List! list! The buds confer.This noonday they've had news of her;The south bank has had views of her;The thorn shall exact his dues of her;The willows adreamBy the freshet streamShall ask what boon they choose of her.Up! up! The world's astir;The would-be green has word of her;Root and germ have heard of her,Coming to breakTheir sleep and wakeTheir hearts with every bird of her.See! see! How swift concurSun, wind, and rain at the name of her,A-wondering what became of her;The fields flower at the flame of her;The glad air singsWith dancing wingsAnd the silvery shrill acclaim of her.
List! list! The buds confer.This noonday they've had news of her;The south bank has had views of her;The thorn shall exact his dues of her;The willows adreamBy the freshet streamShall ask what boon they choose of her.
Up! up! The world's astir;The would-be green has word of her;Root and germ have heard of her,Coming to breakTheir sleep and wakeTheir hearts with every bird of her.
See! see! How swift concurSun, wind, and rain at the name of her,A-wondering what became of her;The fields flower at the flame of her;The glad air singsWith dancing wingsAnd the silvery shrill acclaim of her.
Charles G. D. Roberts
ALEXANDRA THE QUEEN MOTHERALEXANDRATHE QUEEN MOTHER
ALEXANDRATHE QUEEN MOTHER
My friend Jacques went into a baker's shop one day to buy a little cake which he had fancied in passing. He intended it for a child whose appetite was gone, and who could be coaxed to eat only by amusing him. He thought that such a pretty loaf might tempt even the sick. While he waited for his change, a little boy six or eight years old, in poor but perfectly clean clothes, entered the baker's shop.
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTOUNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
"Ma'am," said he to the baker's wife, "Mother sent me for a loaf of bread." The woman took from the shelf a four-pound loaf, the best one she could find, and put it into the arms of the little boy.
My friend Jacques then first observed the thin and thoughtful face of the little fellow. It contrasted strongly with the round, open countenance of the large loaf, of which he was taking the greatest care.
"Have you any money?" said the baker's wife.
The little boy's eyes grew sad.
"No, ma'am," said he, hugging the loaf closer to his thin blouse; "but mother told me to say that she would come and speak to you about it to-morrow."
"Run along," said the good woman; "carry your bread home, child."
"Thank you, ma'am," said the poor little fellow.
My friend Jacques came forward for his money. He had put his purchase into his pocket, and was about to go, when he found the child with the big loaf, whom he had supposed to be half-way home, standing stock-still behind him.
"What are you doing there?" said the baker's wife to the child, whom she also had thought to be fairly off. "Don't you like the bread?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am!" said the child.
"Well, then, carry it to your mother, my little friend. If you wait any longer, she will think you are playing by the way, and you will get a scolding."
The child did not seem to hear. Something else absorbed his attention.
The baker's wife went up to him and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. "What are you thinking about?" said she.
"Ma'am," said the little boy, "what is that that sings?"
"There is no singing," said she.
"Yes!" cried the little fellow. "Hear it! Queek, queek, queek, queek!"
My friend and the woman both listened, but they could hear nothing, unless it was the song of the crickets, frequent guests in bakers houses.
"It is a little bird," said the dear little fellow; "or perhaps the bread sings when it bakes, as apples do?"
"No, indeed, little goosey!" said the baker's wife; "those are crickets. They sing in the bake-house because we are lighting the oven, and they like to see the fire."
"Crickets!" said the child; "are they really crickets?"
"Yes, to be sure," said she, good-humouredly. The child's face lighted up.
"Ma'am," said he, blushing at the boldness of his request, "I would like it very much if you would give me a cricket."
"A cricket," said the baker's wife, smiling; "what in the world would you do with a cricket, my little friend? I would gladly give you all there are in the house, to get rid of them, they run about so."
"O, ma'am, give me one, only one, if you please!" said the child, clasping his little thin hands under the big loaf. "They say that crickets bring good luck into houses; and perhaps if we had one at home, mother, who has so much trouble, wouldn't cry any more."
"Why does your poor mamma cry?" said my friend, who could no longer help joining in the conversation.
"On account of her bills, sir," said the little fellow. "Father is dead, and mother works very hard, but she cannot pay them all."
My friend took the child, and with him the large loaf, into his arms, and I really believe he kissed them both. Meanwhile the baker's wife, who did not dare to touch a cricket herself, had gone into the bake-house. She made her husband catch four, and put them into a box with holes in the cover, so that they might breathe. She gave the box to the child, who went away perfectly happy.
When he had gone, the baker's wife and my friend gave each other a good squeeze of the hand. "Poor little fellow!" said they both together. Then she took down her account-book, and, finding the page where the mother's charges were written, made a great dash all down the page, and then wrote at the bottom, "Paid."
Meanwhile my friend, to lose no time, had put up in paper all the money in his pockets, where fortunately he had quite a sum that day, and had begged the good wife to send it at once to the mother of the little cricket-boy, with her bill receipted, and a note, in which he told her that she had a son who would one day be her pride and joy.
They gave it to a baker's boy with long legs, and told him to make haste. The child, with his big loaf, his four crickets, and his little short legs, could not run very fast, so that when he reached home, he found his mother, for the first time in many weeks, with her eyes raised from her work, and a smile of peace and happiness upon her lips.
The boy believed that it was the arrival of his four little black things which had worked this miracle, and I do not think he was mistaken. Without the crickets, and his good little heart, would this happy change have taken place in his mother's fortunes?
P. J. Stahl
It was a summer evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun,And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found:He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by:And then the old man shook his head,And, with a natural sigh,"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,"Who fell in the great victory."I find them in the garden,For there's many here about;And often when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out!For many thousand men," said he,"Were slain in that great victory.""Now tell me what 'twas all about,"Young Peterkin, he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes;"Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for.""It was the English," Kaspar cried,"Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other for,I could not well make out;But everybody said," quoth he,"That 'twas a famous victory."My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head."They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory."Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,And our good prince Eugene.""Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"Said little Wilhelmine."Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,"It was a famous victory."And everybody praised the DukeWho this great fight did win.""But what good came of it at last?"Quoth little Peterkin."Why, that I cannot tell," said he,"But 'twas a famous victory."
It was a summer evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun,And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found:He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by:And then the old man shook his head,And, with a natural sigh,"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,"Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden,For there's many here about;And often when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out!For many thousand men," said he,"Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell me what 'twas all about,"Young Peterkin, he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes;"Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,"Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other for,I could not well make out;But everybody said," quoth he,"That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.
"They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,And our good prince Eugene.""Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"Said little Wilhelmine."Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,"It was a famous victory.
"And everybody praised the DukeWho this great fight did win.""But what good came of it at last?"Quoth little Peterkin."Why, that I cannot tell," said he,"But 'twas a famous victory."
Southey
Away off towards the swamp, which they were avoiding, the long, heart-chilling cry of a mother-wolf quavered on the still night air. In spite of herself, Mrs. Murray shivered, and the boys looked at each other.
"There is only one," said Ranald in a low voice to Don, but they both knew that where the she-wolf is there is a pack not far off. "And we will be through the bush in five minutes."
"Come, Ranald! Come away, you can talk to Don any time. Good-night, Don." And so saying she headed her pony toward the clearing and was off at a gallop, and Ranald, shaking his head at his friend, ejaculated:
"Man alive! what do you think of that?" and was off after the pony.
Together they entered the bush. The road was well beaten and the horses were keen to go, so that before many minutes were over they were half through the bush. Ranald's spirits rose and he began to take some interest in his companion's observations upon the beauty of the lights and shadows falling across their path.
"Look at that very dark shadow from the spruce there, Ranald," she cried, pointing to a deep, black turn in the road. For answer there came from behind them the long, mournful hunting-cry of the wolf. He was on their track. Immediately it was answered by a chorus of howls from the bush on the swamp side, but still far away. There was no need of command; the pony sprang forward with a snort and the colt followed, and after a few minutes' running, passed her.
"Whow-oo-oo-oo-ow," rose the long cry of the pursuer, summoning help, and drawing nearer.
"Whw-ee-wow," came the shorter, sharper answer from the swamp, but much nearer than before and more in front. They were trying to head off their prey.
Ranald tugged at his colt till he got him back with the pony.
"It is a good road," he said, quietly; "you can let the pony go. I will follow you." He swung in behind the pony, who was now running for dear life and snorting with terror at every jump.
"God preserve us!" said Ranald to himself. He had caught sight of a dark form as it darted through the gleam of light in front.
"What did you say, Ranald?" The voice was quiet and clear.
"It is a great pony to run," said Ranald, ashamed of himself.
"Is she not?"
Ranald glanced over his shoulder. Down the road, running with silent, awful swiftness, he saw the long, low body of the leading wolf flashing through the bars of moonlight across the road, and the pack following hard.
"Let her go, Mrs. Murray," cried Ranald. "Whip her and never stop." But there was no need; the pony was wild with fear, and was doing her best running.
Ranald meantime was gradually holding in the colt, and the pony drew away rapidly. But as rapidly the wolves were closing in behind him. They were not more than a hundred yards away, and gaining every second. Ranald, remembering the suspicious nature of the brutes, loosened his coat and dropped it on the road; with a chorus of yelps they paused, then threw themselves upon it, and in another minute took up the chase.
But now the clearing was in sight. The pony was far ahead, and Ranald shook out his colt with a yell. He was none too soon, for the pursuing pack, now uttering short, shrill yelps, were close at the colt's heels. Lizette, fleet as the wind, could not shake them off. Closer and ever closer they came, snapping and snarling. Ranald could see them over his shoulder. A hundred yards more and he would reach his own back lane. The leader of the pack seemed to feel that his chances were slipping swiftly away. With a spurt he gained upon Lizette, reached the saddle-girths, gathered himself into two short jumps, and sprang for the colt's throat. Instinctively Ranald stood up in his stirrups, and kicking his foot free, caught the wolf under the jaw. The brute fell with a howl under the colt's feet, and next moment they were in the lane and safe.
The savage brutes, discouraged by their leader's fall, slowed down their fierce pursuit, and hearing the deep bay of the Macdonalds' great deer-hound, Bugle, up at the house, they paused, sniffed the air a few minutes, then turned and swiftly and silently slid into the dark shadows. Ranald, knowing that they would hardly dare enter the lane, checked the colt, and wheeling, watched them disappear.
"I'll have some of your hides some day," he cried, shaking his fist after them. He hated to be made to run.
He had hardly set the colt's face homeward when he heard something tearing down the lane to meet him. The colt snorted, swerved, and then dropping his ears, stood still. It was Bugle, and after him came Mrs. Murray on the pony.
"Oh, Ranald!" she panted, "thank God you are safe. I was afraid you—you—" Her voice broke in sobs. Her hood had fallen back from her white face, and her eyes were shining like two stars. She laid her hand on Ranald's arm, and her voice grew steady as she said: "Thank God, my boy, and thank you with all my heart. You risked your life for mine. You are a brave fellow! I can never forget this!"
"Oh, pshaw!" said Ranald, awkwardly. "You are better stuff than I am. You came back with Bugle. And I knew Liz could beat the pony." Then they walked their horses quietly to the stable, and nothing more was said by either of them; but from that hour Ranald had a friend ready to offer life for him, though he did not know it then nor till years afterward.
Ralph Connor: "The Man from Glengarry."
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
St. John, XV. 13
And Iagoo, the great boaster,He the marvellous story-teller,He the friend of old Nokomis,Saw in all the eyes around him,Saw in all their looks and gestures,That the wedding guests assembled,Longed to hear his pleasant stories,His immeasurable falsehoods.Very boastful was Iagoo;Never heard he an adventureBut himself had met a greater;Never any deed of daringBut himself had done a bolder;Never any marvellous storyBut himself could tell a stranger.Would you listen to his boasting,Would you only give him credence,No one ever shot an arrowHalf so far and high as he had;Ever caught so many fishes,Ever killed so many reindeer,Ever trapped so many beaver!None could run so fast as he could,None could dive so deep as he could,None could swim so far as he could;None had made so many journeys,None had seen so many wonders,As this wonderful Iagoo,As this marvellous story-teller!Thus his name became a by-wordAnd a jest among the people;And whene'er a boastful hunterPraised his own address too highly,Or a warrior, home returning,Talked too much of his achievements,All his hearers cried: "Iagoo!Here's Iagoo come among us!"
And Iagoo, the great boaster,He the marvellous story-teller,He the friend of old Nokomis,Saw in all the eyes around him,Saw in all their looks and gestures,That the wedding guests assembled,Longed to hear his pleasant stories,His immeasurable falsehoods.
Very boastful was Iagoo;Never heard he an adventureBut himself had met a greater;Never any deed of daringBut himself had done a bolder;Never any marvellous storyBut himself could tell a stranger.
Would you listen to his boasting,Would you only give him credence,No one ever shot an arrowHalf so far and high as he had;Ever caught so many fishes,Ever killed so many reindeer,Ever trapped so many beaver!
None could run so fast as he could,None could dive so deep as he could,None could swim so far as he could;None had made so many journeys,None had seen so many wonders,As this wonderful Iagoo,As this marvellous story-teller!
Thus his name became a by-wordAnd a jest among the people;And whene'er a boastful hunterPraised his own address too highly,Or a warrior, home returning,Talked too much of his achievements,All his hearers cried: "Iagoo!Here's Iagoo come among us!"
Longfellow: "Hiawatha."
Thirteen years have passed since, but it is all to me as if it had happened yesterday,—the clanging of the fire-bells, the hoarse shouts of the firemen, the wild rush and terror of the streets; then the great hush that fell upon the crowd; the sea of upturned faces with the fire glow upon it; and up there, against the background of black smoke that poured from roof to attic, the boy clinging to the narrow ledge, so far up that it seemed humanly impossible that help could ever come.
But even then it was coming. Up from the street, while the crew of the truck company were labouring with the heavy extension ladder that at its longest stretch was many feet too short, crept four men upon long, slender poles with cross-bars, iron-hooked at the end. Standing in one window, they reached up and thrust the hook through the next one above, then mounted a story higher. Again the crash of glass, and again the dizzy ascent. Straight up the wall they crept, looking like human flies on the ceiling, and clinging as close, never resting, reaching one recess only to set out for the next; nearer and nearer in the race for life, until but a single span separated the foremost from the boy. And now the iron hook fell at his feet, and the fireman stood upon the step with the rescued lad in his arms, just as the pent-up flames burst lurid from the attic window, reaching with impotent fury for their prey. The next moment they were safe upon the great ladder waiting to receive them below.
Then such a shout went up! Men fell on each other's necks, and cried and laughed at once. Strangers slapped one another on the back with glistening faces, shook hands, and behaved generally like men gone suddenly mad. Women wept in the street. The driver of a car stalled in the crowd, who had stood through it all speechless, clutching the reins, whipped his horses into a gallop and drove away, yelling like a Comanche, to relieve his feelings. The boy and his rescuer were carried across the street without anyone knowing how. Policemen forgot their dignity and shouted with the rest. Fire, peril, terror, and loss were alike forgotten in the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin.
Fireman John Binns was made captain of his crew, and the Bennett medal was pinned on his coat on the next parade day.
Jacob A. Riis
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts in glad surpriseTo higher levels rise.
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts in glad surpriseTo higher levels rise.
Longfellow
There once was a restless boyWho dwelt in a home by the sea,Where the water danced for joy,And the wind was glad and free;But he said: "Good mother, O let me go!For the dullest place in the world, I know,Is this little brown house,This old brown house,Under the apple tree."I will travel east and west;The loveliest homes I'll see;And when I have found the best,Dear mother, I'll come for thee.I'll come for thee in a year and a day,And joyfully then we'll haste awayFrom this little brown house,This old brown house,Under the apple tree."So he travelled here and there,But never content was he,Though he saw in lands most fairThe costliest homes there be.He something missed from the sea or sky,Till he turned again with a wistful sighTo the little brown house,The old brown house,Under the apple tree.Then the mother saw and smiled,While her heart grew glad and free."Hast thou chosen a home, my child?Ah, where shall we dwell?" quoth she.And he said: "Sweet mother, from east to west,The loveliest home, and the dearest and best,Is a little brown house,An old brown house,Under an apple tree."
There once was a restless boyWho dwelt in a home by the sea,Where the water danced for joy,And the wind was glad and free;But he said: "Good mother, O let me go!For the dullest place in the world, I know,Is this little brown house,This old brown house,Under the apple tree.
"I will travel east and west;The loveliest homes I'll see;And when I have found the best,Dear mother, I'll come for thee.I'll come for thee in a year and a day,And joyfully then we'll haste awayFrom this little brown house,This old brown house,Under the apple tree."
So he travelled here and there,But never content was he,Though he saw in lands most fairThe costliest homes there be.He something missed from the sea or sky,Till he turned again with a wistful sighTo the little brown house,The old brown house,Under the apple tree.
Then the mother saw and smiled,While her heart grew glad and free."Hast thou chosen a home, my child?Ah, where shall we dwell?" quoth she.And he said: "Sweet mother, from east to west,The loveliest home, and the dearest and best,Is a little brown house,An old brown house,Under an apple tree."
Eudora S. Bumstead
A Jackal and a Partridge swore eternal friendship; but the Jackal was very exacting and jealous. "You don't do half as much for me as I do for you," he used to say, "and yet you talk a great deal of your friendship. Now my idea of a friend is one who is able to make me laugh or cry, give me a good meal, or save my life if need be. You couldn't do that!"
"Let us see," answered the Partridge; "follow me at a little distance, and if I don't make you laugh soon you may eat me!"
So she flew on till she met two travellers trudging along, one behind the other. They were both foot-sore and weary, and the first carried his bundle on a stick over his shoulder, while the second had his shoes in his hand.
Lightly as a feather the Partridge settled on the first traveller's stick. He, none the wiser, trudged on; but the second traveller, seeing the bird sitting so tamely just in front of his nose, said to himself: "What a chance for a supper!" and immediately flung his shoes at it, they being ready to hand. Whereupon the Partridge flew away, and the shoes knocked off the first traveller's turban.
"What a plague do you mean?" cried he, angrily turning on his companion. "Why did you throw your shoes at my head?"
"Brother!" replied the other, mildly, "do not be vexed. I didn't throw them at you, but at a Partridge that was sitting on your stick."
"On my stick! Do you take me for a fool?" shouted the injured man, in a great rage. "Don't tell me such cock-and-bull stories. First you insult me, and then you lie like a coward; but I'll teach you manners!"
Then he fell upon his fellow-traveller without more ado, and they fought until they could not see out of their eyes, till their noses were bleeding, their clothes in rags, and the Jackal had nearly died of laughing.
"Are you satisfied?" asked the Partridge of her friend.
"Well," answered the Jackal, "you have certainly made me laugh, but I doubt if you could make me cry. It is easy enough to be a buffoon; it is more difficult to excite the higher emotions."
"Let us see," retorted the Partridge, somewhat piqued; "there is a huntsman with his dogs coming along the road. Just creep into that hollow tree and watch me; if you don't weep scalding tears, you must have no feeling in you!"
The Jackal did as he was bid, and watched the Partridge, who began fluttering about the bushes till the dogs caught sight of her, when she flew to the hollow tree where the Jackal was hidden. Of course the dogs smelled him at once, and set up such a yelping and scratching that the huntsman came up and, seeing what it was, dragged the Jackal out by the tail. Whereupon the dogs worried him to their hearts' content, and finally left him for dead.
By and by he opened his eyes—for he was only foxing—and saw the Partridge sitting on a branch above him.
"Did you cry?" she asked anxiously. "Did I rouse your higher emo—"
"Be quiet, will you!" snarled the Jackal; "I'm half-dead with fear!"
So there the Jackal lay for some time, getting the better of his bruises, and meanwhile he became hungry.
"Now is the time for friendship!" said he to the Partridge. "Get me a good dinner, and I will acknowledge you are a true friend."
"Very well!" replied the Partridge; "only watch me, and help yourself when the time comes."
Just then a troop of women came by, carrying their husbands' dinners to the harvest-field.
The Partridge gave a little plaintive cry, and began fluttering along from bush to bush as if she were wounded.
"A wounded bird!—a wounded bird!" cried the women; "we can easily catch it!"
Whereupon they set off in pursuit, but the cunning Partridge played a thousand tricks, till they became so excited over the chase that they put their bundles on the ground in order to pursue it more nimbly. The Jackal, meanwhile, seizing his opportunity, crept up, and made off with a good dinner.
"Are you satisfied now?" asked the Partridge.
"Well," returned the Jackal, "I confess you have given me a very good dinner; you have also made me laugh—and cry—ahem! But, after all, the great test of friendship is beyond you—you couldn't save my life!"
"Perhaps not," acquiesced the Partridge, mournfully. "I am so small and weak. But it grows late—we should be going home; and as it is a long way round by the ford, let us go across the river. My friend, the crocodile, will carry us over."
Accordingly, they set off for the river, and the crocodile kindly consented to carry them across; so they sat on his broad back, and he ferried them over. But just as they were in the middle of the stream the Partridge remarked: "I believe the crocodile intends to play us a trick. How awkward if he were to drop you into the water!"
"Awkward for you, too!" replied the Jackal, turning pale.
"Not at all! not at all! I have wings, you haven't."
On this the Jackal shivered and shook with fear, and when the crocodile, in a grewsome growl, remarked that he was hungry and wanted a good meal, the wretched creature hadn't a word to say.
"Pooh!" cried the Partridge, airily, "don't try tricks on us—I should fly away, and as for my friend, the Jackal, you couldn't hurthim. He is not such a fool as to take his life with him on these little excursions; he leaves it at home locked up in the cupboard."
"Is that a fact?" asked the crocodile, surprised.
"Certainly!" retorted the Partridge. "Try to eat him if you like, but you will only tire yourself to no purpose."
"Dear me! how very odd!" gasped the crocodile; and he was so taken aback that he carried the Jackal safe to shore.
"Well, are you satisfied now?" asked the Partridge.
"My dear madam!" quoth the Jackal, "you have made me laugh, you have made me cry, you have given me a good dinner, and you have saved my life; but upon my honour I think you are too clever for a friend: so, good-bye!"
And the Jackal never went near the Partridge again.
Flora Annie Steel: "Tales from the Punjab."
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,All the flocks of fleecy clouds have wandered past the hill;Through the noonday silence, down the woods of June,Hark! a little hunter's voice comes running with a tune."Hide and seek!"When I speak,"You must answer me:"Call again,"Merry men,"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"Now I hear his footsteps, rustling through the grass:Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass?Just a low, soft whistle,—quick the hunter turns,Leaps upon me laughing, rolls me in the ferns."Hold him fast,"Caught at last!"Now you're it, you see."Hide your eye,"Till I cry,"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"Long ago he left me, long and long ago:Now I wander through the world and seek him high and low;Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place,—Ah, if I could hear his voice, I soon should find his face.Far away,Many a day,Where can Barney be?Answer, dear,Don't you hear?"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"Birds that in the spring-time thrilled his heart with joy,Flowers he loved to pick for me, 'mind me of my boy.Surely he is waiting till my steps come nigh;Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die.Heart be glad,The little ladWill call some day to thee:"Father dear,"Heaven is here,"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,All the flocks of fleecy clouds have wandered past the hill;Through the noonday silence, down the woods of June,Hark! a little hunter's voice comes running with a tune.
"Hide and seek!"When I speak,"You must answer me:"Call again,"Merry men,"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
Now I hear his footsteps, rustling through the grass:Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass?Just a low, soft whistle,—quick the hunter turns,Leaps upon me laughing, rolls me in the ferns.
"Hold him fast,"Caught at last!"Now you're it, you see."Hide your eye,"Till I cry,"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
Long ago he left me, long and long ago:Now I wander through the world and seek him high and low;Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place,—Ah, if I could hear his voice, I soon should find his face.
Far away,Many a day,Where can Barney be?Answer, dear,Don't you hear?"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
Birds that in the spring-time thrilled his heart with joy,Flowers he loved to pick for me, 'mind me of my boy.Surely he is waiting till my steps come nigh;Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die.
Heart be glad,The little ladWill call some day to thee:"Father dear,"Heaven is here,"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
Henry Van Dyke
(Owing to the excellent discipline which Captain Bourchier had established, and to the courage of the boys, only twelve lives were lost out of the crew of five hundred).
(Owing to the excellent discipline which Captain Bourchier had established, and to the courage of the boys, only twelve lives were lost out of the crew of five hundred).
Let me give you an example of self-denial which comes from near home. I will speak to you of what has been done by little boys of seven, of eight, of twelve, of thirteen;—little English boys, and English boys with very few advantages of birth; not brought up, as most of you are, in quiet, orderly homes, but taken from the London workhouses. I will speak to you of what such little boys have done, not fifteen hundred, or even two hundred years ago, but last week—last Wednesday, on the river Thames.
Do you know of whom I am thinking? I am thinking of the little boys, nearly five hundred, who were taken from different workhouses in London, and put to school to be trained as sailors on board the ship which was called after the name of the giant whom David slew—the training-ship Goliath.
About eight o'clock on Wednesday morning that great ship suddenly caught fire, from the upsetting of a can of oil in the lamp-room. It was hardly daylight. In a very few minutes the ship was on fire from one end to the other, and the fire-bell rang to call the boys to their posts. What did they do? Think of the sudden surprise, the sudden danger—the flames rushing all around them, and the dark, cold water below them! Did they cry, or scream, or fly about in confusion? No; they ran each to his proper place.
They had been trained to do that—they knew that it was their duty; and no one forgot himself; no one lost his presence of mind. They all, as the captain said: "behaved like men." Then, when it was found impossible to save the ship, those who could swim jumped into the water by order of the captain, and swam for their lives. Some, also at his command, got into a boat; and then, when the sheets of flame and the clouds of smoke came pouring out of the ship, the smaller boys for a moment were frightened, and wanted to push away.
But there was one among them—the little mate: his name was William Bolton: we are proud that he came from Westminster: a quiet boy, much loved by his comrades—who had the sense and courage to say: "No; we must stay and help those that are still in the ship." He kept the barge alongside the ship as long as possible, and was thus the means of saving more than one hundred lives!
There were others who were still in the ship while the flames went on spreading. They were standing by the good captain, who had been so kind to them all, and whom they all loved so much. In that dreadful crisis they thought more of him than of themselves. One threw his arms round his neck and said: "You'll be burnt, Captain;" and another said: "Save yourself before the rest." But the captain gave them the best of all lessons for that moment. He said: "That's not the way at sea, my boys."
He meant to say—and they quite understood what he meant—that the way at sea is to prepare for danger beforehand, to meet it manfully when it comes, and to look at the safety, not of oneself, but of others. The captain had not only learned that good old way himself, but he also knew how to teach it to the boys under his charge.
Dean Stanley
Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,To add something more to this wonderful year,To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,For who are so free as the sons of the waves?Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea,Her standard be justice, her watchword "Be free;"Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us singOur soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king.Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,To add something more to this wonderful year,To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,For who are so free as the sons of the waves?Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea,Her standard be justice, her watchword "Be free;"Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us singOur soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king.Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,We always are ready,Steady, boys, steady,We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
David Garrick
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee!"O for a soft and gentle wind!"I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free,—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners,The wind is piping loud!The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free,—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee!
"O for a soft and gentle wind!"I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free,—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners,The wind is piping loud!The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free,—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
Allan Cunningham
The kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into a far country, who called his own servants, and delivered unto them his goods. And unto one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one; to every man according to his several ability; and straightway took his journey.
Then he that had received the five talents went and traded with the same, and made them other five talents. And likewise he that had received two, he also gained other two. But he that had received one went and digged in the earth, and hid his lord's money. After a long time the lord of those servants cometh, and reckoneth with them.
And so he that had received five talents came and brought other five talents saying, "Lord, thou deliveredst unto me five talents: behold, I have gained beside them five talents more." His lord said unto him, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord."
He also that had received two talents came and said, "Lord, thou deliveredst unto me two talents: behold, I have gained two other talents beside them." His lord said unto him, "Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord."
Then he which had received the one talent came and said, "Lord, I knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hast not sown, and gathering where thou hast not strawed; and I was afraid, and went and hid thy talent in the earth: lo, there thou hast that is thine." His lord answered and said unto him, "Thou wicked and slothful servant, thou knewest that I reap where I sowed not, and gather where I have not strawed: thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the exchangers, and then at my coming I should have received mine own with usury. Take therefore the talent from him, and give it unto him which hath ten talents. For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath. And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth."
St. Matthew, XXV. 14-30
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave youFor every day.I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carolThan lark who hails the dawn or breezy down,To earn yourself a purer poet's laurelThan Shakespeare's crown.Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:And so make life, death, and that vast forever,One grand, sweet song.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave youFor every day.
I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carolThan lark who hails the dawn or breezy down,To earn yourself a purer poet's laurelThan Shakespeare's crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:And so make life, death, and that vast forever,One grand, sweet song.
Kingsley
Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring?In the spring?An English apple orchard in the spring?When the spreading trees are hoaryWith their wealth of promised glory,And the mavis sings its story,In the spring.Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring?In the spring?And caught their subtle odours in the spring?Pink buds pouting at the light,Crumpled petals baby whiteJust to touch them a delight—In the spring.Have you walked beneath the blossoms in the spring?In the spring?Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring?When the pink cascades are falling,And the silver brooklets brawling,And the cuckoo bird soft calling,In the spring.If you have not, then you know not, in the spring,In the spring,Half the colour, beauty, wonder of the spring,No sweet sight can I rememberHalf so precious, half so tender,As the apple blossoms render,In the spring.
Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring?In the spring?An English apple orchard in the spring?When the spreading trees are hoaryWith their wealth of promised glory,And the mavis sings its story,In the spring.
Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring?In the spring?And caught their subtle odours in the spring?Pink buds pouting at the light,Crumpled petals baby whiteJust to touch them a delight—In the spring.
Have you walked beneath the blossoms in the spring?In the spring?Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring?When the pink cascades are falling,And the silver brooklets brawling,And the cuckoo bird soft calling,In the spring.
If you have not, then you know not, in the spring,In the spring,Half the colour, beauty, wonder of the spring,No sweet sight can I rememberHalf so precious, half so tender,As the apple blossoms render,In the spring.
William Martin
Said Jim Baker: "There's more to a bluejay than to any other creature. He has more kinds of feeling than any other creature; and mind you, whatever a bluejay feels, he can put into words. No common words either, but out-and-out book-talk. You never see a jay at a loss for a word.
"You may call a jay a bird. Well, so he is, because he has feathers on him. Otherwise, he is just as human as you are.
"Yes, sir; a jay is everything that a man is. A jay can laugh, a jay can gossip, a jay can feel ashamed, just as well as you do, maybe better. And there's another thing: in good, clean, out-and-out scolding, a bluejay can beat anything alive.
"Seven years ago the last man about here but me moved away. There stands his house—a log house with just one big room and no more: no ceiling, nothing between the rafters and the floor.
"Well, one Sunday morning I was sitting out here in front of my cabin, with my cat, taking the sun, when a bluejay flew down on that house with an acorn in his mouth.
"'Hello,' says he, 'I reckon here's something.' When he spoke, the acorn fell out of his mouth and rolled down on the roof. He didn't care; his mind was on the thing he had found.
"It was a knot-hole in the roof. He cocked his head to one side, shut one eye, and put the other to the hole, like a 'possum looking down a jug.'
"Then he looked up, gave a wink or two with his wings, and says: 'It looks like a hole, it's placed like a hole—and—if I don't think it is a hole!'
"Then he cocked his head down and took another look. He looked up with joy, this time winked his wings and his tail both, and says: 'If I ain't in luck! Why it's an elegant hole!'
"So he flew down and got that acorn and dropped it in, and was tilting his head back with a smile when a queer look of surprise came over his face. Then he says: 'Why, I didn't hear it fall.'
"He cocked his eye at the hole again and took a long look; rose up and shook his head; went to the other side of the hole and took another look from that side; shook his head again. No use.
"So after thinking awhile, he says: 'I reckon it's all right. I'll try it, anyway.'
"So he flew off and brought another acorn and dropped it in, and tried to get his eye to the hole quick enough to see what became of it. He was too late. He got another acorn and tried to see where it went, but he couldn't.
"He says: 'Well, I never saw such a hole as this before. I reckon it's a new kind.' Then he got angry and walked up and down the roof. I never saw a bird take on so.
"When he got through, he looked in the hole for half a minute; then he says: 'Well, you're a long hole, and a deep hole, and a queer hole, but I have started to fill you, and I'll do it if it takes a hundred years.'
"And with that away he went. For two hours and a half you never saw a bird work so hard. He did not stop to look in any more, but just threw acorns in and went for more.
"Well, at last he could hardly flap his wings he was so tired out. So he bent down for a look. He looked up, pale with rage. He says: 'I've put in enough acorns to keep the family thirty years, and I can't see a sign of them.'
"Another jay was going by and heard him. So he stopped to ask what was the matter. Our jay told him the whole story. Then he went and looked down the hole and came back and said: 'How many tons did you put in there?' 'Not less than two,' said our jay.
"The other jay looked again, but could not make it out; so he gave a yell and three more jays came. They all talked at once for awhile, and then called in more jays.
"Pretty soon the air was blue with jays, and every jay put his eye to the hole and told what he thought. They looked the house all over, too. The door was partly open, and at last one old jay happened to look in. There lay the acorns all over the floor.
"He flapped his wings and gave a yell: 'Come here, everybody! Ha! Ha! He's been trying to fill a house with acorns!'
"As each jay took a look, the fun of the thing struck him, and how he did laugh. And for an hour after they roosted on the housetop and trees, and laughed like human beings. It isn't any use to tell me a bluejay hasn't any fun in him. I know better."
Samuel L. Clemens(Mark Twain)