Word Exercise.Cairo (kī´ro)ob´e-liskcăp´i-talscen´tu-riesco-lŏs´salre-lĭg´ious (re-lĭj´us)pro-pōr´tionsE´gyptmŏn´o-lĭthcĕr´e-mo-nieshe-rō´icĕn-gi-neer (ĕn-ji-neer´)dy´nas-ties (ordyn´as-ties)mĕm´o-ra-bleăv´e-nūesprĕs-er-vā´tion (z)pyr´a-mĭdex-plōred´dĕd´i-cāt-edhī-e-ro-glyph´ics
Cairo (kī´ro)ob´e-liskcăp´i-talscen´tu-riesco-lŏs´salre-lĭg´ious (re-lĭj´us)pro-pōr´tionsE´gyptmŏn´o-lĭthcĕr´e-mo-nieshe-rō´icĕn-gi-neer (ĕn-ji-neer´)dy´nas-ties (ordyn´as-ties)mĕm´o-ra-bleăv´e-nūesprĕs-er-vā´tion (z)pyr´a-mĭdex-plōred´dĕd´i-cāt-edhī-e-ro-glyph´ics
Henry Kirke White.
And canst thou, mother, for a moment thinkThat we, thy children, when old age shall shedIts blanching honors on thy weary head,Could from our best of duties ever shrink?Sooner the sun from his bright sphere shall sink,Than we ungrateful leave thee in that dayTo pine in solitude thy life away;Or shun thee tottering on the grave’s cold brink.Banish the thought!—where’er our steps may roam,O’er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.
And canst thou, mother, for a moment thinkThat we, thy children, when old age shall shedIts blanching honors on thy weary head,Could from our best of duties ever shrink?Sooner the sun from his bright sphere shall sink,Than we ungrateful leave thee in that dayTo pine in solitude thy life away;Or shun thee tottering on the grave’s cold brink.Banish the thought!—where’er our steps may roam,O’er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.
And canst thou, mother, for a moment thinkThat we, thy children, when old age shall shedIts blanching honors on thy weary head,Could from our best of duties ever shrink?Sooner the sun from his bright sphere shall sink,Than we ungrateful leave thee in that dayTo pine in solitude thy life away;Or shun thee tottering on the grave’s cold brink.Banish the thought!—where’er our steps may roam,O’er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.
And canst thou, mother, for a moment think
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honors on thy weary head,
Could from our best of duties ever shrink?
Sooner the sun from his bright sphere shall sink,
Than we ungrateful leave thee in that day
To pine in solitude thy life away;
Or shun thee tottering on the grave’s cold brink.
Banish the thought!—where’er our steps may roam,
O’er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.
Mrs. Gustafson.
Zlobane is the name of the mountain which was taken by storm from the Zulus by the British forces on the morning of the 28th of March, 1879. On the top of this mountain the victorious English troops, who had unsaddled their horses and cast themselves down to rest, were surprised and surrounded by the Zulus. Of the British corps only one captain and six men escaped. The young hero of the ballad was the son of Colonel Weatherly.
As swayeth in the summer windThe close and stalwart grain,So moved the serried Zulu shieldsThat day on wild Zlobane;The white shield of the husband,Who hath twice need of life,The black shield of the young chief,Who hath not yet a wife.Unrecking harm, the British lay,Secure as if they slept,While close on front and either flankThe live, black crescent crept.Then burst their wild and frightful cryUpon the British ears,With whirr of bullets, glare of shields,And flash of Zulu spears.Uprose the British; in the shockReeled but an instant; then,Shoulder to shoulder, faced the foe,And met their doom like men.But one was there whose heart was torn,In a more awful strife;He had the soldier’s steady nerve,And calm disdain of life;Yet now, half turning from the fray,Knee smiting against knee,He scanned the hills, if yet were leftAn open way to flee.Not for himself. His little son,Scarce thirteen summers born,With hair that shone upon his browsLike tassels of the corn,And lips yet curled in that sweet poutShaped by the mother’s breast,Stood by his side, and silentlyTo his brave father pressed.The horse stood nigh; the father kissed,And tossed the boy astride.“Farewell!” he cried, “and for thy life,That way, my darling, ride!”Scarce touched the saddle ere the boyLeaped lightly to the ground,And smote the horse upon its flank,That with a quivering boundIt sprang and galloped for the hills,With one sonorous neigh;The fire flashed where its spurning feetClanged o’er the stony way.“Father, I’ll die with you!” The sireAs this he saw and heard,Turned, and stood breathless in the joyAnd pang that knows no word.Once, each, as do long knitted friends,Upon the other smiled,And then—he had but time to giveA weapon to the childEre, leaping o’er the British dead,The supple Zulus drewThe cruel assegais, and firstThe younger hero slew.Still grew the father’s heart, his eyeBright with unflickering flame:Five Zulus bit the dust in deathBy his unblenching aim.Then, covered with uncounted wounds,He sank beside his child,And they who found them say, in deathEach on the other smiled.
As swayeth in the summer windThe close and stalwart grain,So moved the serried Zulu shieldsThat day on wild Zlobane;The white shield of the husband,Who hath twice need of life,The black shield of the young chief,Who hath not yet a wife.Unrecking harm, the British lay,Secure as if they slept,While close on front and either flankThe live, black crescent crept.Then burst their wild and frightful cryUpon the British ears,With whirr of bullets, glare of shields,And flash of Zulu spears.Uprose the British; in the shockReeled but an instant; then,Shoulder to shoulder, faced the foe,And met their doom like men.But one was there whose heart was torn,In a more awful strife;He had the soldier’s steady nerve,And calm disdain of life;Yet now, half turning from the fray,Knee smiting against knee,He scanned the hills, if yet were leftAn open way to flee.Not for himself. His little son,Scarce thirteen summers born,With hair that shone upon his browsLike tassels of the corn,And lips yet curled in that sweet poutShaped by the mother’s breast,Stood by his side, and silentlyTo his brave father pressed.The horse stood nigh; the father kissed,And tossed the boy astride.“Farewell!” he cried, “and for thy life,That way, my darling, ride!”Scarce touched the saddle ere the boyLeaped lightly to the ground,And smote the horse upon its flank,That with a quivering boundIt sprang and galloped for the hills,With one sonorous neigh;The fire flashed where its spurning feetClanged o’er the stony way.“Father, I’ll die with you!” The sireAs this he saw and heard,Turned, and stood breathless in the joyAnd pang that knows no word.Once, each, as do long knitted friends,Upon the other smiled,And then—he had but time to giveA weapon to the childEre, leaping o’er the British dead,The supple Zulus drewThe cruel assegais, and firstThe younger hero slew.Still grew the father’s heart, his eyeBright with unflickering flame:Five Zulus bit the dust in deathBy his unblenching aim.Then, covered with uncounted wounds,He sank beside his child,And they who found them say, in deathEach on the other smiled.
As swayeth in the summer windThe close and stalwart grain,So moved the serried Zulu shieldsThat day on wild Zlobane;
As swayeth in the summer wind
The close and stalwart grain,
So moved the serried Zulu shields
That day on wild Zlobane;
The white shield of the husband,Who hath twice need of life,The black shield of the young chief,Who hath not yet a wife.
The white shield of the husband,
Who hath twice need of life,
The black shield of the young chief,
Who hath not yet a wife.
Unrecking harm, the British lay,Secure as if they slept,While close on front and either flankThe live, black crescent crept.
Unrecking harm, the British lay,
Secure as if they slept,
While close on front and either flank
The live, black crescent crept.
Then burst their wild and frightful cryUpon the British ears,With whirr of bullets, glare of shields,And flash of Zulu spears.
Then burst their wild and frightful cry
Upon the British ears,
With whirr of bullets, glare of shields,
And flash of Zulu spears.
Uprose the British; in the shockReeled but an instant; then,Shoulder to shoulder, faced the foe,And met their doom like men.
Uprose the British; in the shock
Reeled but an instant; then,
Shoulder to shoulder, faced the foe,
And met their doom like men.
But one was there whose heart was torn,In a more awful strife;He had the soldier’s steady nerve,And calm disdain of life;
But one was there whose heart was torn,
In a more awful strife;
He had the soldier’s steady nerve,
And calm disdain of life;
Yet now, half turning from the fray,Knee smiting against knee,He scanned the hills, if yet were leftAn open way to flee.
Yet now, half turning from the fray,
Knee smiting against knee,
He scanned the hills, if yet were left
An open way to flee.
Not for himself. His little son,Scarce thirteen summers born,With hair that shone upon his browsLike tassels of the corn,
Not for himself. His little son,
Scarce thirteen summers born,
With hair that shone upon his brows
Like tassels of the corn,
And lips yet curled in that sweet poutShaped by the mother’s breast,Stood by his side, and silentlyTo his brave father pressed.
And lips yet curled in that sweet pout
Shaped by the mother’s breast,
Stood by his side, and silently
To his brave father pressed.
The horse stood nigh; the father kissed,And tossed the boy astride.“Farewell!” he cried, “and for thy life,That way, my darling, ride!”
The horse stood nigh; the father kissed,
And tossed the boy astride.
“Farewell!” he cried, “and for thy life,
That way, my darling, ride!”
Scarce touched the saddle ere the boyLeaped lightly to the ground,And smote the horse upon its flank,That with a quivering bound
Scarce touched the saddle ere the boy
Leaped lightly to the ground,
And smote the horse upon its flank,
That with a quivering bound
It sprang and galloped for the hills,With one sonorous neigh;The fire flashed where its spurning feetClanged o’er the stony way.
It sprang and galloped for the hills,
With one sonorous neigh;
The fire flashed where its spurning feet
Clanged o’er the stony way.
“Father, I’ll die with you!” The sireAs this he saw and heard,Turned, and stood breathless in the joyAnd pang that knows no word.
“Father, I’ll die with you!” The sire
As this he saw and heard,
Turned, and stood breathless in the joy
And pang that knows no word.
Once, each, as do long knitted friends,Upon the other smiled,And then—he had but time to giveA weapon to the child
Once, each, as do long knitted friends,
Upon the other smiled,
And then—he had but time to give
A weapon to the child
Ere, leaping o’er the British dead,The supple Zulus drewThe cruel assegais, and firstThe younger hero slew.
Ere, leaping o’er the British dead,
The supple Zulus drew
The cruel assegais, and first
The younger hero slew.
Still grew the father’s heart, his eyeBright with unflickering flame:Five Zulus bit the dust in deathBy his unblenching aim.
Still grew the father’s heart, his eye
Bright with unflickering flame:
Five Zulus bit the dust in death
By his unblenching aim.
Then, covered with uncounted wounds,He sank beside his child,And they who found them say, in deathEach on the other smiled.
Then, covered with uncounted wounds,
He sank beside his child,
And they who found them say, in death
Each on the other smiled.
Phrase Exercise.1.Stalwartgrain.—2.Serriedshields.—3. Unrecking harm.—4. The black crescent crept.—5.Whirrof bullets.—6. Reeled but an instant.—7. Met theirdoom like men.—8. Awful strife.—9.Calm disdainof life.—10. Shone like tassels of the corn.—11. Sweet pout.—12. Quivering bound.—13.Spurningfeet.—14. Unflickering flame.—15.Unblenchingaim.
1.Stalwartgrain.—2.Serriedshields.—3. Unrecking harm.—4. The black crescent crept.—5.Whirrof bullets.—6. Reeled but an instant.—7. Met theirdoom like men.—8. Awful strife.—9.Calm disdainof life.—10. Shone like tassels of the corn.—11. Sweet pout.—12. Quivering bound.—13.Spurningfeet.—14. Unflickering flame.—15.Unblenchingaim.
Audubon.
The most common, as well as the most beautiful, species of humming-birds, is the ruby-throat, a name given to it on account of the delicate metallic feathers, which glow with ruby lustre on its throat, gleaming in the sunshine like gems of living fire. From the tip of the bill to that of the tail, it measures about three and a half inches. The upper part of the neck, the back, and the wing-coverts, are of a resplendent and varied green and gold. The breast and lower parts are white, the wings purplish brown, and the tail partly of the same color, with the two middle tail-feathers of vivid green.
In the warm climate of the Southern States, the beautiful little ruby-throat is found throughout the winter; and as the summer draws on, the heat in the Northern States and Canada suiting its delicate constitution, it migrates in large numbers, appearing in Canada towards the end of June. The long flights of these tiny creatures are performed at night, it is supposed, as they are found feeding leisurely at all times of the day. When passing through the air they move at a rapid rate, in long undulations, now rising for some distance at an angle of about forty degrees, then falling in a curve.
Small as they are, from their rapid flight and meteor-like movements, they do not fear the largest birds of prey; for even should the lordly eagle venture into their domains,the tiny creature will attack him without fear; and one has been seen perched on the head of an eagle, at which it was pecking away furiously, scattering the feathers of the huge bird, who flew screaming through the air with alarm, to rid himself of his tiny assailant.
Brave and high-spirited as is the little bird, it is easily tamed; and Mr. Webber, the naturalist, succeeded in securing several specimens. The first he caught did not flutter, or make the least attempt to escape, but remained quietly in his hand; and he saw, when he opened it, the minute creature lying on his palm, perfectly motionless, feigning most skilfully to be dead. As he watched it with breathless curiosity, he saw it slowly open its bright little eyes to see whether the way was clear, and then close them slowly as it caught his glance upon it. When a mixture of sugar, water, and honey, was brought, and a drop placed on its bill, it came very suddenly to life, and in a moment was on its legs, drinking with eager gusto of the refreshing draught from a silver teaspoon.
The nest of the ruby-throat is of a most delicate nature, the external parts being formed of bits of a little grey lichen, found on the branches of trees, glued together by the saliva of the bird. Bits of lichen are also neatly arranged round the whole of the nest, and to some distance from the spot where the nest is attached to the tree. The interior is formed of a cottony substance, and is lined with silky fibres obtained from various plants.
The difficulty of finding the little nests of the humming-birds is increased by a curious habit possessed by some of the species. When they leave or approach their home, they do so as if conscious that by the bright gleam of their plumage they may give an indication of the place of their nest. Rising perpendicularly until they are out of sight, and then flying to the point under which their nest is placed, they drop down upon it as perpendicularly as they ascended.
The eggs are only two in number, and although somewhat larger than might be imagined from the size of the bird, are very small indeed. They are of a delicate, slightly pink, semi-transparent, white color, and have been well compared to pearls.
Could you cast a momentary glance on the nest of a humming-bird, and see, as I have seen, the newly hatched pair of young, not much larger than humble-bees, naked, blind, and so feeble as scarcely to be able to raise their little bills to receive food from their parents, and could you see those parents full of anxiety and fear, passing and repassing within a few inches of your face, alighting on a twig not more than a yard from you, and waiting the result of your unwelcome visit in a state of despair—you could not fail to be interested in such a display of parental affection. Then how pleasing it is, on leaving the spot, to see the returning joy of the parents, when, after examining the nest, they find their nurslings untouched!
Word Exercise.meteor (mē´te-ur)draught (draft)feigning (fān´ing)lichen (lī´ken, orlĭch´en)coverts (kŭv´erts)mī´gratesspecimen (spĕs´e-mĕn)in´ter-est-edas-sail´antdo-mains´un-du-lā´tiondĕl´i-catere-splĕn´dent
meteor (mē´te-ur)draught (draft)feigning (fān´ing)lichen (lī´ken, orlĭch´en)coverts (kŭv´erts)mī´gratesspecimen (spĕs´e-mĕn)in´ter-est-edas-sail´antdo-mains´un-du-lā´tiondĕl´i-catere-splĕn´dent
Norman Macleod.
Courage, brother! do not stumble;Though thy path be dark as night,There’s a star to guide the humble:Trust in God, and do the right.Though the road be long and dreary,And the goal be out of sight,Foot it bravely, strong or weary:Trust in God, and do the right.Perish, policy and cunning,Perish, all that fears the light:Whether losing, whether winning,Trust in God, and do the right.Fly all forms of guilty passion;Fiends can look like angels bright;Heed no custom, school, or fashion:Trust in God, and do the right.Some will hate thee, some will love thee,Some will flatter, some will slight;Cease from Man, and look above thee:Trust in God, and do the right.Simple rule and surest guiding,Inward peace and shining light;Star upon our path abiding:Trust in God, and do the right.
Courage, brother! do not stumble;Though thy path be dark as night,There’s a star to guide the humble:Trust in God, and do the right.Though the road be long and dreary,And the goal be out of sight,Foot it bravely, strong or weary:Trust in God, and do the right.Perish, policy and cunning,Perish, all that fears the light:Whether losing, whether winning,Trust in God, and do the right.Fly all forms of guilty passion;Fiends can look like angels bright;Heed no custom, school, or fashion:Trust in God, and do the right.Some will hate thee, some will love thee,Some will flatter, some will slight;Cease from Man, and look above thee:Trust in God, and do the right.Simple rule and surest guiding,Inward peace and shining light;Star upon our path abiding:Trust in God, and do the right.
Courage, brother! do not stumble;Though thy path be dark as night,There’s a star to guide the humble:Trust in God, and do the right.
Courage, brother! do not stumble;
Though thy path be dark as night,
There’s a star to guide the humble:
Trust in God, and do the right.
Though the road be long and dreary,And the goal be out of sight,Foot it bravely, strong or weary:Trust in God, and do the right.
Though the road be long and dreary,
And the goal be out of sight,
Foot it bravely, strong or weary:
Trust in God, and do the right.
Perish, policy and cunning,Perish, all that fears the light:Whether losing, whether winning,Trust in God, and do the right.
Perish, policy and cunning,
Perish, all that fears the light:
Whether losing, whether winning,
Trust in God, and do the right.
Fly all forms of guilty passion;Fiends can look like angels bright;Heed no custom, school, or fashion:Trust in God, and do the right.
Fly all forms of guilty passion;
Fiends can look like angels bright;
Heed no custom, school, or fashion:
Trust in God, and do the right.
Some will hate thee, some will love thee,Some will flatter, some will slight;Cease from Man, and look above thee:Trust in God, and do the right.
Some will hate thee, some will love thee,
Some will flatter, some will slight;
Cease from Man, and look above thee:
Trust in God, and do the right.
Simple rule and surest guiding,Inward peace and shining light;Star upon our path abiding:Trust in God, and do the right.
Simple rule and surest guiding,
Inward peace and shining light;
Star upon our path abiding:
Trust in God, and do the right.
Marie Lacoste.
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,Where the dead and dying lay,Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,Somebody’s darling was borne one day—Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.Matted and damp are the curls of gold,Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;Pale are the lips of delicate mould—Somebody’s darling is dying now.Back from his beautiful, blue-veined browBrush all the wandering waves of gold,Cross his hands on his bosom now,Somebody’s darling is still and cold.Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,Murmur a prayer soft and low;One bright curl from its fair mates take,—They were somebody’s pride you know.Somebody’s hand had rested there,—Was it a mother’s, soft and white?And have the lips of a sister fairBeen baptized in those waves of light?God knows best; he has somebody’s love;Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;Somebody wafted his name above,Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.Somebody wept when he marched away,Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,Somebody clung to his parting hand.Somebody’s waiting and watching for him,Yearning to hold him again to the heart;And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,And the smiling, childlike lips apart.Tenderly bury the fair young dead,Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;Carve on the wooden slab at his head,—“Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,Where the dead and dying lay,Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,Somebody’s darling was borne one day—Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.Matted and damp are the curls of gold,Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;Pale are the lips of delicate mould—Somebody’s darling is dying now.Back from his beautiful, blue-veined browBrush all the wandering waves of gold,Cross his hands on his bosom now,Somebody’s darling is still and cold.Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,Murmur a prayer soft and low;One bright curl from its fair mates take,—They were somebody’s pride you know.Somebody’s hand had rested there,—Was it a mother’s, soft and white?And have the lips of a sister fairBeen baptized in those waves of light?God knows best; he has somebody’s love;Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;Somebody wafted his name above,Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.Somebody wept when he marched away,Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,Somebody clung to his parting hand.Somebody’s waiting and watching for him,Yearning to hold him again to the heart;And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,And the smiling, childlike lips apart.Tenderly bury the fair young dead,Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;Carve on the wooden slab at his head,—“Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,Where the dead and dying lay,Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,Somebody’s darling was borne one day—Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody’s darling was borne one day—
Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;Pale are the lips of delicate mould—Somebody’s darling is dying now.Back from his beautiful, blue-veined browBrush all the wandering waves of gold,Cross his hands on his bosom now,Somebody’s darling is still and cold.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould—
Somebody’s darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now,
Somebody’s darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,Murmur a prayer soft and low;One bright curl from its fair mates take,—They were somebody’s pride you know.Somebody’s hand had rested there,—Was it a mother’s, soft and white?And have the lips of a sister fairBeen baptized in those waves of light?
Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,—
They were somebody’s pride you know.
Somebody’s hand had rested there,—
Was it a mother’s, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in those waves of light?
God knows best; he has somebody’s love;Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;Somebody wafted his name above,Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.Somebody wept when he marched away,Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,Somebody clung to his parting hand.
God knows best; he has somebody’s love;
Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;
Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody’s waiting and watching for him,Yearning to hold him again to the heart;And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,And the smiling, childlike lips apart.Tenderly bury the fair young dead,Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;Carve on the wooden slab at his head,—“Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”
Somebody’s waiting and watching for him,
Yearning to hold him again to the heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling, childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,—
“Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”
Tennyson.
Home they brought her warrior dead:—She nor swooned nor uttered cry:All her maidens, watching, said,“She must weep, or she will die.”Then they praised him, soft and low,Called him worthy to be loved,Truest friend and noblest foe;—Yet she neither spoke nor moved.Stole a maiden from her place,Lightly to the warrior stept,Took the face-cloth from the face;—Yet she neither moved nor wept.Rose a nurse of ninety years,Set his child upon her knee;—Like summer tempest came her tears—“Sweet my child, I live for thee.”
Home they brought her warrior dead:—She nor swooned nor uttered cry:All her maidens, watching, said,“She must weep, or she will die.”Then they praised him, soft and low,Called him worthy to be loved,Truest friend and noblest foe;—Yet she neither spoke nor moved.Stole a maiden from her place,Lightly to the warrior stept,Took the face-cloth from the face;—Yet she neither moved nor wept.Rose a nurse of ninety years,Set his child upon her knee;—Like summer tempest came her tears—“Sweet my child, I live for thee.”
Home they brought her warrior dead:—She nor swooned nor uttered cry:All her maidens, watching, said,“She must weep, or she will die.”
Home they brought her warrior dead:—
She nor swooned nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
“She must weep, or she will die.”
Then they praised him, soft and low,Called him worthy to be loved,Truest friend and noblest foe;—Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;—
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,Lightly to the warrior stept,Took the face-cloth from the face;—Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;—
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,Set his child upon her knee;—Like summer tempest came her tears—“Sweet my child, I live for thee.”
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee;—
Like summer tempest came her tears—
“Sweet my child, I live for thee.”
Michelet.
Peter Huber, the son of the celebrated observer of the manners and habits of bees, walking one day in a field near Geneva, saw on the ground a strong detachment of reddish-colored ants on the march, and bethought himself of following them. On the flanks of the column, as if to dress its ranks, a few sped to and fro in eager haste. After marching for about a quarter of an hour, they halted before an ant-hill belonging to some small black ants, and a desperate struggle took place at its gates.
A small number of blacks offered a brave resistance; but the great majority of the people thus assailed fled through the gates remotest from the scene of combat, carrying away their young. It was just these which were the cause of the strife, what the blacks most feared being the theft of their offspring. And soon the assailants, who had succeeded in penetrating into the city, might be seen emerging from it, loaded with the young black progeny.
The red ants, encumbered with their living booty, left the unfortunate city in the desolation of its great loss, and resumed the road to their own habitation, whither their astonished and almost breathless observer followed them. But how was his astonishment augmented when, at the threshold of the red ants’ community, a small population of black ants came forward to receive the plunder, welcoming with visible joy these children of their own race, which would perpetuate it in the foreign lands!
This, then, is a mixed city, where the strong warrior-ants live on a perfectly good understanding with the little blacks. But what of the latter? Huber speedily discovered that, in fact, they do everything. They alone build; they alone bring up the young red ants and the captives of their own species; they alone administer the affairs of the community, provide its supplies of food, and wait upon and feed their red masters, who, like great infant giants, indolently allow their little attendants to feed them at the mouth. No other occupations are theirs but war, theft, and kidnapping. No other movements in the intervals than to wander about lazily, and bask in the sunshine at the doors of their barracks.
Huber made an experiment. He was desirous of observing what would be the result if the great red ants found themselves without servants,—whether they would know how to supply their own wants. He put a few into a glass case, and put some honey for them in a corner, so that they had nothing to do but to take it. Miserable the degradation, cruel the punishment with which slavery afflicts the enslavers! They did not touch it; they seemed to know nothing; they had become so grossly ignorant that they could no longer feed themselves. Some of them died from starvation, with food before them!
Huber, to complete the experiment, then introduced into the case one black ant. The presence of this sagacious slave changed the face of things, and re-established life and order. He went straight to the honey, and fed the great dying simpletons.
The little blacks in many things carry a moral authoritywhose signs are very visible. They do not, for example, permit the great red ants to go out alone on useless expeditions, but compel them to return into the city. Nor are they even at liberty to go out in a body, if their wise little slaves do not think the weather favorable, if they fear a storm, or if the day is far advanced. When an excursion proves unsuccessful, and they return without children, the little blacks are stationed at the gates of the city to forbid their ingress, and send them back to the combat; nay more, you may see them take the cowards by the collar, and force them to retrace their route.
These are astounding facts; but they were seen, as here described, by our illustrious observer. Not being able to trust his eyes, he summoned one of the greatest naturalists of Sweden, Jurine, to his side, to make new investigations, and decide whether he had been deceived. This witness, and others who afterwards pursued the same course of experiments, found that his discoveries were entirely accurate. Yet after all these weighty testimonies, I still doubted. But on a certain occasion I saw it—with my own eyes saw it—in the park of Fontainebleau. I was accompanied by an illustrious philosopher, an excellent observer, and he too saw exactly what I saw.
It was half-past four in the afternoon of a very warm day. From a pile of stones emerged a column of from four to five hundred red or reddish ants. They marched rapidly towards a piece of turf, kept in order by their sergeants or “pivot-men,” whom we saw on the flanks, and who would not permit any one to straggle. (This is a circumstance known to everyone who has seen a file ofants on the march.)
Suddenly the mass seemed to sink and disappear. There was no sign of ant-hills in the turf; but after a while we detected an almost imperceptible orifice, through which we saw them vanish in less time than it takes me to write these words. We asked ourselves if it was an entrance to their domicile; if they had re-entered their city. In a minute at the utmost they gave us a reply, and showed us our mistake. They issued in a throng, each carrying a captive in its mandibles.
From the short time they had taken, it was evident that they had a previous knowledge of the locality, the place where the eggs were deposited, the time when they were to assemble, and the degree of resistance they had to expect. Perhaps it was not their first journey. The little blacks on whom the red ants made this raid sallied out in considerable numbers; and I truly pitied them. They did not attempt to fight. They seemed frightened and stunned. They endeavored only to delay the red ants by clinging to them. A red ant was thus stopped; but another red one, who was free, relieved him of his burden, and thereupon the black ant relaxed his grasp.
It was, in fact, a pitiful sight. The blacks offered no serious resistance. The five hundred ants succeeded in carrying off nearly three hundred children. At two or three feet from the hole, the blacks ceased to pursue them, and resigned themselves to their fate. All this did not occupy ten minutes between the departure and the return. The two parties were very unequal. It was very probably an outrage often repeated—a tyranny of the great, who levied a tribute of children from their poor little neighbors.
Alice Cary.
Sailor and mother by a dresser, examining the jacket
“Oh! tell me, sailor, tell me true,Is my little lad, my Elihu,A-sailing with your ship?”The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,—“Your little lad, your Elihu?”He said with trembling lip,—“What little lad? What ship?”“What little lad? as if there could beAnother such a one as he!What little lad, do you say?Why, Elihu, that took to seaThe moment I put him off my knee!It was just the other dayThe Gray Swan sailed away!”“The other day?” The sailor’s eyesStood open with a great surprise:—“The other day?—The Swan?”His heart began in his throat to rise.“Ay, ay, sir! here in the cupboard liesThe jacket he had on!”“And so your lad is gone?”“Gone with the Swan!”—“And did she standWith her anchor clutching hold of the sand,For a month and never stir?”“Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the landLike a lover kissing his lady’s hand,The wild sea kissing her,—A sight to remember, sir!”“But, my good mother, do you knowAll this was twenty years ago?I stood on the Gray Swan’s deck,And to that lad I saw you throw(Taking it off, as it might be, so)The kerchief from your neck,”—“Ay, and he’ll bring it back!”“And did the little lawless lad,That has made you sick, and made you sad,Sail with the Gray Swan’s crew?”“Lawless! The man is going mad!The best boy mother ever had:—Be sure he sailed with the crew!What would you have him do?”“And he has never written line,Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,To say he was alive?”“Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine;Besides, he may be in the brine;And could he write from the grave?Tut, man! What would you have?”“Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse!But if the lad still live,And come back home, think you, you canForgive him?”—“Miserable man!You’re mad as the sea; you rave,—What have I to forgive?”The sailor twitched his shirt of blue;And from within his bosom drewThe kerchief. She was wild.“Oh God, my Father! is it true?My little lad, my Elihu!And is it—is it—is it you?My blessed boy, my child,My dead, my living child!”
“Oh! tell me, sailor, tell me true,Is my little lad, my Elihu,A-sailing with your ship?”The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,—“Your little lad, your Elihu?”He said with trembling lip,—“What little lad? What ship?”“What little lad? as if there could beAnother such a one as he!What little lad, do you say?Why, Elihu, that took to seaThe moment I put him off my knee!It was just the other dayThe Gray Swan sailed away!”“The other day?” The sailor’s eyesStood open with a great surprise:—“The other day?—The Swan?”His heart began in his throat to rise.“Ay, ay, sir! here in the cupboard liesThe jacket he had on!”“And so your lad is gone?”“Gone with the Swan!”—“And did she standWith her anchor clutching hold of the sand,For a month and never stir?”“Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the landLike a lover kissing his lady’s hand,The wild sea kissing her,—A sight to remember, sir!”“But, my good mother, do you knowAll this was twenty years ago?I stood on the Gray Swan’s deck,And to that lad I saw you throw(Taking it off, as it might be, so)The kerchief from your neck,”—“Ay, and he’ll bring it back!”“And did the little lawless lad,That has made you sick, and made you sad,Sail with the Gray Swan’s crew?”“Lawless! The man is going mad!The best boy mother ever had:—Be sure he sailed with the crew!What would you have him do?”“And he has never written line,Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,To say he was alive?”“Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine;Besides, he may be in the brine;And could he write from the grave?Tut, man! What would you have?”“Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse!But if the lad still live,And come back home, think you, you canForgive him?”—“Miserable man!You’re mad as the sea; you rave,—What have I to forgive?”The sailor twitched his shirt of blue;And from within his bosom drewThe kerchief. She was wild.“Oh God, my Father! is it true?My little lad, my Elihu!And is it—is it—is it you?My blessed boy, my child,My dead, my living child!”
“Oh! tell me, sailor, tell me true,Is my little lad, my Elihu,A-sailing with your ship?”The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,—“Your little lad, your Elihu?”He said with trembling lip,—“What little lad? What ship?”
“Oh! tell me, sailor, tell me true,
Is my little lad, my Elihu,
A-sailing with your ship?”
The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,—
“Your little lad, your Elihu?”
He said with trembling lip,—
“What little lad? What ship?”
“What little lad? as if there could beAnother such a one as he!What little lad, do you say?Why, Elihu, that took to seaThe moment I put him off my knee!It was just the other dayThe Gray Swan sailed away!”
“What little lad? as if there could be
Another such a one as he!
What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to sea
The moment I put him off my knee!
It was just the other day
The Gray Swan sailed away!”
“The other day?” The sailor’s eyesStood open with a great surprise:—“The other day?—The Swan?”His heart began in his throat to rise.“Ay, ay, sir! here in the cupboard liesThe jacket he had on!”“And so your lad is gone?”
“The other day?” The sailor’s eyes
Stood open with a great surprise:—
“The other day?—The Swan?”
His heart began in his throat to rise.
“Ay, ay, sir! here in the cupboard lies
The jacket he had on!”
“And so your lad is gone?”
“Gone with the Swan!”—“And did she standWith her anchor clutching hold of the sand,For a month and never stir?”“Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the landLike a lover kissing his lady’s hand,The wild sea kissing her,—A sight to remember, sir!”
“Gone with the Swan!”—“And did she stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand,
For a month and never stir?”
“Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the land
Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand,
The wild sea kissing her,—
A sight to remember, sir!”
“But, my good mother, do you knowAll this was twenty years ago?I stood on the Gray Swan’s deck,And to that lad I saw you throw(Taking it off, as it might be, so)The kerchief from your neck,”—“Ay, and he’ll bring it back!”
“But, my good mother, do you know
All this was twenty years ago?
I stood on the Gray Swan’s deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw
(Taking it off, as it might be, so)
The kerchief from your neck,”—
“Ay, and he’ll bring it back!”
“And did the little lawless lad,That has made you sick, and made you sad,Sail with the Gray Swan’s crew?”“Lawless! The man is going mad!The best boy mother ever had:—Be sure he sailed with the crew!What would you have him do?”
“And did the little lawless lad,
That has made you sick, and made you sad,
Sail with the Gray Swan’s crew?”
“Lawless! The man is going mad!
The best boy mother ever had:—
Be sure he sailed with the crew!
What would you have him do?”
“And he has never written line,Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,To say he was alive?”“Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine;Besides, he may be in the brine;And could he write from the grave?Tut, man! What would you have?”
“And he has never written line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,
To say he was alive?”
“Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine;
Besides, he may be in the brine;
And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man! What would you have?”
“Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse!But if the lad still live,And come back home, think you, you canForgive him?”—“Miserable man!You’re mad as the sea; you rave,—What have I to forgive?”
“Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,
’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse!
But if the lad still live,
And come back home, think you, you can
Forgive him?”—“Miserable man!
You’re mad as the sea; you rave,—
What have I to forgive?”
The sailor twitched his shirt of blue;And from within his bosom drewThe kerchief. She was wild.“Oh God, my Father! is it true?My little lad, my Elihu!And is it—is it—is it you?My blessed boy, my child,My dead, my living child!”
The sailor twitched his shirt of blue;
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild.
“Oh God, my Father! is it true?
My little lad, my Elihu!
And is it—is it—is it you?
My blessed boy, my child,
My dead, my living child!”
My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow old,Or let me die!The child is father of the man;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.—Wordsworth.
My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow old,Or let me die!The child is father of the man;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.—Wordsworth.
My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow old,Or let me die!The child is father of the man;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.—Wordsworth.
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
—Wordsworth.
Cooper.
“Tom,” cried Barnstable, starting, “there is the blow of a whale!”
“Ay, ay, sir!” returned the cockswain with undisturbed composure: “here is his spout, not half a mile to seaward. The easterly gale has driven the creature to leeward; and he begins to find himself in shoal water. He’s been sleeping while he should have been working to windward.”
“The fellow takes it coolly, too. He’s in no hurry to get an offing.”
“I rather conclude, sir,” said the cockswain, rolling over his tobacco in his mouth very composedly, while his little sunken eyes began to twinkle with pleasure at the sight, “the gentleman has lost his reckoning, and doesn’t know which way to head to take himself back into blue water.”
“’Tis a fin-back!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “He will soon make headway, and be off.”
“No, sir, ’tis a right whale,” answered Tom; “I saw his spout. He threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as one could wish to see. He’s a real oil-butt, that fellow!”
Barnstable laughed, and exclaimed in joyous tones,—“Give strong way, my hearties! There seems nothing better to be done; let us have a stroke of a harpoon at that impudent rascal.” The men shouted spontaneously; and the old cockswain suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while the whale-boat sprang forwardlike a courser for the goal.
During the few minutes they were pulling toward their game, Long Tom arose from his crouching attitude in the stern-sheets, and transferred his huge frame to the bows of the boat, where he made such preparations to strike the whale as the occasion required. The tub, containing about half a whale line, was placed at the feet of Barnstable, who had been preparing an oar to steer with in place of the rudder which was unshipped, in order that, if necessary, the boat might be whirled round when not advancing.
Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the monster of the deep, who continued to amuse himself with throwing the water in two circular spouts high into the air; occasionally flourishing the broad flukes of his tail with graceful but terrific force until the hardy seamen were within a few hundred feet of him, when he suddenly cast his head downward, and without apparent effort, reared his immense body for many feet above the water, waving his tail violently, and producing a whizzing noise that sounded like the rushing of winds.
The cockswain stood erect, poising his harpoon, ready for the blow; but, when he beheld the creature assuming this formidable attitude, he waved his hand to his commander, who instantly signed to his men to cease rowing. In this situation the sportsman rested a few minutes; while the whale struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, the noise of which re-echoed along the cliffs like the hollow reports of so many cannon. After this wanton exhibition of his terrible strength, the monstersank again into his native element and slowly disappeared.
“Which way did he head, Tom?” cried Barnstable, the moment the whale was out of sight.
“Pretty much up and down, sir,” returned the cockswain, his eye brightening with the excitement of the sport. “He’ll soon run his nose against the bottom if he stands long on that course, and will be glad to get another snuff of pure air. Send her a few fathoms to starboard, sir, and I promise we shall not be out of his track.”
The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved true; for in a few minutes the water broke near them, and another spout was cast into the air, when the huge animal rushed for half his length in the same direction, and fell on the sea with a turbulence and foam equal to that which is produced by the launching of a vessel for the first time into its proper element. After this evolution, the whale rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts.
His slightest movements were closely watched by Barnstable and his cockswain; and when he was in a state of comparative rest, the former gave the signal to his crew to ply their oars once more. A few long and vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up to the broadside of the whale, with its bows pointing towards one of the fins, which was at times, as the animal yielded sluggishly to the action of the waves, exposed to view. The cockswain poised his harpoon with much precision, and then darted it from him with a violence that buried the iron in the body of their foe. The instant the blow was made, LongTom shouted with singular earnestness:—
“Starn, all!”
“Stern, all!” echoed Barnstable; when the obedient seamen, by united efforts, forced the boat in a backward direction, beyond the reach of any blow from their formidable antagonist. The alarmed animal, however, meditated no such resistance. Ignorant of his own power, and of the insignificance of his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. One moment of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of the iron; then casting his huge tail into the air with a violence that threw the sea around him into increased commotion, he disappeared with the quickness of lightning amid a cloud of foam.
“Snub him!” shouted Barnstable. “Hold on, Tom! he rises already.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” replied the composed cockswain, seizing the line, which was running out of the boat with a velocity that rendered such a manœuvre rather hazardous, and causing it to yield more gradually round the large loggerhead that was placed in the bows of the boat for that purpose. Presently the line stretched forward; and, rising to the surface with tremulous vibrations, it indicated the direction in which the animal might be expected to reappear. Barnstable had cast the bows of the boat towards that point before the terrified and wounded victim rose to the surface. His time was, however, no longer wasted in his sports, but as he ploughed his way along the surface he forced the waters aside with prodigious energy. The boat was dragged violently in his wake, and it cut through the billows with a terrific rapidity, that at moments appeared to bury it in the ocean.
When Long Tom beheld his victim throwing his spouts on high again, he pointed with exultation to the jetting fluid, which was streaked with the deep red of blood, and cried,—“Ay, I’ve touched the fellow’s life! It must be more than two foot of blubber that stops my iron from reaching the life of any whale that ever sculled the ocean.”
“I believe you have saved yourself the trouble of using the bayonet you have rigged for a lance,” said his commander, who entered into the sport with all the ardor of one whose youth had been chiefly passed in such pursuits. “Feel your line, Master Coffin: can we haul alongside of our enemy? I like not the course he is steering, as he tows us from the schooner.”
“’Tis the creatur’s way, sir,” said the cockswain. “You know they need the air in their nostrils when they run, the same as a man. But lay hold, boys, and let us haul up to him.”
The seamen now seized their whale-line, and slowly drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of the fish, whose progress became sensibly less rapid as he grew weak with the loss of blood. In a few minutes he stopped running, and appeared to roll uneasily on the water, as if suffering the agony of death.
“Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom?” cried Barnstable. “A few sets from your bayonet would do it.”
The cockswain stood examining his game with cool discretion, and replied to this interrogatory,—
“No, sir! no! He’s going into his flurry; there’s no occasion for using a soldier’s weapon in taking a whale. Starn off, sir! starn off! the creatur’s in his flurry.”
The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly obeyed; and the boat cautiously drew off to a distance, leaving to the animal a clear space while under its dying agonies. From a state of perfect rest, the terrible monster threw its tail on high as when in sport; but its blows were trebled in rapidity and violence, till all was hid from view by a pyramid of foam that was deeply dyed with blood. The roarings of the fish were like the bellowings of a herd of bulls, and it seemed as if a thousand monsters were engaged in deadly combat behind the bloody mist that obstructed the view.
Gradually these efforts subsided; and, when the discolored water again settled down to the long and regular swell of the ocean, the fish was seen exhausted, and yielding passively to its fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass rolled to one side; and when the white and glistening skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen well knew that their victory was achieved.
Word Exercise.flukeswhiz´zingun-shipped´ (-shipt´)ma-nœu´vre (mă-noo´ver or -nū-)ras´calap-pār´entpois´ing (poiz-)cock´swain (orkŏk´sn)launch´ing (länch-)ĕv-o-lū´tionim´pu-dĕnttur´bu-lencecon-jĕct´urefor´mi-da-ble
flukeswhiz´zingun-shipped´ (-shipt´)ma-nœu´vre (mă-noo´ver or -nū-)ras´calap-pār´entpois´ing (poiz-)cock´swain (orkŏk´sn)launch´ing (länch-)ĕv-o-lū´tionim´pu-dĕnttur´bu-lencecon-jĕct´urefor´mi-da-ble
Phrase Exercise.1. To get an offing.—2. Has lost his reckoning.—3.Rightwhale.—4. Shoutedspontaneously.—5. Solemn visage.—6. Crouching attitude.—7. Huge frame.—8. Utterly unnoticed.—9. Terrific force.—10.Wanton exhibitionof his strength.—11. Singular earnestness.—12. Formidable antagonist.—13. Tremulous vibrations.—14. Promptly obeyed.
1. To get an offing.—2. Has lost his reckoning.—3.Rightwhale.—4. Shoutedspontaneously.—5. Solemn visage.—6. Crouching attitude.—7. Huge frame.—8. Utterly unnoticed.—9. Terrific force.—10.Wanton exhibitionof his strength.—11. Singular earnestness.—12. Formidable antagonist.—13. Tremulous vibrations.—14. Promptly obeyed.
Longfellow.
Blacksmith shoes a horse
Under a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate’er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing floor.He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter’s voice,Singing in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onward, through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus, at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus, on its sounding anvil, shapedEach burning deed and thought!
Under a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate’er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing floor.He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter’s voice,Singing in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onward, through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus, at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus, on its sounding anvil, shapedEach burning deed and thought!
Under a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate’er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing floor.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter’s voice,Singing in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onward, through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward, through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus, at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus, on its sounding anvil, shapedEach burning deed and thought!
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus, at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
Word Exercise.crispchoir (kwīr)par´sonbĕl´lows (bĕl´lus)honest (on´est)smĭth´yearned (ernd)sin´ew-yre-joic´ing (-jois-)toil´ingmŭs´cles (mŭs´sls)brawn´ysex´tonPar´a-dise
crispchoir (kwīr)par´sonbĕl´lows (bĕl´lus)honest (on´est)smĭth´yearned (ernd)sin´ew-yre-joic´ing (-jois-)toil´ingmŭs´cles (mŭs´sls)brawn´ysex´tonPar´a-dise
Sir Samuel Baker.
Few creatures are so sly and wary as the crocodile. I watch them continually as they attack the dense flocks of small birds that throng the bushes at the water’s edge. These birds are perfectly aware of the danger, and they fly from the attack, if possible. The crocodile then quietly and innocently lies upon the surface, as though it had appeared quite by an accident. It thus attracts the attention of the birds, and it slowly sails away to a considerable distance, exposed to their view. The birds, thus beguiled by the deceiver, believe that the danger is removed, and they again flock to the bush, and once more dip their thirsty beaks in the stream.
Thus absorbed in slaking their thirst, they do not observe that their enemy is no longer on the surface. A sudden splash, followed by a huge pair of jaws, beneath the bush, which engulf some dozens of victims, is the signal unexpectedly given of the crocodile’s return—he having slily dived, and hastened under cover of water to his victims. I have seen the crocodile repeat this manœuvre constantly: they deceive by a feigned retreat, and then attack from below.
In like manner the crocodile perceives, while it is floating on the surface in mid-stream, or from the opposite side of the river, a woman filling her girba, or an animal drinking. Sinking immediately, it swims perhaps a hundred yards nearer, and again appearing for an instant upon the surface, it assures itself of the position of its prey by a steady look. Once more it sinks, and reaches the exact spot above which the person or animal may be. Seeing distinctly through the water, it generally makes its fatal rush from beneath,—sometimes seizing with its jaws, and at other times striking the object into the water with its tail, after which it seizes it, and carries it off.
The crocodile does not attempt to swallow a large prey at once, but generally carries it away, and keeps it for a considerable time in its jaws in some deep hole beneath a rock or the root of a tree, where it eats it at leisure. The tongue of the crocodile is so unlike that of any other creature that it can hardly be called by the same name. No portion of it is detached from the flesh of the lower jaw; it is like a thickened membrane extending fromthe gullet to about half-way along the length of jaw.
I was one day returning from head-quarters to my station—a distance of a mile and a half along the river’s bank—when I noticed the large head of a crocodile about thirty yards from the shore. I knew every inch of the river, and I was satisfied that the water was shallow. A solitary piece of waving rush, that grew upon the bank exactly opposite the crocodile, marked its position. So, stooping down, I retreated inland from the bank, and then running forward, I crept gently towards the rush.
Stooping as low as possible, I advanced till very near the bank (upon which grew tufts of grass), when, by slowly raising my head, I could observe the head of the crocodile in the same position, not more than twenty-six or twenty-eight yards from me. At that distance my rifle could hit a half-crown; I therefore made sure of bagging. The bank was about four feet above the water; thus the angle was favorable, and I aimed just behind the eye. Almost as I touched the trigger, the crocodile gave a convulsive start, and turning slowly on its back, it stretched its four legs above the surface, straining every muscle. It then remained motionless in water about two feet deep.
My horse was always furnished with a long halter or tethering-rope. So I ordered two men to jump into the river and secure the crocodile by a rope fastened round the body behind the fore-legs. This was quickly accomplished, and the men remained knee-deep, hauling upon the rope to prevent the stream from carrying away the body. In the meantime an attendant had mounted my horse and galloped off to the camp for assistance.
Crocodiles are very tenacious of life; and although they may be shot through the brain, and be actually dead for all practical purposes, they will remain motionless at first; but they will begin instinctively to move the limbs and tail a few minutes after receiving the shot. If lying upon a sand-bank, or in deep water, they would generally disappear unless secured by a rope, as the spasmodic movements of the limbs and tail would act upon the water, and the body would be carried away.
The crocodile, which had appeared stone dead, now began to move its tail, and my two men who were holding on to the rope cried out that it was still alive. It was in vain that I assured the frightened fellows that it was dead. I was on the bank, and they were in the water within a few feet of the crocodile, which made some difference in our ideas of its vivacity. Presently the creature really began to struggle, and the united efforts of the men could hardly restrain it from getting into deeper water.
The monster now began to yawn, which so terrified the men that they would have dropped the rope and fled had they not been afraid of the consequences, as I was addressing them rather forcibly from the bank. I put another shot through the shoulder of the struggling monster, which appeared to act as a narcotic until the arrival of the soldiers with ropes. No sooner was the crocodile well secured than it began to struggle violently. But a great number of men hauled upon the rope; and when it was safely landed, I gave it a blow with a sharp ax on the back of the neck, which killed it by dividing the spine.
It was now dragged along the turf until we reached the camp, where it was carefully measured with a tape, and showed an exact length of twelve feet three inches from snout to end of tail. The stomach contained about five pounds’ weight of pebbles, as though it had fed upon flesh resting upon a gravel bank, and had swallowed the pebbles that had adhered. Mixed with the pebbles was a greenish slimy matter that appeared woolly.
In the midst of this were three undeniable witnesses that convicted the crocodile of wilful murder. A necklace and two armlets, such as are worn by the negro girls, were taken from the stomach! This was an old malefactor that was a good riddance.
I have frequently seen crocodiles upwards of eighteen feet in length, and there can be little doubt that they sometimes exceed twenty; but a very small creature of this species may carry away a man while swimming.
James Montgomery.