventeen hundred dollars in coarse gold and a watch,—it's about all my pile,—and call it square!" And before a hand could be raised to prevent him, he had emptied the contents of the carpetbag upon the table.
For a moment his life was in jeopardy. One or two men sprang to their feet, several hands groped for hidden weapons, and a suggestion to "throw him from the window" was only overridden by a gesture from the Judge. Tennessee laughed. And apparently oblivious of the excitement, Tennessee's Partner improved the opportunity to mop his face again with his handkerchief.
When order was restored, and the man was made to understand, by the use of forcible figures and rhetoric, that Tennessee's offense could not be condoned by money, his face took a more serious and sanguinary hue, and those who were nearest to him noticed that his rough hand trembled slightly on the table. He hesitated a moment as he slowly returned the gold to the carpetbag, as if he had not yet entirely caught the elevated sense of justice which swayed the tribunal, and was perplexed with the belief that he had not offered enough. Then he turned to the Judge, and saying, "This yer is a lone hand, played alone, and without my pardner," he bowed to the jury and was about to withdraw, when the Judge called him back:—
"If you have anything to say to Tennessee, you had better say it now."
For the first time that evening the eyes of the prisoner and his strange advocate met. Tennessee smiled, showed his white teeth, and saying, "Euchred, old man!" held out his hand. Tennessee's Partner took it in his own, and saying, "I just dropped in as I was passin' to see how things was gettin' on," let the hand passively fall, and adding that "it was a warm night," again mopped his face with his handkerchief, and without another word withdrew.
The two men never again met each other alive. For the unparalleled insult of a bribe offered to Judge Lynch—who, whether bigoted, weak, or narrow, was at least incorruptible—firmly fixed in the mind of that mythical personage any wavering determination of Tennessee's fate; and at the break of day he was marched, closely guarded, to meet it at the top of Marley's Hill.
How he met it, how cool he was, how he refused to say anything, how perfect were the arrangements of the committee, were all duly reported, with the addition of a warning moral and example to all future evil-doers, in the "Red Dog Clarion," by its editor, who was present, and to whose vigorous English I cheerfully refer the reader. But the beauty of that midsummer morning, the blessed amity of earth and air and sky, the awakened life of the free woods and hills, the joyous renewal and promise of Nature, and above all, the infinite serenity that thrilled through each, was not reported, as not being a part of the social lesson. And yet, when the weak and foolish deed was done, and a life, with its possibilities and responsibilities, had passed out of the misshapen thing thatdangled between earth and sky, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, the sun shone, as cheerily as before; and possibly the "Red Dog Clarion" was right.
Tennessee's Partner was not in the group that surrounded the ominous tree. But as they turned to disperse, attention was drawn to the singular appearance of a motionless donkey-cart halted at the side of the road. As they approached, they at once recognized the venerable "Jenny" and the two-wheeled cart as the property of Tennessee's Partner, used by him in carrying dirt from his claim; and a few paces distant the owner of the equipage himself, sitting under a buckeye-tree, wiping the perspiration from his glowing face. In answer to an inquiry, he said he had come for the body of the "diseased," "if it was all the same to the committee." He didn't wish to "hurry anything"; he could "wait." He was not working that day; and when the gentlemen were done with the "diseased," he would take him. "Ef thar is any present," he added, in his simple, serious way, "as would care to jine in the fun'l, they kin come." Perhaps it was from a sense of humor, which I have already intimated was a feature of Sandy Bar,—perhaps it was from something even better than that, but two thirds of the loungers accepted the invitation at once.
It was noon when the body of Tennessee was delivered into the hands of his partner. As the cart drew up to the fatal tree, we noticed that it contained a rough oblong box,—apparently made from a section of sluicing,—and half filled with bark and the tassels of pine. The cart was further decorated with slips of willow and made fragrant with buckeye-blossoms. When the body was deposited in the box, Tennessee's Partner's drew over it a piece of tarred canvas, andgravely mounting the narrow seat in front, with his feet upon the shafts, urged the little donkey forward. The equipage moved slowly on, at that decorous pace which was habitual with Jenny even under less solemn circumstances. The men—half curiously, half jestingly, but all good-humoredly—strolled along beside the cart, some in advance, some a little in the rear of the homely catafalque. But whether from the narrowing of the road or some present sense of decorum, as the cart passed on, the company fell to the rear in couples, keeping step, and otherwise assuming the external show of a formal procession. Jack Folinsbee, who had at the outset played a funeral march in dumb show upon an imaginary trombone, desisted from a lack of sympathy and appreciation,—not having, perhaps, your true humorist's capacity to be content with the enjoyment of his own fun.
The way led through Grizzly Cañon, by this time clothed in funereal drapery and shadows. The redwoods, burying their moccasined feet in the red soil, stood in Indian file along the track, trailing an uncouth benediction from their bending boughs upon the passing bier. A hare, surprised into helpless inactivity, sat upright and pulsating in the ferns by the roadside as the cortège went by. Squirrels hastened to gain a secure outlook from higher boughs; and the blue-jays, spreading their wings, fluttered before them like outriders, until the outskirts of Sandy Bar were reached, and the solitary cabin of Tennessee's Partner.
Viewed under more favorable circumstances, it would not have been a cheerful place. The unpicturesque site, the rude and unlovely outlines, the unsavory details, which distinguish the nest-building ofthe California miner, were all here with the dreariness of decay superadded. A few paces from the cabin there was a rough inclosure, which, in the brief days of Tennessee's Partner's matrimonial felicity, had been used as a garden, but was now overgrown with fern. As we approached it, we were surprised to find that what we had taken for a recent attempt at cultivation was the broken soil about an open grave.
The cart was halted before the inclosure, and rejecting the offers of assistance with the same air of simple self-reliance he had displayed throughout, Tennessee's Partner lifted the rough coffin on his back, and deposited it unaided within the shallow grave. He then nailed down the board which served as a lid, and mounting the little mound of earth beside it, took off his hat and slowly mopped his face with his handkerchief. This the crowd felt was a preliminary to speech, and they disposed themselves variously on stumps and boulders, and sat expectant.
"When a man," began Tennessee's Partner slowly, "has been running free all day, what's the natural thing for him to do? Why, to come home. And if he ain't in a condition to go home, what can his best friend do? Why, bring him home. And here's Tennessee has been running free, and we brings him home from his wandering." He paused and picked up a fragment of quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully on his sleeve, and went on: "It ain't the first time that I've packed him on my back, as you see'd me now. It ain't the first time that I brought him to this yer cabin when he couldn't help himself; it ain't the first time that I and Jinny have waited for him on yon hill, and picked him up and so fetched him home, when he couldn't speak and didn't know me. And now thatit's the last time, why"—he paused and rubbed the quartz gently on his sleeve—"you see it's sort of rough on his pardner. And now, gentlemen," he added abruptly, picking up his long-handled shovel, "the fun'l's over; and my thanks, and Tennessee's thanks, to you for your trouble."
Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill in the grave, turning his back upon the crowd, that after a few moments' hesitation gradually withdrew. As they crossed the little ridge that hid Sandy Bar from view, some, looking back, thought they could see Tennessee's Partner, his work done, sitting upon the grave, his shovel between his knees, and his face buried in his red bandana handkerchief. But it was argued by others that you couldn't tell his face from his handkerchief at that distance, and this point remained undecided.
In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement of that day, Tennessee's Partner was not forgotten. A secret investigation had cleared him of any complicity in Tennessee's guilt, and left only a suspicion of his general sanity. Sandy Bar made a point of calling on him, and proffering various uncouth but well-meant kindnesses. But from that day his rude health and great strength seemed visibly to decline; and when the rainy season fairly set in, and the tiny grass-blades were beginning to peep from the rocky mound above Tennessee's grave, he took to his bed.
One night, when the pines beside the cabin were swaying in the storm and trailing their slender fingers over the roof, and the roar and rush of the swollen river were heard below, Tennessee's Partner lifted his head from the pillow, saying, "It is time to go for Tennessee; I must put Jinny in the cart"; and wouldhave risen from his bed but for the restraint of his attendant. Struggling, he still pursued his singular fancy: "There, now, steady, Jinny,—steady, old girl. How dark it is! Look out for the ruts,—and look out for him, too, old gal. Sometimes, you know, when he's blind drunk, he drops down right in the trail. Keep on straight up to the pine on the top of the hill. Thar! I told you so!—thar he is,—coming this way, too,—all by himself, sober, and his face a-shining. Tennessee! Pardner!"
And so they met.
Sandy Bar:—The imaginary mining-camp in which Bret Harte laid the scenes of many of his stories.
dungaree:—A coarse kind of unbleached cotton cloth.
I call:—An expression used in the game of euchre.
bowers:—Boweris from the German wordbauer, meaning a peasant,—so called from the jack or knave; the right bower, in the game of euchre, is the jack of trumps, and the left bower is the other jack of the same color.
chaparral:—A thicket of scrub-oaks or thorny shrubs.
euchred:—Defeated, as in the game of euchre.
Judge Lynch:—A name used for the hurried judging and executing of a suspected person, by private citizens, without due process of law. A Virginian named Lynch is said to have been connected with the origin of the expression.
"diseased":—Tennessee's Partner meansdeceased.
sluicing:—A trough for water, fitted with gates and valves; it is used in washing out gold from the soil.
Why is the first sentence a good introduction? Compare it with the first sentence ofQuite So, page21. In this selection, why does the author say so much about names? Of what value is the first paragraph? Why is it necessary to tell about Tennessee's Partner's earlier experiences? Who were "the boys"who gathered to see the shooting? Why did they think there would be shooting? Why was there not? Why does the author not give us a fuller picture of Tennessee? What is the proof that he had "a fine flow of humor"? Try in a few words to sum up his character. Read carefully the paragraph beginning "It was a warm night": How does the author give us a good picture of Sandy Bar? Tell in your own words the feelings of the judge, the prisoner, and the jury, as explained in the paragraph beginning "The trial of Tennessee." What does the author gain by such expressions as "a less ambitious covering," "meteorological recollection"? What does Tennessee's Partner mean when he says "What should a man know of his pardner"? Why did the judge think that humor would be dangerous? Why are the people angry when Tennessee's Partner offers his seventeen hundred dollars for Tennessee's release? Why does Tennessee's Partner take its rejection so calmly? What effect does his offer have on the jury? What does the author mean by "the weak and foolish deed"? Does he approve the hanging? Why does Tennessee's Partner not show any grief? What do you think of Jack Folinsbee? What is gained by the long passage of description? What does Tennessee's Partner's speech show about the friendship of the two men? About friendship in general? Do men often care so much for each other? Is it possible that Tennessee's Partner died of grief? Is the conclusion good? Comment on the kind of men who figure in the story. Are there any such men now? Why is this called a very good story?
Some time after you have read the story, run through it and see how many different sections or scenes there are in it. How are these sections linked together? Look carefully at the beginning of each paragraph and see how the connection is made with the paragraph before.
Two FriendsA Miner's CabinThe ThiefThe Road through the WoodsThe TrialA Scene in the Court RoomEarly Days in our CountyBret Harte's Best StoriesThe Escaped ConvictThe HighwaymanA Lumber CampRoughing ItThe JudgeThe Robbers' RendezvousAn Odd CharacterEarly Days in the WestA Mining TownUnderground with the MinersCapturing the ThievesThe Sheriff
Two Friends:—Tell where these two friends lived and how long they had known each other. Describe each one, explaining his peculiarities; perhaps you can make his character clear by telling some incident concerning him. What seemed to be the attraction between the two friends? Were they much together? What did people say of them? What did they do for each other? Did they talk to others about their friendship? Did either make a sacrifice for the other? If so, tell about it rather fully. Was there any talk about it? What was the result of the sacrifice? Was the friendship ever broken?
Early Days in our County:—Perhaps you can get material for this from some old settlers, or from a county history. Tell of the first settlement: Who was first on the ground, and why did he choose this particular region? What kind of shelter was erected? How fast did the settlement grow? Tell some incidents of the early days. You might speak also of the processes of clearing the land and of building; of primitive methods of living, and the difficulty of getting supplies. Were there any dangers? Speak of several prominent persons, and tell what they did. Go on and tell of development of the settlements and the surrounding country. Were there any strikingly good methods of making money? Was there any excitement over land, or gold, or high prices of products? Were there any misfortunes, such as floods, or droughts, or fires, or cyclones? When did the railroad reach the region? What differences did it make? What particular influences have brought about recent conditions?
The Sheriff:—Describe the sheriff—his physique, his features, his clothes, his manner. Does he look the part? Do you know, or can you imagine, one of his adventures? Perhaps you will wish to tell his story in his own words. Think carefully whether it would be better to do this, or to tell the story in thethird person. Make the tale as lively and stirring as possible. Remember that when you are reporting the talk of the persons involved, it is better to quote their words directly. See that everything you say helps in making the situation clear or in actually telling the story. Close the story rather quickly after its outcome has been made quite clear.