Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin inclosed his breast,Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow.Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,In the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him downFrom the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him downFrom the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
C. Wolfe
When I was a boy of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children, and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.
This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing in my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself: "Don't give too much for the whistle;" and I saved my money.
As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.
When I saw any one fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in politics, neglecting his own affairs and ruining them by that neglect, "He pays, indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."
If I saw one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine horses, all above his fortune, for which he contracted debts and ended his career in poverty, "Alas!" said I, "he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."
In short, I believed that a great part of the miseries of mankind were brought upon them by the false estimates they had made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.
Benjamin Franklin
Faintly as tolls the evening chimeOur voices keep tune and our oars keep time.Soon as the woods on shore look dim,We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.Why should we yet our sail unfurl?There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;But, when the wind blows off the shore,Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.Utawas' tide! this trembling moonShall see us float over thy surges soon.Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Faintly as tolls the evening chimeOur voices keep tune and our oars keep time.Soon as the woods on shore look dim,We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;But, when the wind blows off the shore,Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Utawas' tide! this trembling moonShall see us float over thy surges soon.Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Moore
At an early period in the history of Holland, a boy was born in Haarlem, a town remarkable for its variety of fortune in war, but happily still more so for its manufactures and inventions in peace.
His father was a sluicer—that is, one whose employment it was to open and shut the sluices or large oak gates which, placed at certain regular distances, close the entrances of the canals, and secure Holland from the danger to which it seems exposed, of finding itself under water, rather than above it. When water is wanted, the sluicer raises the sluices more or less, as required, as the cook turns the cock of a fountain, and closes them again carefully at night; otherwise the water would flow into the canals, then overflow them, and inundate the whole country; so that even the little children in Holland are fully aware of the importance of a punctual discharge of the sluicer's duties.
The boy was about eight years old when, one day, he asked permission to take some cakes to a poor blind man, who lived at the other side of the dike. His father gave him leave, but charged him not to stay too late. The child promised, and set off on his little journey. The blind man thankfully partook of his young friend's cakes, and the boy, mindful of his father's orders, did not wait, as usual, to hear one of the old man's stories, but as soon as he had seen him eat one muffin, took leave of him to return home.
As he went along by the canals, then quite full, for it was in October, and the autumn rains had swelled the waters,—the boy now stooped to pull the little blue flowers which his mother loved so well, now, in childish gaiety, hummed some merry song. The road gradually became more solitary, and soon neither the joyous shout of the villager returning to his cottage home, nor the rough voice of the carter grumbling at his lazy horses, was any longer to be heard. The little fellow now perceived that the blue of the flowers in his hands was scarcely distinguishable from the green of the surrounding herbage, and he looked up in some dismay. The night was falling; not, however, a dark, winter night, but one of those beautiful, clear, moonlight nights, in which every object is perceptible, though not as distinctly as by day.
The child thought of his father, of his injunction, and was preparing to quit the ravine in which he was almost buried, and to regain the beach, when suddenly a slight noise, like the trickling of water upon pebbles, attracted his attention. He was near one of the large sluices, and he now carefully examined it, and soon discovered a hole in the wood, through which the water was flowing. With the instant perception which every child in Holland would have, the boy saw that the water must soon enlarge the hole through which it was now only dropping, and that utter and general ruin would be the consequence of the inundation of the country that must follow. To see, to throw away the flowers, to climb from stone to stone till he reached the hole, and to put his finger into it, was the work of a moment, and to his delight he found that he had succeeded in stopping the flow of the water.
This was all very well for a little while, and the child thought only of the success of his device. But the night was closing in, and with the night came the cold. The little boy looked around in vain. No one came. He shouted—he called loudly—no one answered. He resolved to stay there all night, but alas! the cold was becoming every moment more biting, and the poor finger fixed in the hole began to feel benumbed, and the numbness soon extended to the hand, and thence throughout the whole arm. The pain became still greater, still harder to bear, but yet the boy moved not. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he thought of his father, of his mother, of his little bed, where he might now be sleeping so soundly; but still the little fellow stirred not, for he knew that did he remove the small slender finger which he had opposed to the escape of the water, not only would he himself be drowned, but his father, his brothers, his neighbours—nay, the whole village.
We know not what faltering of purpose, what momentary failures of courage there might have been during that long and terrible night; but certain it is, that at daybreak he was found in the same painful position by a clergyman returning from attendance on a deathbed, who, as he advanced, thought he heard groans, and bending over the dike, discovered a child seated on a stone, writhing from pain, and with pale face and tearful eyes.
"In the name of wonder, boy," he exclaimed, "what are you doing there?"
"I am hindering the water from running out," was the answer, in perfect simplicity, of the child, who, during that whole night, had been evincing such heroic fortitude and undaunted courage.
The Muse of History has handed down to posterity many a warrior, the destroyer of thousands of his fellow-men—but she has left us in ignorance of the name of this real little hero of Haarlem.
Sharpe's London Magazine
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,Are a substantial world, both pure and good.
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,Are a substantial world, both pure and good.
Wordsworth
"Repeat 'You are old, Father William,'" said the Caterpillar.
Alice folded her hands, and began:—
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think, at your age, it is right?""In my youth," Father William replied to his son,"I feared it might injure the brain;But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again.""You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,And have grown most uncommonly fat;Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—Pray, what is the reason of that?""In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,"I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—Allow me to sell you a couple.""You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak.Pray, how did you manage to do it?""In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,Has lasted the rest of my life.""You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—What made you so awfully clever?""I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,"I feared it might injure the brain;But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,And have grown most uncommonly fat;Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—Pray, what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,"I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—Allow me to sell you a couple."
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak.Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"
"That is not said right," said the Caterpillar.
"Notquiteright, I'm afraid," said Alice timidly; "some of the words have got altered."
"It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes.
Lewis Carroll: "The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland."
Now the Philistines gathered together their armies to battle, and Saul and the men of Israel were gathered together, and pitched by the valley of Elah, and set the battle in array against the Philistines. And the Philistines stood on a mountain on the one side, and Israel stood on a mountain on the other side: and there was a valley between them.
And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines, named Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span. And he had an helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a coat of mail; and the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels of brass. And he had greaves of brass upon his legs, and a target of brass between his shoulders. And the staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam; and his spear's head weighed six hundred shekels of iron: and one bearing a shield went before him.
And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto them, Why are ye come out to set your battle in array? Am not I a Philistine, and ye servants to Saul? Choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me. If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve us. And the Philistine said, I defy the armies of Israel this day; give me a man, that we may fight together. When Saul and all Israel heard those words of the Philistine, they were dismayed, and greatly afraid.
And David rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a keeper, and took, and went, as Jesse had commanded him; and he came to the trench, as the host was going forth to the fight, and shouted for the battle. For Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array, army against army. And David left his carriage in the hand of the keeper of the carriage, and ran into the army, and came and saluted his brethren. And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the champion, the Philistine of Gath, Goliath by name, out of the armies of the Philistines, and spake according to the same words: and David heard them. And all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled from him, and were sore afraid. And the men of Israel said, Have ye seen this man that is come up? surely to defy Israel is he come up: and it shall be, that the man who killeth him, the king will enrich him with great riches, and will give him his daughter, and make his father's house free in Israel. And David spake to the men that stood by him, saying, What shall be done to the man that killeth this Philistine, and taketh away the reproach from Israel? For who is this Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the living God? And the people answered him after this manner, saying, So shall it be done to the man that killeth him. And when the words were heard which David spake, they rehearsed them before Saul: and he sent for him.
And David said to Saul, Let no man's heart fail because of him; thy servant will go and fight with this Philistine. And Saul said to David, Thou art not able to go against this Philistine to fight with him: for thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth. And David said unto Saul, Thy servant kept his father's sheep, and there came a lion, and a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock: And I went out after him, and smote him, and delivered it out of his mouth: and when he arose against me, I caught him by his beard, and smote him, and slew him. Thy servant slew both the lion and the bear: and this Philistine shall be as one of them, seeing he hath defied the armies of the living God. David said moreover, The Lord that delivered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine. And Saul said unto David, Go, and the Lord be with thee.
And Saul armed David with his armour, and he put a helmet of brass upon his head; also he armed him with a coat of mail. And David girded his sword upon his armour, and he assayed to go; for he had not proved it. And David said unto Saul, I cannot go with these; for I have not proved them. And David put them off him. And he took his staff in his hand, and chose him five smooth stones out of the brook, and put them in a shepherd's bag which he had, even in a scrip; and his sling was in his hand: and he drew near to the Philistine.
And the Philistine came on and drew near unto David; and the man that bare the shield went before him. And when the Philistine looked about, and saw David, he disdained him: for he was but a youth, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance. And the Philistine said unto David, Am I a dog, that thou comest to me with staves? And the Philistine cursed David by his gods.
And the Philistine said to David, Come to me, and I will give thy flesh unto the fowls of the air, and to the beasts of the field.
Then said David to the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied. This day will the Lord deliver thee into mine hand; and I will smite thee, and take thine head from thee; and I will give the carcases of the host of the Philistines this day unto the fowls of the air, and to the wild beasts of the earth; that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel. And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands.
And it came to pass, when the Philistine arose, and came and drew nigh to meet David, that David hasted, and ran toward the army to meet the Philistine. And David put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone, and slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone sunk into his forehead; and he fell upon his face to the earth. So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no sword in the hand of David. Therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his sword, and drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew him, and cut off his head therewith. And when the Philistines saw their champion was dead, they fled.
I. Samuel, XVII.
AT THE END OF THE MEALAT THE END OF THE MEAL
AT THE END OF THE MEAL
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!" he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismay'd?Not tho' the soldier knewSome one had blunder'd:Their's not to make reply,Their's not to reason why,Their's but to do and die:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.Flash'd all their sabres bare,Flash'd as they turn'd in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder'd:Plunged in the battery-smokeRight thro' the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel'd from the sabre-strokeShatter'd and sunder'd.Then they rode back, but notNot the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro' the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!All the world wonder'd.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!" he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismay'd?Not tho' the soldier knewSome one had blunder'd:Their's not to make reply,Their's not to reason why,Their's but to do and die:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,Flash'd as they turn'd in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder'd:Plunged in the battery-smokeRight thro' the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel'd from the sabre-strokeShatter'd and sunder'd.Then they rode back, but notNot the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro' the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!All the world wonder'd.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!
Tennyson
Maggie and Tom came in from the garden with their father and their Uncle Glegg. Maggie had thrown her bonnet off very carelessly, and, coming in with her hair rough as well as out of curl, rushed at once to Lucy. The contrast between the two cousins was like the contrast between a rough, dark, overgrown puppy and a white kitten. Lucy put up the neatest little rosebud mouth to be kissed: everything about her was neat.
"Heyday!" said Aunt Glegg, with loud emphasis. "Do little boys and girls come into a room without taking notice of their uncles and aunts? That wasn't the way when I was a little girl."
"Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears," said Mrs. Tulliver. She wanted to whisper to Maggie a command to go and have her hair brushed.
"Well, and how do you do? And I hope you're good children, are you?" said Aunt Glegg, in the same loud, emphatic way. "Look up, Tom, look up. Look at me now. Put your hair behind your ears, Maggie, and keep your frock on your shoulder."
Aunt Glegg always spoke to them in this loud, emphatic way, as if she considered them deaf.
"Well, my dears," said Aunt Pullet, "you grow wonderfully fast,—I doubt they'll outgrow their strength. I think the girl has too much hair. I'd have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if I were you; it isn't good for her health. It's that makes her skin so brown,—don't you think so, sister Deane?"
"I can't say, I'm sure, sister," said Mrs. Deane, shutting her lips close and looking at Maggie.
"No, no," said Mr. Tulliver, "the child's healthy enough: there's nothing ails her. There's red wheat as well as white, for that matter, and some like the dark grain best. But it would be as well if Bessie would have the child's hair cut so it would lie smooth."
"Maggie," said Mrs. Tulliver, beckoning Maggie to her, and whispering in her ear, "go and get your hair brushed,—do, for shame! I told you not to come in without going to Martha first; you know I did."
"Tom, come out with me," whispered Maggie, pulling his sleeve as she passed him; and Tom followed willingly enough.
"Come upstairs with me, Tom," she whispered, when they were outside the door. "There's something I want to do before dinner."
"There's no time to play at anything before dinner," said Tom.
"Oh, yes, there is time for this—docome, Tom."
Tom followed Maggie upstairs into her mother's room, and saw her go at once to a drawer from which she took out a large pair of scissors.
"What are they for, Maggie?" said Tom, feeling his curiosity awakened.
Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting them straight across the middle of her forehead.
"Oh, my buttons, Maggie, you'll catch it!" exclaimed Tom; "you'd better not cut any more off."
Snip! went the great scissors again while Tom was speaking; and he could hardly help feeling it was rather good fun—Maggie looking so queer.
"Here, Tom, cut it behind for me," said Maggie, excited by her own daring, and anxious to finish the deed.
"You'll catch it, you know," said Tom, hesitating a little as he took the scissors.
"Never mind—make haste!" said Maggie, giving a little stamp with her foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed.
The black locks were so thick,—nothing could be more tempting to a lad who had already tasted the forbidden pleasure of cutting the pony's mane. One delicious grinding snip, and then another and another, and the hinder locks fell heavily on the floor. Maggie stood cropped in a jagged, uneven manner, but with a sense of clearness and freedom, as if she had emerged from a wood into the open plain.
"Oh, Maggie," said Tom, jumping round her and slapping his knees as he laughed; "oh, my buttons, what a queer thing you look! Look at yourself in the glass."
Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She had thought beforehand chiefly of her own deliverance from her teasing hair and teasing remarks about it, and something also of the triumph she should have over her mother and her aunts by this very decided course of action. She didn't want her hair to look pretty—that was out of the question—she only wanted people to think her a clever little girl and not to find fault with her. But now, when Tom began to laugh at her, the affair had quite a new aspect. She looked in the glass, and still Tom laughed and clapped his hands, and Maggie's flushed cheeks began to pale, and her lips to tremble a little.
"Oh, Maggie, you'll have to go down to dinner directly," said Tom. "Oh, my!"
"Don't laugh at me, Tom," said Maggie, in a passionate tone, and with an outburst of angry tears, stamping, and giving him a push.
"Now, then, spitfire!" said Tom. "What did you cut it off for, then? I shall go down: I can smell the dinner going in."
Tom hurried down-stairs and left poor Maggie. As she stood crying before the glass, she felt it impossible that she should go down to dinner and endure the severe eyes and severe words of her aunts, while Tom, and Lucy, and Martha, who waited at table, and perhaps her father and her uncles, would laugh at her. If Tom had laughed at her, of course every one else would; and, if she had only let her hair alone, she could have sat with Tom and Lucy, and had the apricot pudding and the custard! What could she do but sob?
"Miss Maggie, you're to come down this minute," said Kezia, entering the room hurriedly. "What have you been a-doing? I never saw such a fright!"
"Don't, Kezia," said Maggie, angrily. "Go away!"
"But I tell you, you're to come down, Miss, this minute: your mother says so," said Kezia, going up to Maggie and taking her by the hand to raise her from the floor.
"Get away, Kezia; I don't want any dinner," said Maggie, resisting Kezia's arm. "I shan't come."
"Oh, well, I can't stay. I've got to wait at dinner," said Kezia, going out again.
"Maggie, you little silly," said Tom, peeping into the room ten minutes after, "why don't you come and have your dinner? There's lots o' goodies, and mother says you're to come. What are you crying for?"
Oh, it was dreadful! Tom was so hard and unconcerned; ifhehad been crying on the floor, Maggie would have cried, too. And there was the dinner, so nice; and she wassohungry. It was very bitter.
But Tom was not altogether hard. He went and put his head near her, and said, in a lower, comforting tone: "Won't you come, then, Maggie? Shall I bring you a bit of pudding when I've had mine—and a custard and things?"
"Ye-e-es," said Maggie, beginning to feel life a little more tolerable.
"Very well," said Tom, going away. But he turned again at the door and said: "But you'd better come, you know. There's the dessert, you know."
Maggie's tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom left her. His good nature had taken off the keenest edge of her suffering.
Slowly she rose from among her scattered locks, and slowly she made her way down-stairs. Then she stood leaning with one shoulder against the frame of the dining-parlour door, peeping in when it was ajar. She saw Tom and Lucy with an empty chair between them, and there were the custards on a side-table—it was too much. She slipped in and went towards the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than she repented, and wished herself back again.
Mrs. Tulliver gave a little scream as she saw her, and dropped the large gravy-spoon into the dish with the most serious results to the tablecloth.
Mrs. Tulliver's scream made all eyes turn towards the same point as her own, and Maggie's cheeks and ears began to burn, while Uncle Glegg, a kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman, said: "Heyday! what little girl's this? Why, I don't know her. Is it some little girl you've picked up in the road, Kezia?"
"Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself," said Mr. Tulliver in an undertone to Mr. Deane, laughing with much enjoyment.
"Why, little Miss, you've made yourself look very funny," said Uncle Pullet.
"Fie, for shame!" said Aunt Glegg, in her severest tone of reproof. "Little girls that cut their own hair should be whipped and fed on bread and water, not come and sit down with their aunts and uncles."
"Aye, aye," said Uncle Glegg, meaning to give a playful turn, "she must be sent to jail, I think, and they'll cut the rest of her hair off there, and make it all even."
"She's more like a gypsy than ever," said Aunt Pullet in a pitying tone.
"She's a naughty child, that'll break her mother's heart," said Mrs. Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes.
Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and derision. Her first flush came from anger. Tom thought she was braving it out, supported by the recent appearance of the pudding and custard.
He whispered: "Oh, my! Maggie, I told you you'd catch it." He meant to be friendly, but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her ignominy.
Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, her heart swelled, and, getting up from her chair, she ran to her father, hid her face on his shoulder, and burst out into loud sobbing. "Come, come," said her father, soothingly, putting his arm round her, "never mind; give over crying: father'll take your part."
Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never forgot any of these moments when her father "took her part"; she kept them in her heart, and thought of them long years after, when every one else said that her father had done very ill by his children.
George Eliot: "The Mill on the Floss."(Adapted)
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!Heap high the golden corn!No richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn!Let other lands, exulting, gleanThe apple from the pine,The orange from its glossy green,The cluster from the vine;We better love the hardy giftOur rugged vales bestow,To cheer us when the storm shall driftOur harvest-fields with snow.Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,Our ploughs their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,Beneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.All through the long, bright days of JuneIts leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot midsummer's noonIts soft and yellow hair.And now, with autumn's moon-lit eves,Its harvest-time has come,We pluck away the frosted leaves,And bear the treasure home.There, richer than the fabled giftApollo showered of old,Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,And knead its meal of gold.Let vapid idlers loll in silkAround their costly board;Give us the bowl of samp and milk,By homespun beauty poured!Where'er the wide old kitchen hearthSends up its smoky curls,Who will not thank the kindly earth,And bless our farmer girls!
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!Heap high the golden corn!No richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, gleanThe apple from the pine,The orange from its glossy green,The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy giftOur rugged vales bestow,To cheer us when the storm shall driftOur harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,Our ploughs their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,Beneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of JuneIts leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot midsummer's noonIts soft and yellow hair.
And now, with autumn's moon-lit eves,Its harvest-time has come,We pluck away the frosted leaves,And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fabled giftApollo showered of old,Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silkAround their costly board;Give us the bowl of samp and milk,By homespun beauty poured!
Where'er the wide old kitchen hearthSends up its smoky curls,Who will not thank the kindly earth,And bless our farmer girls!
Whittier
After dinner all the youth of the city go into the field of the suburbs, and address themselves to the famous game of football. The scholars of each school have their peculiar ball; and the particular trades have, most of them, theirs. The elders of the city, the fathers of the parties, and the rich and wealthy, come to the field on horseback, in order to behold the exercises of the youth, and in appearance are themselves as youthful as the youngest; seeming to be revived at the sight of so much agility, and in a participation of the diversion of their festive sons.
At Easter the diversion is prosecuted on the water; a target is strongly fastened to a trunk or mast fixed in the middle of the river, and a youngster standing upright in the stern of a boat, made to move as fast as the oars and current can carry it, is to strike the target with his lance; and if, in hitting it, he breaks his lance and keeps his place in the boat, he gains his point and triumphs; but if it happens the lance is not shivered by the force of the blow, he is, of course, tumbled into the water, and away goes his vessel without him.
However, a couple of boats full of young men are placed one on each side of the target, so as to be ready to take up the unsuccessful adventurer the moment he emerges from the stream and comes fairly to the surface. The bridge and the balconies on the banks are filled with spectators, whose business is to laugh. On holidays, in summer, the pastime of the youth is to exercise themselves in archery, in running, leaping, wrestling, casting of stones, and flinging to certain distances, and, lastly, with bucklers.
In the winter holidays when that vast lake which waters the walls of the City towards the north is hard frozen, the youth, in great numbers, go to divert themselves on the ice. Some, taking a small run, place their feet at the proper distance, and are carried, sliding sideways, a great way; others will make a large cake of ice, and seating one of their companions upon it, they take hold of one another's hands, and draw him along: when it sometimes happens that, moving so swiftly on so slippery a plain, they all fall down headlong.
Others there are who are still more expert in these amusements on the ice; they place certain bones, the leg bones of some animal, under the soles of their feet by tying them round their ankles, and, then, taking a pole shod with iron into their hands, they push themselves forward by striking it against the ice, and are carried along with a velocity equal to the flight of a bird, or a bolt discharged from a cross-bow. Sometimes two of them thus furnished agree to start opposite one to another, at a great distance; they meet, elevate their poles, attack and strike each other, when one or both of them fall, and not without some bodily hurt; and even after their fall they shall be carried a good distance from each other by the rapidity of the motion. Very often the leg or the arm of the party that falls, if he chances to light upon them, is broken; but youth is an age ambitious of glory, fond and covetous of victory, and that in future time it may acquit itself boldly and valiantly in real engagements, it will run these hazards in sham ones.
Hawking and hunting were sports only for persons of quality, and woe be to the unhappy man of the lower orders who indulged in either of these sports. If caught he would be severely punished and might have his eyes put out.
IN THE HIGHLANDS OF ONTARIOIN THE HIGHLANDS OF ONTARIO
IN THE HIGHLANDS OF ONTARIO
After breakfast, knights with their ladies ride out, each bearing upon his wrist a falcon with scarlet hood and collar of gold. As they near the river a heron, who had been fishing for his breakfast among the reeds near the bank, hears them and spreading his wings flies upward. A knight slips the hood from the falcon's head and next instant he sees the heron. Away he darts, while knights and ladies rein in their horses and watch. Up, and up, he goes until he passes the heron and still he flies higher. Next instant he turns and, with a terrible swoop downwards, pounces upon the heron and kills it.
The knight sounds his whistle and instantly the falcon turns and darts back to him for the dainty food which is given as a reward for his good hunting. Then he is chained and hooded again till another bird rises. So the morning passes, and many a bird do the falcons bring down before the knights and ladies return to the castle for "noon-meat."
William Fitzstephen(Adapted)
And He that doth the ravens feed,Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,Be comfort to my age!
And He that doth the ravens feed,Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,Be comfort to my age!
Shakespeare
Sing me a song of the great Dominion!Soul-felt words for a patriot's ear!Ring out boldly the well-turned measure,Voicing your notes that the world may hear;Here is no starveling—Heaven-forsaken—Shrinking aside where the Nations throng;Proud as the proudest moves she among them—Worthy is she of a noble song!Sing me the might of her giant mountains,Baring their brows in the dazzling blue;Changeless alone, where all else changes,Emblems of all that is grand and true:Free, as the eagles around them soaring;Fair, as they rose from their Maker's hand:Shout, till the snow-caps catch the chorus—The white-topp'd peaks of our mountain land.Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests,Silence eternal, and peace profound,In whose great heart's deep recessesBreaks no tempest, and comes no sound;Face to face with the deathlike stillness,Here, if at all, man's soul might quail:Nay! 'tis the love of that great peace leads usThither, where solace will never fail!Sing me the pride of her stately rivers,Cleaving their way to the far-off sea;Glory of strength in their deep-mouth'd music—Glory of mirth in their tameless glee.Hark! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids;Deep unto deep through the dead night calls;Truly, I hear but the voice of FreedomShouting her name from her fortress walls!Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies,League upon league of the golden grain:Comfort, housed in the smiling homestead—Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain.Land of Contentment! May no strife vex you,Never war's flag on your plains be unfurl'd;Only the blessings of mankind reach you—Finding the food for a hungry world!Sing me the charm of her blazing camp fires;Sing me the quiet of her happy homes,Whether afar 'neath the forest arches,Or in the shade of the city's domes;Sing me her life, her loves, her labours;All of a mother a son would hear;For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding,Sweet are the strains to the lover's ear.Sing me the worth of each Canadian,Roamer in wilderness—toiler in town—Search earth over you'll find none stancher,Whether his hands be white or brown;Come of a right good stock to start with,Best of the world's blood in each vein;Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one,For us or from us, you'll find we're—MEN!Sing me the song, then; sing it bravely;Put your soul in the words you sing;Sing me the praise of this glorious country—Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring.Here is no starveling—Heaven-forsaken—Crouching apart where the Nations throng;Proud as the proudest moves she among them—Well is she worthy a noble song!
Sing me a song of the great Dominion!Soul-felt words for a patriot's ear!Ring out boldly the well-turned measure,Voicing your notes that the world may hear;Here is no starveling—Heaven-forsaken—Shrinking aside where the Nations throng;Proud as the proudest moves she among them—Worthy is she of a noble song!
Sing me the might of her giant mountains,Baring their brows in the dazzling blue;Changeless alone, where all else changes,Emblems of all that is grand and true:Free, as the eagles around them soaring;Fair, as they rose from their Maker's hand:Shout, till the snow-caps catch the chorus—The white-topp'd peaks of our mountain land.
Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests,Silence eternal, and peace profound,In whose great heart's deep recessesBreaks no tempest, and comes no sound;Face to face with the deathlike stillness,Here, if at all, man's soul might quail:Nay! 'tis the love of that great peace leads usThither, where solace will never fail!
Sing me the pride of her stately rivers,Cleaving their way to the far-off sea;Glory of strength in their deep-mouth'd music—Glory of mirth in their tameless glee.Hark! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids;Deep unto deep through the dead night calls;Truly, I hear but the voice of FreedomShouting her name from her fortress walls!
Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies,League upon league of the golden grain:Comfort, housed in the smiling homestead—Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain.Land of Contentment! May no strife vex you,Never war's flag on your plains be unfurl'd;Only the blessings of mankind reach you—Finding the food for a hungry world!
Sing me the charm of her blazing camp fires;Sing me the quiet of her happy homes,Whether afar 'neath the forest arches,Or in the shade of the city's domes;Sing me her life, her loves, her labours;All of a mother a son would hear;For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding,Sweet are the strains to the lover's ear.
Sing me the worth of each Canadian,Roamer in wilderness—toiler in town—Search earth over you'll find none stancher,Whether his hands be white or brown;Come of a right good stock to start with,Best of the world's blood in each vein;Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one,For us or from us, you'll find we're—MEN!
Sing me the song, then; sing it bravely;Put your soul in the words you sing;Sing me the praise of this glorious country—Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring.Here is no starveling—Heaven-forsaken—Crouching apart where the Nations throng;Proud as the proudest moves she among them—Well is she worthy a noble song!
Robert Reid
There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind."
The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There'splentyof room!" said Alice, indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.
"Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.
"You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity: "it's very rude."
The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all hesaidwas: "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"
"Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles—I believe I can guess that," she added aloud.
"Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare.
"Exactly so," said Alice.
"Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on.
"I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least—at least I mean what I say—that's the same thing, you know."
"Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "Why, you might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!"
"You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!"
"You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in its sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!"
"Itisthe same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much.
"Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.
"No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter.
"Nor I," said the March Hare.
Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than wasting it in asking riddles that have no answers."
"Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story."
"I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal.
"Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried.
"Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once.
The Dormouse slowly opened its eyes. "I wasn't asleep," it said in a hoarse, feeble voice, "I heard every word you fellows were saying."
"Tell us a story!" said the March Hare.
"Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice.
"And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done."
"Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry, "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well—"
"What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking.
"They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two.
"They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked: "they'd have been ill."
"So they were," said the Dormouse, "veryill."
Alice tried a little to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary way of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?"
"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.
"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more."
"You mean you can't takeless," said the Hatter: "It's very easy to takemorethan nothing."
"Nobody askedyouropinion," said Alice.
"Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly.
Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?"
The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said: "It was a treacle-well."
"There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! Sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked: "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself."
"No, please go on!" Alice said, very humbly, "I won't interrupt you again. I dare say there may beone."
"One, indeed!" said the Dormouse, indignantly. However it consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters—they were learning to draw, you know—"
"What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.
"Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.
"I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter, "let's all move one place on."
He moved as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice, rather unwillingly, took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk jug into his plate.
Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?"
"You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well—eh stupid?"
"But they wereinthe well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark.
"Of course they were," said the Dormouse,—"well in."
This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it.
"They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with an M—"
"Why with an M?" said Alice.
"Why not?" said the March Hare.
Alice was silent.
The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze, but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on, "—that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness—you know you say things are 'much of a muchness'—did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?"
"Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think—"
"Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter.
This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off: the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot.
Lewis Carroll: "The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland."