ONTARIO AGRICULTURAL COLLEGEONTARIO AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE
ONTARIO AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE
My son, despise not the chastening of theLord;Neither be weary of his reproof:For whom theLordloveth he reproveth;Even as a father the son in whom he delighteth.Happy is the man that findeth wisdom,And the man that getteth understanding.For the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver,And the gain thereof than fine gold.She is more precious than rubies:And none of the things thou canst desire are to be compared unto her.Length of days is in her right hand;In her left hand are riches and honour.Her ways are ways of pleasantness,And all her paths are peace.She is a tree of life to them that lay hold upon her:And happy is every one that retaineth her.TheLordby wisdom founded the earth;By understanding he established the heavens.By his knowledge the depths were broken up,And the skies drop down the dew.
My son, despise not the chastening of theLord;Neither be weary of his reproof:For whom theLordloveth he reproveth;Even as a father the son in whom he delighteth.
Happy is the man that findeth wisdom,And the man that getteth understanding.For the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver,And the gain thereof than fine gold.She is more precious than rubies:And none of the things thou canst desire are to be compared unto her.
Length of days is in her right hand;In her left hand are riches and honour.Her ways are ways of pleasantness,And all her paths are peace.She is a tree of life to them that lay hold upon her:And happy is every one that retaineth her.
TheLordby wisdom founded the earth;By understanding he established the heavens.By his knowledge the depths were broken up,And the skies drop down the dew.
Proverbs, III.
There's no garden like an orchard,Nature shows no fairer thingThan the apple trees in blossomIn these late days o' the spring.Here the robin redbreast's nesting,Here, from golden dawn till night,Honey bees are gaily swimmingIn a sea of pink and white.Just a sea of fragrant blossoms,Steeped in sunshine, drenched in dew,Just a fragrant breath which tells youEarth is fair again and new.Just a breath of subtle sweetness,Breath which holds the spice o' youth,Holds the promise o' the summer—Holds the best o' things, forsooth.There's no garden like an orchard,Nature shows no fairer thingThan the apple trees in blossomIn these late days o' the spring.
There's no garden like an orchard,Nature shows no fairer thingThan the apple trees in blossomIn these late days o' the spring.
Here the robin redbreast's nesting,Here, from golden dawn till night,Honey bees are gaily swimmingIn a sea of pink and white.
Just a sea of fragrant blossoms,Steeped in sunshine, drenched in dew,Just a fragrant breath which tells youEarth is fair again and new.
Just a breath of subtle sweetness,Breath which holds the spice o' youth,Holds the promise o' the summer—Holds the best o' things, forsooth.
There's no garden like an orchard,Nature shows no fairer thingThan the apple trees in blossomIn these late days o' the spring.
Jean Blewett
The black squirrel delights in the new-fallen snow like a boy—a real boy, with red hands as well as red cheeks, and an automatic mechanism of bones and muscles capable of all things except rest. The first snow sends a thrill of joy through every fibre of such a boy, and a thousand delights crowd into his mind. The gliding, falling coasters on the hills, the passing sleighs with niches on the runners for his feet, the flying snowballs, the sliding-places, the broad, tempting ice, all whirl through his mind in a delightful panorama, and he hurries out to catch the elusive flakes in his outstretched hands and to shout aloud in the gladness of his heart. And the black squirrel becomes a boy with the first snow. What a pity he cannot shout! There is a superabundant joy and life in his long, graceful bounds, when his beautiful form, in its striking contrast with the white snow, seems magnified to twice its real size. Perhaps there is vanity as well as joy in his lithe, bounding motions among the naked trees, for nature seems to have done her utmost to provide a setting that would best display his graces of form and motion.
When the falling snow clings in light, airy masses on the spruces and pines, and festoons the naked tracery and clustering winter buds of the maples—when the still air seems to fix every twig and branch and clinging mass of snow in a solid medium of crystal, the spell of stillness is broken by the silent but joyful leaps of the hurrying squirrel. How alive he seems, in contrast with the silence of the snow, as his outlines contrast with its perfect white! His body curves and elongates with regular undulations, as he measures off the snow with twin footprints. Away in the distance he is still visible among the naked trunks, a moving patch of animated blackness. His free, regular footprints are all about, showing where he has run hither and thither, with no apparent purpose except to manifest his joy in life.
His red-haired cousin comes to a lofty opening in a hollow tree and looks out with an expression of disappointment on his face. He does not like the snow-covered landscape spread out so artistically before him. It makes him tired, and he has not enough energy to scold an intruder, as he would in the comfortable days of summer. No amount of coaxing or tapping will tempt him from his lofty watch-tower, or win more recognition than a silent look of weary discontent. Another cousin, the chipmunk, no longer displays his daintily-striped coat. Oblivious in his burrow, he is sleeping away the days, and waiting for a more congenial season.
But the black squirrel, now among the branches of an elm, is twitching from one rigid attitude to another, electrified by the crisp atmosphere and the inspiration of the snow. Again he is leaping over the white surface to clamber up the repellent bark of a tall hickory. Among the larger limbs he disappears. As he never attempts to hide, he must have retired into his own dwelling to partake of the store laid by in the season of plenty. Hickory nuts are his favourite food, and the hard shells seem but an appetizing relish. He knows the value of frugality, and gathers them before they are ripe, throwing down the shrivelled and unfilled, that the boys may not annoy him with stones and sticks. In winter he is the happiest of all the woodland family. He does not yield to the drowsy, numbing influence of the cold, nor to the depression of a season of scanty fare, but bounds along from tree to tree, inspired by the subtle spirit of winter and revelling in the joy of being alive.
S. T. Wood
Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elmThat age or injury has hollow'd deep,Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves,He has outslept the winter, ventures forthTo frisk a while, and bask in the warm sun,The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush,And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,And anger insignificantly fierce.
Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elmThat age or injury has hollow'd deep,Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves,He has outslept the winter, ventures forthTo frisk a while, and bask in the warm sun,The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush,And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,And anger insignificantly fierce.
Cowper
"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;Dream of battled fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more:Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,Morn of toil, nor night of waking."No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,Trump nor pibroch summon hereMustering clan, or squadron tramping.Yet the lark's shrill fife may comeAt the daybreak from the fallow,And the bittern sound his drum,Booming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,Guards nor warders challenge here,Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."
"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;Dream of battled fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more:Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
"No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,Trump nor pibroch summon hereMustering clan, or squadron tramping.Yet the lark's shrill fife may comeAt the daybreak from the fallow,And the bittern sound his drum,Booming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,Guards nor warders challenge here,Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."
Scott: "The Lady of the Lake"
One fine Thursday afternoon, Tom, having borrowed East's new rod, started by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small success, not a fish would rise to him; but as he prowled along the bank, he was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite side, under the shade of a huge willow-tree. The stream was deep here, but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off hot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the Doctor, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and in three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of willows.
It isn't often that great chub, or any other coarse fish, are in earnest about anything; but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and in half an hour Master Tom had deposited three thumping fellows at the foot of the giant willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pounder, and just going to throw in again, he became aware of a man coming up the bank not one hundred yards off. Another look told him that it was the under-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not carrying his rod. Nothing for it but the tree. So Tom laid his bones to it, shinning up as fast as he could and dragging up his rod after him. He had just time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some ten feet up, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at the clump.
Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more and he would have passed, when, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point at the foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and touch told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour.
Tom crouched lower along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump. "If I could only get the rod hidden," thought he, and began gently shifting it to get it alongside of him: "willow-trees don't throw out straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse luck." Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of the rod, and then of Tom's hand and arm.
"Oh, be up ther', be 'ee?" says he, running under the tree. "Now you come down this minute."
"Tree'd at last," thinks Tom, making no answer, and keeping as close as possible, but working away at the rod, which he takes to pieces. "I'm in for it, unless I can starve him out."
And then he begins to meditate getting along the branch for a plunge, and scramble to the other side; but the small branches are so thick, and the opposite bank so difficult, that the keeper will have lots of time to get round by the ford before he can get out, so he gives that up. And now he hears the keeper beginning to scramble up the trunk. That will never do; so he scrambles himself back to where his branch joins the trunk, and stands with lifted rod.
"Hullo, Velveteens, mind your fingers if you come any higher."
The keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says: "Oh! be you, be it, young measter? Well, here's luck. Now I tells 'ee to come down at once, and 't'll be best for 'ee."
"Thank 'ee, Velveteens, I'm very comfortable," said Tom, shortening the rod in his hand, and preparing for battle.
"Werry well, please yourself," says the keeper, descending, however, to the ground again, and taking his seat on the bank. "I bean't in no hurry, so you med take your time. I'll larn 'ee to gee honest folk names afore I've done with 'ee."
"My luck as usual," thinks Tom; "what a fool I was to give him a black! If I'd called him 'keeper,' now, I might get off. The return match is all his way."
The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill, and light it, keeping an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately across the branch, looking at the keeper—a pitiful sight for men and fishes. The more he thought of it the less he liked it.
"It must be getting near second calling-over," thinks he. Keeper smokes on stolidly. "If he takes me up, I shall be flogged safe enough. I can't sit here all night. Wonder if he'll rise at silver."
"I say, keeper," said he, meekly, "let me go for two bob?"
"Not for twenty neither," grunts his persecutor.
And so they sat on till long past second calling-over; and the sun came slanting in through the willow-branches, and telling of locking-up near at hand.
"I'm coming down, keeper," said Tom at last, with a sigh, fairly tired out. "Now what are you going to do?"
"Walk 'ee up to School, and give 'ee over to the Doctor; them's my orders," says Velveteens, knocking the ashes out of his fourth pipe, and standing up and shaking himself.
"Very good," said Tom; "but hands off, you know. I'll go with you quietly, so no collaring or that sort of thing."
Keeper looked at him a minute: "Werry good," said he at last. And so Tom descended, and wended his way drearily by the side of the keeper up to the School-house, where they arrived just at locking-up.
As they passed the School-gates, the Tadpole and several others who were standing there caught the state of things, and rushed out, crying, "Rescue!" but Tom shook his head, so they only followed to the Doctor's gate, and went back sorely puzzled.
How changed and stern the Doctor seemed from the last time that Tom was up there, as the keeper told the story, not omitting to state how Tom had called him blackguard names. "Indeed, sir," broke in the culprit, "it was only Velveteens." The Doctor only asked one question.
"You know the rule about the banks, Brown?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then wait for me to-morrow, after first lesson."
"I thought so," muttered Tom.
"And about the rod, sir?" went on the keeper. "Master's told we as we might have all the rods——"
"Oh, please, sir," broke in Tom, "the rod isn't mine."
The Doctor looked puzzled, but the keeper, who was a good-hearted fellow, and melted at Tom's evident distress, gave up his claim.
Tom was flogged next morning, and a few days afterwards met Velveteens, and presented him with half a crown for giving up the rod claim, and they became sworn friends; and I regret to say that Tom had many more fish from under the willow that May-fly season, and was never caught again by Velveteens.
Hughes: "Tom Brown's School Days."
Into the sunshine,Full of the light,Leaping and flashingFrom morn till night!Into the moonlight,Whiter than snow,Waving so flower-likeWhen the winds blow!Into the starlight,Rushing in spray,Happy at midnight,Happy by day;Ever in motion,Blithesome and cheery,Still climbing heavenwardNever aweary;—Glad of all weathers;Still seeming best,Upward or downward,Motion thy rest;—Full of a natureNothing can tame,Changed every moment,Ever the same;—Ceaseless aspiring,Ceaseless content,Darkness or sunshineThy element;—Glorious fountain!Let my heart beFresh, changeful, constant,Upward, like thee!
Into the sunshine,Full of the light,Leaping and flashingFrom morn till night!
Into the moonlight,Whiter than snow,Waving so flower-likeWhen the winds blow!
Into the starlight,Rushing in spray,Happy at midnight,Happy by day;
Ever in motion,Blithesome and cheery,Still climbing heavenwardNever aweary;—
Glad of all weathers;Still seeming best,Upward or downward,Motion thy rest;—
Full of a natureNothing can tame,Changed every moment,Ever the same;—
Ceaseless aspiring,Ceaseless content,Darkness or sunshineThy element;—
Glorious fountain!Let my heart beFresh, changeful, constant,Upward, like thee!
Lowell
Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.
Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.
Tennyson
Try to frequent the company of your betters. In books and life, that is the most wholesome society; learn to admire rightly; the great pleasure of life is that. Note what great men admired: they admired great things; narrow spirits admire basely and worship meanly.
Thackeray
A very tall and strong man, dressed in rich garments, came down to meet Theseus. On his arms were golden bracelets, and round his neck a collar of jewels; and he came forward, bowing courteously, and held out both his hands, and spoke:
"Welcome, fair youth, to these mountains; happy am I to have met you! For what greater pleasure to a good man than to entertain strangers? But I see that you are weary. Come up to my castle, and rest yourself awhile."
"I give you thanks," said Theseus; "but I am in haste to go up the valley."
"Alas! you have wandered far from the right way, and you cannot reach your journey's end to-night, for there are many miles of mountain between you and it, and steep passes, and cliffs dangerous after nightfall. It is well for you that I met you, for my whole joy is to find strangers, and to feast them at my castle, and hear tales from them of foreign lands. Come up with me, and eat the best of venison, and drink the rich red wine, and sleep upon my famous bed, of which all travellers say that they never saw the like. For whatsoever the stature of my guest, however tall or short, that bed fits him to a hair, and he sleeps on it as he never slept before." And he laid hold on Theseus' hands, and would not let him go.
NIAGARA FALLSNIAGARA FALLS
NIAGARA FALLS
Theseus wished to go forwards: but he was ashamed to seem churlish to so hospitable a man; and he was curious to see that wondrous bed; and beside, he was hungry and weary: yet he shrank from the man, he knew not why; for, though his voice was gentle, it was dry and husky like a toad's; and though his eyes were gentle, they were dull and cold like stones. But he consented, and went with the man up a glen which led from the road, under the dark shadow of the cliffs.
And as they went up, the glen grew narrower, and the cliffs higher and darker, and beneath them a torrent roared, half seen between bare limestone crags. And around them was neither tree nor bush, while the snow-blasts swept down the glen, cutting and chilling, till a horror fell on Theseus as he looked round at that doleful place. And he said at last: "Your castle stands, it seems, in a dreary region."
"Yes; but once within it, hospitality makes all things cheerful. But who are these?" and he looked back, and Theseus also; and far below, along the road which they had left, came a string of laden asses, and merchants walking by them, watching their ware.
"Ah, poor souls!" said the stranger. "Well for them that I looked back and saw them! And well for me, too, for I shall have the more guests at my feast. Wait awhile till I go down and call them, and we will eat and drink together the livelong night. Happy am I, to whom Heaven sends so many guests at once!"
And he ran back down the hill, waving his hand and shouting to the merchants, while Theseus went slowly up the steep pass.
But as he went up he met an aged man, who had been gathering driftwood in the torrent-bed. He had laid down his faggot in the road, and was trying to lift it again to his shoulder. And when he saw Theseus, he called to him and said:
"O fair youth, help me up with my burden, for my limbs are stiff and weak with years."
Then Theseus lifted the burden on his back. And the old man blessed him, and then looked earnestly upon him, and said:
"Who are you, fair youth, and wherefore travel you this doleful road?"
"Who I am my parents know; but I travel this doleful road because I have been invited by a hospitable man, who promises to feast me and to make me sleep upon I know not what wondrous bed."
Then the old man clapped his hands together and cried:
"Know, fair youth, that you are going to torment and to death, for he who met you (I will requite your kindness by another) is a robber and a murderer of men. Whatsoever stranger he meets he entices him hither to death; and as for this bed of which he speaks, truly it fits all comers, yet none ever rose alive off it save me."
"Why?" asked Theseus, astonished.
"Because, if a man be too tall for it, he lops his limbs till they be short enough, and if he be too short, he stretches his limbs till they be long enough; but me only he spared, seven weary years agone; for I alone of all fitted his bed exactly, so he spared me, and made me his slave. And once I was a wealthy merchant, and dwelt in a great city; but now I hew wood and draw water for him, the torment of all mortal men."
Then Theseus said nothing; but he ground his teeth together.
"Escape, then," said the old man, "for he will have no pity on thy youth. But yesterday he brought up hither a young man and a maiden, and fitted them upon his bed; and the young man's hands and feet he cut off, but the maiden's limbs he stretched until she died, and so both perished miserably—but I am tired of weeping over the slain. And therefore he is called Procrustes, the stretcher. Flee from him: yet whither will you flee? The cliffs are steep, and who can climb them? and there is no other road."
But Theseus laid his hand upon the old man's mouth, and said: "There is no need to flee;" and he turned to go down the pass.
"Do not tell him that I have warned you, or he will kill me by some evil death;" and the old man screamed after him down the glen; but Theseus strode on in his wrath.
And he said to himself: "This is an ill-ruled land; when shall I have done ridding it of monsters?" And, as he spoke, Procrustes came up the hill, and all the merchants with him, smiling and talking gaily. And when he saw Theseus, he cried: "Ah, fair young guest, have I kept you too long waiting?"
But Theseus answered: "The man who stretches his guests upon a bed and hews off their hands and feet, what shall be done to him, when right is done throughout the land?"
Then Procrustes' countenance changed, and his cheeks grew as green as a lizard, and he felt for his sword in haste; but Theseus leaped on him, and cried:
"Is this true, my host, or is it false?" and he clasped Procrustes round waist and elbow, so that he could not draw his sword.
"Is this true, my host, or is it false!" But Procrustes answered never a word.
Then Theseus flung him from him, and lifted up his dreadful club; and before Procrustes could strike him, he had struck and felled him to the ground.
And once again he struck him; and his evil soul fled forth, squeaking like a bat into the darkness of a cave.
Then Theseus stripped him of his gold ornaments, and went up to his house, and found there great wealth and treasure, which he had stolen from the passers-by. And he called the people of the country, whom Procrustes had spoiled a long time, and divided the spoil among them, and went down the mountains, and away.
Kingsley: "The Heroes."(Adapted)
I see you, on the zigzag rails,You cheery little fellow!While purple leaves are whirling down,And scarlet, brown, and yellow.I hear you when the air is fullOf snow-down of the thistle;All in your speckled jacket trim,"Bob White! Bob White!" you whistle.Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,Are nodding there to greet you;I know that you are out for play—How I should like to meet you!Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,In this delightful weather;What splendid playmates, you and I,"Bob White," would make together!There, you are gone! but far awayI hear your whistle falling.Ah! maybe it is hide-and-seek,And that's why you are calling.Along those hazy uplands wideWe'd be such merry rangers;What! silent now, and hidden too!"Bob White," don't let's be strangers.Perhaps you teach your brood the game,In yonder rainbowed thicket,While winds are playing with the leaves,And softly creeks the cricket."Bob White! Bob White!"—again I hearThat blithely whistled chorus;Why should we not companions be?One Father watches o'er us!
I see you, on the zigzag rails,You cheery little fellow!While purple leaves are whirling down,And scarlet, brown, and yellow.I hear you when the air is fullOf snow-down of the thistle;All in your speckled jacket trim,"Bob White! Bob White!" you whistle.
Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,Are nodding there to greet you;I know that you are out for play—How I should like to meet you!Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,In this delightful weather;What splendid playmates, you and I,"Bob White," would make together!
There, you are gone! but far awayI hear your whistle falling.Ah! maybe it is hide-and-seek,And that's why you are calling.Along those hazy uplands wideWe'd be such merry rangers;What! silent now, and hidden too!"Bob White," don't let's be strangers.
Perhaps you teach your brood the game,In yonder rainbowed thicket,While winds are playing with the leaves,And softly creeks the cricket."Bob White! Bob White!"—again I hearThat blithely whistled chorus;Why should we not companions be?One Father watches o'er us!
George Cooper
The tribe being assembled and having spread out their customary gifts, consisting of beaver tails, smoked moose tongues and pemmican, one of the leading braves arose and said:
"Men who pretend to give us life, do you wish us to die! You know what beaver is worth and the trouble we have to take it. You call yourselves our brothers, and yet will not give us what those give who make no such profession. Accept our gifts, and let us barter, or we will visit you no more. We have but to travel a hundred leagues and we will encounter the English, whose offers we have heard."
On the conclusion of this harangue, silence reigned for some moments. All eyes were turned on the two white traders. Feeling that now or never was the time to exhibit firmness, Radisson, without rising to his feet, addressed the whole assemblage in haughty accents.
"Whom dost thou wish I should answer? I have heard a dog bark; when a man shall speak, he will see I know how to defend my conduct and my terms. We love our brothers and we deserve their love in return. For have we not saved them all from the treachery of the English?"
Uttering these words fearlessly, he leaped to his feet and drew a long hunting-knife from his belt. Seizing by the scalp-lock the chief of the tribe, who had already adopted him as his son, he asked: "Who art thou?" To which the chief responded, as was customary: "Thy father."
"Then," cried Radisson, "if that is so, and thou art my father, speak for me. Thou art the master of my goods; but as for that dog who has spoken, what is he doing in this company? Let him go to his brothers, the English, at the head of the Bay. Or he need not travel so far. He may, if he chooses, see them starving and helpless on yonder island; answering to my words of command.
"I know how to speak to my Indian father," continued Radisson, "of the perils of the woods, of the abandonment of his squaws and children, of the risks of hunger and the peril of death by foes. All these you avoid by trading with us here. But although I am mightily angry, I will take pity on this wretch and let him still live. Go," addressing the brave with his weapon outstretched, "take this as my gift to you, and depart. When you meet your brothers, the English, tell them my name, and add that we are soon coming to treat them and their factory yonder as we have treated this one."
The speaker knew enough of the Indian character, especially in affairs of trade, to be aware that a point once yielded them is never recovered. And it is but just to say that the terms he then made of three axes for a beaver were thereafter adopted, and that his firmness saved the Company many a cargo of these implements. His harangue produced an immediate impression upon all save the humiliated brave, who declared that, if the Assiniboines came hither to barter, he would lie in ambush and kill them.
The French trader's reply to this was, to the Indian mind, a terrible one.
"I will myself travel into thy country," said he, "and eat sagamite in thy grandmother's skull."
While the brave and his small circle of friends were livid with fear and anger, Radisson ordered three fathoms of tobacco to be distributed; observing, contemptuously, to the hostile minority that, as for them, they might go and smoke women's tobacco in the country of the lynxes. The barter began and, when at nightfall the Indians departed, not a skin was left amongst them.
Beckles Willson: "The Great Company."
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.
I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.
I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.
Tennyson
As good almost kill a man as kill a good book. Many a man lives a burden to the earth, but a good book is the precious life blood of a master-spirit.
Milton
There was a solitary cabin in the thick of the woods a mile or more from the nearest neighbour, a substantial frame house in the midst of a large and well-tilled clearing. The owner of the cabin, a shiftless fellow who spent his days for the most part at the corner tavern three miles distant, had suddenly grown disgusted with a land wherein one must work to live, and had betaken himself with his seven-year-old boy to seek some more indolent clime.
The five-year-old son of the prosperous owner of the frame house and the older boy had been playmates. The little boy, unaware of his comrade's departure, had stolen away, late in the afternoon, along the lonely stretch of wood road, and had reached the cabin only to find it empty. As the dusk gathered, he grew afraid to start for home and crept trembling into the cabin, whose door would not stay shut. Desperate with fear and loneliness, he lifted up his voice piteously. In the terrifying silence, he listened hard to hear if anyone or anything were coming. Then again his shrill childish wailings arose, startling the unexpectant night, and piercing the forest depths, even to the ears of two great panthers which had set forth to seek their meat from God.
The lonely cabin stood some distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile, back from the highway connecting the settlements. Along this main road a man was plodding wearily. All day he had been walking, and now as he neared home his steps began to quicken with anticipation of rest. Over his shoulder projected a double-barrelled fowling-piece, from which was slung a bundle of such necessities as he had purchased in town that morning. It was the prosperous settler, the master of the frame house, who had chosen to make the tedious journey on foot.
He passed the mouth of the wood road leading to the cabin and had gone perhaps a furlong beyond, when his ears were startled by the sound of a child crying in the woods. He stopped, lowered his burden to the road, and stood straining ears and eyes in the direction of the sound. It was just at this time that the two panthers also stopped, and lifted their heads to listen. Their ears were keener than those of the man, and the sound had reached them at a greater distance.
Presently the settler realized whence the cries were coming. He called to mind the cabin; but he did not know the cabin's owner had departed. He cherished a hearty contempt for the drunken squatter; and on the drunken squatter's child he looked with small favour, especially as a playmate for his own boy. Nevertheless he hesitated before resuming his journey.
"Poor little fellow!" he muttered, half in wrath. "I reckon his precious father's drunk down at 'the Corners,' and him crying for loneliness!" Then he re-shouldered his burden and strode on doggedly.
But louder, shriller, more hopeless and more appealing, arose the childish voice, and the settler paused again, irresolute, and with deepening indignation. In his fancy he saw the steaming supper his wife would have awaiting him. He loathed the thought of retracing his steps, and then stumbling a quarter of a mile through the stumps and bog of the wood road. He was foot-sore as well as hungry, and he cursed the vagabond squatter with serious emphasis; but in that wailing was a terror which would not let him go on. He thought of his own little one left in such a position, and straightway his heart melted. He turned, dropped his bundle behind some bushes, grasped his gun, and made speed back for the cabin.
"Who knows," he said to himself, "but that drunken idiot has left his youngster without a bite to eat in the whole miserable shanty? Or maybe he's locked out, and the poor little beggar's half scared to death.Soundsas if he was scared;" and at this thought the settler quickened his pace.
As the hungry panthers drew near the cabin, and the cries of the lonely child grew clearer, they hastened their steps, and their eyes opened to a wider circle, flaming with a greener fire. It would be thoughtless superstition to say the beasts were cruel. They were simply keen with hunger, and alive with the eager passion of the chase. They were not ferocious with any anticipation of battle, for they knew the voice was the voice of a child, and something in the voice told them the child was solitary. Theirs was no hideous or unnatural rage, as it is the custom to describe it. They were but seeking with the strength, the cunning, the deadly swiftness given them to that end, the food convenient for them. On their success in accomplishing that for which nature had so exquisitely designed them, depended not only their own, but the lives of their blind and helpless young, now whimpering in the cave on the slope of the moon-lit ravine. They crept through a wet alder thicket, bounded lightly over the ragged brush fence, and paused to reconnoitre on the edge of the clearing, in the full glare of the moon. At the same moment, the settler emerged from the darkness of the wood road on the opposite side of the clearing. He saw the two great beasts, heads down and snouts thrust forward, gliding toward the open cabin door.
For a few moments the child had been silent. Now his voice rose again in pitiful appeal, a very ecstasy of loneliness and terror. There was a note in the cry that shook the settler's soul. He had a vision of his own boy, at home with his mother, safe-guarded from even the thought of peril. And here was this little one left to the wild beasts! "Thank God! Thank God I came!" murmured the settler, as he dropped on one knee to take a surer aim. There was a loud report (not like the sharp crack of a rifle), and the female panther, shot through the loins, fell in a heap, snarling furiously and striking with her fore-paws.
The male walked around her in fierce and anxious amazement. Presently, as the smoke lifted, he discerned the settler kneeling for a second shot. With a high screech of fury, the lithe brute sprang upon his enemy, taking a bullet full in his chest without seeming to know he was hit. Ere the man could slip in another cartridge the beast was upon him, bearing him to the ground and fixing keen fangs in his shoulder. Without a word, the man set his strong fingers desperately into the brute's throat, wrenched himself partly free, and was struggling to rise, when the panther's body collapsed upon him all at once, a dead weight which he easily flung aside. The bullet had done its work just in time.
Quivering from the swift and dreadful contest, bleeding profusely from his mangled shoulder, the settler stepped up to the cabin door and peered in. He heard sobs in the darkness.
"Don't be scared, sonny," he said, in a reassuring voice. "I'm going to take you home along with me. Poor little lad,I'lllook after you, if folks that ought to don't."
Out of the dark corner came a shout of delight, in a voice which made the settler's heart stand still. "Daddy, Daddy," it said, "Iknewyou'd come. I was so frightened when it got dark!" And a little figure launched itself into the settler's arms, and clung to him trembling. The man sat down on the threshold and strained the child to his breast. He remembered how near he had been to disregarding the far-off cries, and great beads of sweat broke out upon his forehead.
Not many weeks afterwards the settler was following the fresh trail of a bear which had killed his sheep. The trail led him at last along the slope of a deep ravine, from whose bottom came the brawl of a swollen and obstructed stream. In the ravine he found a shallow cave, behind a great white rock. The cave was plainly a wild beast's lair, and he entered circumspectly. There were bones scattered about, and on some dry herbage in the deepest corner of the den, he found the dead bodies of two small panther cubs.
Charles G. D. Roberts: "Earth's Enigmas."(Adapted)
So nigh is grandeur to our dust,So near is God to man,When Duty whispers low, "Thou must,"The youth replies, "I can."
So nigh is grandeur to our dust,So near is God to man,When Duty whispers low, "Thou must,"The youth replies, "I can."
Emerson
The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round;It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;Or like a cradled creature lies.I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea!I am where I would ever be;With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence wheresoe'er I go;If a storm should come and awake the deep,What matter?Ishall ride and sleep.I love (oh!howI love) to rideOn the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the south-west blasts do blow.I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great Sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;And a mother shewasandisto me;For I was born on the open Sea.The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolledAnd the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the Ocean-child!I've lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor's life,With wealth to spend, and a power to range,But never have sought nor sighed for change;And Death whenever he comes to me,Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea!
The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round;It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea!I am where I would ever be;With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence wheresoe'er I go;If a storm should come and awake the deep,What matter?Ishall ride and sleep.
I love (oh!howI love) to rideOn the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the south-west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great Sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;And a mother shewasandisto me;For I was born on the open Sea.
The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolledAnd the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the Ocean-child!
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor's life,With wealth to spend, and a power to range,But never have sought nor sighed for change;And Death whenever he comes to me,Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea!
B. W. Procter: ("Barry Cornwall")