[After this, John and Lorna met often in a secret place, where there was little chance of discovery. It was decided by the family that Lorna should be the wife of Carver Doone, the leader of the band, but as she was unwilling, and Grandfather Doone, the retiring leader, would not permit them to compel her, years went by without Carver accomplishing his purpose. Finally Lorna came no more to the trysting place, so that John suspected she had been put in a dungeon. He resolved to gain an entrance to the Doone village, and, after a desperate night adventure, succeeded.]
[After this, John and Lorna met often in a secret place, where there was little chance of discovery. It was decided by the family that Lorna should be the wife of Carver Doone, the leader of the band, but as she was unwilling, and Grandfather Doone, the retiring leader, would not permit them to compel her, years went by without Carver accomplishing his purpose. Finally Lorna came no more to the trysting place, so that John suspected she had been put in a dungeon. He resolved to gain an entrance to the Doone village, and, after a desperate night adventure, succeeded.]
My heart was in my mouth, as they say, when I stood in the shade of Lorna's window, and whispered her name gently. But, though the window was not very close, I might have whispered long enough before she would have answered me, frightened as she was, no doubt, by many a rude overture. And I durst not speak aloud, because I saw another watchman posted on the western cliff, and commanding all the valley. And now this man espied me against the wall of the house, and advanced against the brink and challenged me.
"Who are you, there? Answer! One, two, three; and I fire at thee."
The nozzle of his gun was pointed full upon me, as I could see, with the moonlight striking on the barrel; he was not more than fifty yards off, and now he began to reckon. Being almost desperate about it, I began to whistle, wondering how far I should get before I lost my windpipe; and, as luck would have it, my lips fell into that strange tune I had practicedlast,—the one I heard from Charlie Doone. My mouth would scarcely frame the notes, being parched with terror; but, to my surprise, the man fell back, dropped his gun and saluted. Oh, sweetest of all sweet melodies!
That tune was Carver Doone's passport (as I heard long afterward), which Charleworth Doone had imitated, for decoy of Lorna. The sentinel took me for that vile Carver, who was like enough to be prowling there, for private talk with Lorna, but not very likely to shout forth his name, if it might be avoided. The watchman, perceiving the danger, perhaps, of intruding on Carver's privacy, not only retired along the cliff, but withdrew himself to good distance.
Meanwhile he had done me the kindest service; for Lorna came to the window at once to see what the cause of the shout was, and drew back the curtain timidly. Then she opened the rough lattice; and then she watched the cliff and trees; and then she sighed very sadly.
"Oh, Lorna, don't you know me?" I whispered from the side, being afraid of startling her by appearing over suddenly.
Quick though she was of thought, she knew me not from my whisper, and was shutting the window hastily, when I caught it back and showed myself.
"John!" she cried, yet with sense enough not to speak aloud; "oh, you must be mad, John!"
"As mad as a March hare," said I, "without any news of my darling. You knew I would come—of course you did."
"Well, I thought, perhaps—you know; now, John, you need not eat my hand. Do you see, they have put iron bars across?"
"To be sure. Do you think I should be contented even with this lovely hand, but for these vile iron bars? I will have them out before I go. Now, darling, for one moment—just the other hand, for a change, you know."
So I got the other, but was not honest; for I kept them both, and felt their delicate beauty trembling as I laid them to my heart.
"Oh, John, you will make me cry directly"—she had been crying long ago—"if you go on in that way. You know we can never have one another; every one is against it. Why should I make you miserable? Try not to think of me any more."
"And will you try the same of me, Lorna?"
"Oh yes, John; if you agree to it. At least I will try to try it."
"Then you won't try anything of the sort," I cried, with great enthusiasm, for her tone was so nice and melancholy; "the only thing we will try to try is to belong to one another. And if we do our best, Lorna, God alone can prevent us."
She crossed herself with one hand drawn free, as I spoke so boldly; and something swelled in her little throat, and prevented her from answering.
"Now tell me," I said; "what means all this? Why are you so pent up here? Why have you given me no token? Has your grandfather turned against you? Are you in any danger?"
"My poor grandfather is very ill. I fear that he will not live long. The Counselor and his son are now masters of the valley; and I dare not venture forth for fear of anything they might do to me. When I went forth to signal for you, Carver tried to seize me; but I was too quick for him. Little Gwenny is not allowed to leave the valley now, so that I could send no message. I have been so wretched, dear, lest you should think me false to you. The tyrants now make sure of me. You must watch this house both night and day, if you wish to save me. There is nothing they would shrink from, if my poor grandfather—oh, I cannot bear to think of myself, when I ought to think of him only; dying without a son to tend him or a daughter to shed a tear."
"But surely he has sons enough; and a deal too many," I was going to say, but stopped myself in time. "Why do none of them come to him?"
"I know not. I cannot tell. He is a very strange old man, and few have ever loved him. He was black with wrath at the Counselor this afternoon—but I must not keep you here—you are much too brave, John; and I am too selfish; there, what was that shadow?"
"Nothing more than a bat, darling, come to look for his sweetheart. I will not stay long; you tremble so; and yet for that very reason how can I leave you, Lorna?"
"You must—you must," she answered; "I shall die if they hurt you. I hear the old nurse moving. Grandfather is sure to send for me. Keep back from the window."
However, it was only Gwenny Carfax, Lorna's little handmaid; my darling brought her to the window and presented her to me, almost laughing through her grief.
"Oh, I am so glad, John; Gwenny, I am so glad you came. I have wanted long to introduce you to my 'young man,' as you call him. It is rather dark, but you can see him. I wish you to know him again, Gwenny."
"Whoy!" cried Gwenny, with great amazement, standing on tiptoe to look out, and staring as if she were weighing me; "he be bigger nor any Doone! I shall knoo thee again, young man; no fear of that," she answered, nodding with an air of patronage. "Now, missis, gae on coortin', and I will gae outside and watch for 'ee." Though expressed not over-delicately, this proposal arose, no doubt, from Gwenny's sense of delicacy; and I was very thankful to her for taking her departure.
"She is the best little thing in the world," said Lorna, softly, laughing, "and the queerest, and the truest. Nothing will bribe her against me. If she seems to be on the other side, never, never doubt her. Now, no more of your 'coortin',' John. I love you far too well for that. Yes, yes, ever so much! If you will take a mean advantage of me—as much as ever you like to imagine; and then you may double it after that. Only go, do go, good John; kind, dear, darling John; if you love me, go."
"How can I go without settling anything?" I asked, very sensibly. "How shall I know of your danger now? Hit upon something; you are so quick. Anything you can think of; and then I will go, and not frighten you."
"I have been thinking long of something," Lorna answered, rapidly, with that peculiar clearness of voice which made every syllable ring like music of a several note. "You see that tree with the seven rooks' nests, bright against the cliffs there? Can you count them from above, do you think? From a place where you would be safe, dear?"
"No doubt I can; or, if I cannot, it will not take me long to find a spot whence I can do it."
"Gwenny can climb like any cat. She has been up there in the summer watching the young birds day by day, and daring the boys to touch them. There are neither birds nor eggs there now, of course, and nothing doing. If you see but six rooks' nests, I am in peril, and want you. If you see but five, I am carried off by Carver."
"Good God!" said I, at the mere idea, in a tone which frightened Lorna.
"Fear not, John," she whispered, sadly, and my blood grewcold at it; "I have means to stop him, or at least to save myself. If you can come within one day of that man's getting hold of me, you will find me quite unharmed. After that you will find me, dead or alive, according to circumstances, but in no case such that you need blush to look at me."
I only said, "God bless you, darling!" and she said the same to me, in a very low, sad voice. And then I stole below Carver's house in the shadow from the eastern cliff; and, knowing enough of the village now to satisfy all necessity, betook myself to my well-known track in returning from the valley.
[It was not long after this that John Ridd saw the signal that Lorna was in danger. With the aid of friends he planned and successfully executed a raid upon the Doone village, and carried away Lorna to his mother's house. Subsequently the Doones attacked the house where Lorna was staying, but John Ridd and his friends were prepared to meet them, as is related in the following scene:]
[It was not long after this that John Ridd saw the signal that Lorna was in danger. With the aid of friends he planned and successfully executed a raid upon the Doone village, and carried away Lorna to his mother's house. Subsequently the Doones attacked the house where Lorna was staying, but John Ridd and his friends were prepared to meet them, as is related in the following scene:]
It was not likely that the outlaws would attack our premises until some time after the moon was risen, because it would be too dangerous to cross the flooded valleys in the darkness of the night. And, but for this consideration, I must have striven harder against the stealthy approach of slumber. But even so, it was very foolish to abandon watch, especially in such as I, who sleep like any dormouse. Moreover, I had chosen the very worst place in the world for such employment, with a goodly chance of awaking in a bed of solid fire.
And so it might have been—nay, it must have been—but for Lorna's vigilance. Her light hand upon my arm awoke me, not too readily, and, leaping up, I seized my club, and prepared to knock down somebody.
"Who's that?" I cried. "Stand back, I say, and let me have a fair chance at you."
"Are you going to knock me down, dear John?" replied the voice I love so well. "I am sure I should never get up again, after one blow from you, John."
"My darling, is it you?" I cried; "and breaking all your orders?Come back into the house at once; and nothing on your head, dear."
"How could I sleep, while at any moment you might be killed beneath my window? And now is the time of real danger, for men can see to travel."
I saw at once the truth of this. The moon was high and clearly lighting all the watered valleys. To sleep any longer might be death, not only to myself, but all.
"The man on guard at the back of the house is fast asleep," she continued; "Gwenny, who let me out, and came with me, has heard him snoring for two hours. I think the women ought to be the watch, because they have had no traveling. Where do you suppose little Gwenny is?"
"Surely not gone to Glen Doone?" I was not sure, however, for I could believe almost anything of the Cornish maiden's hardihood.
"No," replied Lorna, "although she wanted even to do that. But, of course, I would not hear of it, on account of the swollen waters. But she is perched in yonder tree, which commands the Barrow Valley. She says that they are almost sure to cross the streamlet there."
"What a shame," I cried, "that the men should sleep and the maidens be the soldiers! I will sit in that tree myself, and send little Gwenny back to you. Go to bed, my best and dearest; I will take good care not to sleep again."
Before I had been long on duty, making the round of the ricks and the stables, and hailing Gwenny now and then from the bottom of her tree, a short, wide figure stole toward me, in and out the shadows, and I saw that it was no other than the little maid herself, and that she bore some tidings.
"Ten on 'em crossed the water down yonder," said Gwenny, putting her hand to her mouth, and seeming to regard it as good news rather than otherwise; "be arl craping up by the hedgerow now. I could shutt dree on 'em from the bar of the gate, if so be I had your goon, young man."
"There is no time to lose, Gwenny. Run to the house and fetch Master Stickles, and all the men while I stay here and watch the rick-yard."
The robbers rode into our yard as coolly as if they had been invited, having lifted the gate from the hinges first, on account of its being fastened. Then they actually opened our stable doors, and turned our honest horses out, and put their own rogues in place of them. At this my breath was quitetaken away, for we think so much of our horses. By this time I could see our troopers waiting in the shadow of the house round the corner from where the Doones were, and expecting the order to fire; but Jeremy Stickles very wisely kept them in readiness until the enemy should advance upon them.
"Two of you lazy fellows go,"—it was the deep voice of Carver Doone, "and make us a light to cut their throats by. Only one thing, once again. If any man touches Lorna, I will stab him where he stands. She belongs to me. There are two other young damsels here, whom you may take away if you please. And the mother, I hear, is still comely. Now for our rights. We have borne too long the insolence of these yokels. Kill every man and every child, and burn this cursed place down."
Presently two young men came toward me, bearing brands of resined hemp, kindled from Carver's lamp. The foremost of them set his torch to the rick within a yard of me, the smoke concealing me from him. I struck him with a backhanded blow on the elbow as he bent it, and I heard the bone of his arm break as clearly as ever I heard a twig snap. With a roar of pain, he fell on the ground, and his torch dropped there and singed him. The other man stood amazed at this, not having yet gained sight of me, till I caught his fire-brand from his hand, and struck it into his countenance. With that he leaped at me, but I caught him in a manner learned from early wrestling, and snapped his collar bone, as I laid him upon the top of his comrade.
This little success so encouraged me that I was half inclined to advance and challenge Carver Doone to meet me; but I bore in mind that he would be apt to shoot me without ceremony; and what is the utmost of human strength against the power of powder? Moreover, I remembered my promise to sweet Lorna; and who would be left to defend her, if the rogues got rid of me?
While I was hesitating thus, a blaze of fire lit up the house, and brown smoke hung around it. Six of our men had let go at the Doones, by Jeremy Stickles's order, as the villains came swaggering down in the moonlight ready for rape or murder. Two of them fell, and the rest hung back, to think at their leisure what this was. They were not used to this sort of thing; it was neither just nor courteous.
Being unable any longer to contain myself, as I thought ofLorna's excitement at all this noise of firing, I ran across the yard, expecting whether they would shoot at me. However, no one shot at me; and I went up to Carver Doone, whom I knew by his size in the moonlight, and I took him by the beard and said, "Do you call yourself a man?"
For a moment he was so astonished that he could not answer. None had ever dared, I suppose, to look at him in that way. And then he tried a pistol at me; but I was too quick for him.
"Now, Carver, take warning," I said to him, very soberly; "you have shown yourself a fool by your contempt of me. I may not be your match in craft, but I am in manhood. You are a despicable villain. Lie low in your native muck."
And with that word I laid him flat upon his back in our straw-yard by the trick of the inner heel, which he could not have resisted unless he were a wrestler. Seeing him down, the others ran, though one of them made a shot at me, and some of them got their horses before our men came up, and some went away without them. And among these last was Captain Carver, who arose while I was feeling myself (for I had a little wound), and strode away with a train of curses enough to poison the light of the moon.
[Through many vicissitudes and many dangers, Lorna and John spend the months following the incident just related. John learns that Lorna is, after all, not a Doone, but the daughter of a family the Doones had waylaid. John's father had also been murdered by the Doones when John was a lad at school. The following scene carries its own story:]
[Through many vicissitudes and many dangers, Lorna and John spend the months following the incident just related. John learns that Lorna is, after all, not a Doone, but the daughter of a family the Doones had waylaid. John's father had also been murdered by the Doones when John was a lad at school. The following scene carries its own story:]
Everything was settled smoothly and without any fear or fuss that Lorna might find end of troubles, and myself of eager waiting, with the help of Parson Bowden, and the good wishes of two counties. We heard that people meant to come for more than thirty miles around, upon excuse of seeing my stature and Lorna's beauty; but in good truth, out of sheer curiosity and the love of meddling.
Dear mother arranged all the ins and outs of the way in which it was to be done; and Annie and Lizzie made such a sweeping of dresses that I scarcely knew where to place my feet, and longed for a staff to put by their gowns. Then Lornacame out of a pew half-way, in a manner which quite astonished me, and took my left hand in her right, and I prayed God that it were done with.
My darling looked so glorious that I was afraid of glancing at her, yet took in all her beauty. I was afraid to look at her, except when each of us said, "I will," and then each dwelt upon the other.
It is impossible for any who have not loved as I have to conceive my joy and pride when, after ring and all was done, and the parson had blessed us, Lorna turned to look at me with her glances of subtle fun subdued by this great act.
Her eyes, which none on earth may ever equal or compare with, told me such a depth of comfort, yet awaiting further commune, that I was almost amazed, thoroughly as I knew them. Darling eyes, the sweetest eyes, the loveliest, the most loving eyes—the sound of a shot rang through the church, and those eyes were filled with death.
Lorna fell across my knees when I was going to kiss her, a flood of blood came out upon the yellow wood of the altar steps, and at my feet lay Lorna, trying to tell me some last message out of her faithful eyes. I lifted her up, and petted her, and coaxed her, but it was no good; the only sign of life remaining was a spot of bright red blood.
She sighed a long sigh on my breast, for her last farewell to life, and then she grew so cold, and cold, that I asked the time of the year.
Of course I knew who had done it. There was but one man in the world, or, at any rate, in our part of it, who would have done such a thing—such a thing. I use no harsher word about it, while I leaped upon our best horse, with bridle, but no saddle, and set the head of Kickums toward the course now pointed out to me. Who showed me the course I cannot tell. I only knew that I took it. And the men fell back before me.
Weapon of no sort had I. Unarmed, and wondering at my strange attire (with a bridal vest wrought by our Annie, and red with the blood of the bride), I went forth just to find out this—whether in this world there be or be not God of justice.
With my vicious horse at a furious speed, I came upon Black Barrow Down, directed by some shout of men, which seemed to me but a whisper. And there, about a furlong before me, rode a man on a great black horse, and I knew that the man was Carver Doone.
"Your life, or mine," I said to myself; "as the will of God may be. But we two live not upon this earth one more hour together."
I knew the strength of this great man; and I knew that he was armed with a gun—if he had time to load again, after shooting my Lorna—or at any rate with pistols, and a horseman's sword, as well. Nevertheless, I had no more doubt of killing the man before me than a cook has of spitting a headless fowl.
Sometimes seeing no ground beneath me, and sometimes heeding every leaf, and the crossing of the grass-blades, I followed over the long moor, reckless whether seen or not. But only once the other man turned and looked back again, and then I was beside a rock, with a reedy swamp behind me.
Although he was so far before me, and riding as hard as ride he might, I saw that he had something on the horse in front of him, something which needed care, and stopped him from looking backward. In the whirling of my wits I fancied first that this was Lorna; until the scene I had been through fell across my hot brain and heart, like the drop at the close of a tragedy. Rushing there through crag and quag at utmost speed of a maddened horse, as of another's fate, calmly (as on canvas laid), the brutal deed, the piteous anguish, and the cold despair.
The man turned up the gully leading from the moor to Cloven Rocks. But, as Carver entered it, he turned round and beheld me not a hundred yards behind; and I saw that he was bearing his child, little Ensie, before him. Ensie also descried me, and stretched his hands and cried to me; for the face of his father frightened him.
Carver Doone, with a vile oath, thrust spurs into his flagging horse, and laid one hand on a pistol stock, whence I knew that his slung carbine has received no bullet since the one that had pierced Lorna. And a cry of triumph rose from the black depths of my heart. What cared I for pistols? I had no spurs, neither was my horse one to need the rowel; I rather held him in than urged him, for he was fresh as ever; and I knew that the black steed in front, if he breasted the steep ascent, where the track divided, must be in our reach at once.
His rider knew this, and, having no room in the rocky channel to turn and fire, drew rein at the crossways sharply, and plunged into the black ravine leading to the Wizard's Slough."Is it so?" I said to myself, with brain and head cold as iron; "though the foul fiend come from the slough to save thee, thou shalt carve it, Carver."
I followed my enemy carefully, steadily, even leisurely—for I had him as in a pitfall, whence no escape might be. He thought that I feared to approach him, for he knew not where he was; and his low, disdainful laugh came back.
"Laugh he who wins," thought I.
A gnarled and half-starved oak, as stubborn as my own resolve, and smitten by some storm of old, hung from the crag above me. Rising from my horse's back, although I had no stirrups, I caught a limb, and tore it (like a mere wheat-awn) from the socket. Men show the rent even now with wonder—none with more wonder than myself.
Carver Doone turned the corner suddenly on the black and bottomless bog; with a start of fear he reigned back his horse, and I thought he would have turned upon me. Upon this he made up his mind; and, wheeling, fired, and then rode at me.
His bullet struck me somewhere, but I took no heed of that. Fearing only his escape, I laid my horse across the way, and with the limb of the oak struck full on the forehead his charging steed. Ere the slash of the sword came nigh me, man and horse rolled over, and well-nigh bore my own horse down with the power of their onset.
Carver Doone was somewhat stunned, and could not arise for a moment. Meanwhile I leaped on the ground and waited, smoothing my hair back and baring my arm as though in the ring for wrestling. Then the little boy ran to me, clasped my leg, and looked up at me; and the terror in his eyes made me almost fear myself.
"Ensie, dear," I said, quite gently, grieving that he should see his wicked father killed, "run up yonder round the corner, and try to find a pretty bunch of bluebells for the lady." The child obeyed me, hanging back, and looking back, and then laughing, while I prepared for business. There and then I might have killed my enemy with a single blow while he lay unconscious, but it would have been foul play.
With a sudden and black scowl, the Carver gathered his mighty limbs and arose, and looked round for his weapons; but I had put them well away. Then he came to me and gazed, being wont to frighten thus young men.
"I would not harm you, lad," he said, with a lofty style of sneering. "I have punished you enough, for most of your impertinence.For the rest I forgive you, because you have been good and gracious to my little son. Go and be contented."
For answer I smote him on the cheek, lightly, and not to hurt him, but to make his blood leap up. I would not sully my tongue by speaking to a man like this.
I think he felt that his time was come; I think that he knew from my knotted muscles and the firm arch of my breast, and the way in which I stood, but most of all from my stern blue eyes, that he had found his master. At any rate a paleness came, an ashy paleness on his cheeks, and the vast calves of his legs bowed in as if he was out of training.
Seeing this, villain as he was, I offered him first chance. I stretched forth my left hand, as I do to a weaker antagonist, and I let him have the hug of me. But in this I was too generous; having forgotten my pistol-wound, and the cracking of one of my short lower ribs. Carver Doone caught me round the waist with such a grip as never yet had been laid upon me.
I heard my rib go; I grasped his arm, and tore the muscle out of it (as the string comes out of an orange); then I took him by the throat, which is not allowed in wrestling, but he had snatched at mine; and now was no time of dalliance. In vain he tugged and strained, and writhed, and dashed his bleeding fist into my face, and flung himself on me with gnashing jaws. Beneath the iron of my strength—for God that day was with me—I had him helpless in two minutes, and his fiery eyes lolled out.
"I will not harm thee any more," I cried, so far as I could for panting, the work being very furious. "Carver Doone, thou art beaten; own it, and thank God for it; and go thy way, and repent thyself."
It was all too late. Even if he had yielded in his ravening frenzy—for his beard was like a mad dog's jowl—even if he would have owned that for the first time in his life he had found his master, it was all too late.
The black bog had him by the feet; the sucking of the ground drew him on, like the thirsty lips of death. In our fury we had heeded neither wet nor dry; nor thought of earth beneath us. I myself might scarcely leap, with the last spring of o'erlabored legs, from the ingulfing grave of slime. He fell back, with his swarthy breast, like a hummock of bog-oak, standing out the quagmire; and then he tossed his armsto heaven, and they were black to the elbow, and the glare of his eyes was ghastly. I could only gaze and pant, for my strength was no more than an infant's, from the fury and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away, while, joint by joint, he sunk from sight.
When the little boy came back with the bluebells, which he had managed to find, the only sign of his father left was a dark brown bubble upon a new-formed patch of blackness. But to the center of its pulpy gorge the greedy slough was heaving, and sullenly grinding its weltering jaws among the flags and sedges.
With pain and ache, both of mind and body, and shame at my own fury, I heavily mounted my horse again, and looked down at the innocent Ensie. Would this playful loving child grow up like his cruel father, and end a godless life of hatred with a death of violence? He lifted his noble forehead toward me, as if to answer, "Nay, I will not"; but the words he spoke were these:
"Don"—for he never could say "John"—"oh Don, I am so glad that nasty, naughty man is gone away. Take me home, Don. Take me home."
It hurt me more than I can tell, even through all other grief, to take into my arms the child of the man just slain by me. But I could not leave him there till some one else might fetch him, on account of the cruel slough, and the ravens which had come hovering over the dead horse; neither could I, with my wound, tie him on my horse and walk.
For now I had spent a great deal of blood, and was rather faint and weary. And it was luck for me that Kickums had lost spirit like his master, and went home as mildly as a lamb. For, when we came toward the farm, I seemed to be riding in a dream almost; and the voices of both men and women (who had hurried forth upon my track), as they met me, seemed to wander from a distant, muffling cloud. Only the thought of Lorna's death, like a heavy knell, was tolling in the belfry of my brain.
When we came to the stable door I rather fell from my horse than got off; and John Fry, with a look of wonder, took Kickum's head and led him in. Into the old farmhouse I tottered, like a weanling child, with mother, in her common clothes, helping me along, yet fearing, except by stealth, to look at me.
"I have killed him," was all I said, "even as he killed Lorna.Now let me see my wife, mother. She belongs to me none the less, though dead."
"You cannot see her now, dear John," said Ruth Huckaback, coming forward, since no one else had the courage.
"Annie is with her now, John."
"What has that to do with it? Let me see my dead and pray to die."
All the women fell away and whispered, and looked at me with side glances, and some sobbing, for my face was hard as flint. Ruth alone stood by me, and dropped her eyes and trembled. Then one little hand of hers stole into my great shaking palm, and the other was laid on my tattered coat; yet with her clothes she shunned my blood, while she whispered gently:
"John, she is not dead. She may even be your living one yet—your wife, your home, and your happiness. But you must not see her now."
Now, whether it was the light and brightness of my Lorna's nature, or the freedom from anxiety, but anyhow, one thing is certain; sure as the stars of hope above us, Lorna recovered long ere I did.
The sky is a drinking-cup,That was overturned of old,And it pours in the eyes of menIts wines of airy gold.We drink that wine all day,Till the last drop is drained up,And are lighted off to bedBy the jewels in the cup!—Richard Henry Stoddard.
The sky is a drinking-cup,That was overturned of old,And it pours in the eyes of menIts wines of airy gold.We drink that wine all day,Till the last drop is drained up,And are lighted off to bedBy the jewels in the cup!—Richard Henry Stoddard.
The sky is a drinking-cup,That was overturned of old,And it pours in the eyes of menIts wines of airy gold.
We drink that wine all day,Till the last drop is drained up,And are lighted off to bedBy the jewels in the cup!
The Speaker: Table of Contents
Editorials1-4The Artist's SecretOlive Schreiner5The History Lesson from L'AiglonEdmund Rostand6DawnPaul Laurence Dunbar11Bill, the Lokil EditorEugene Field12Arena Scene from Quo VadisHenry Sienkiewicz15The Cushville HopBen King21Sonny's ChristeningRuth McEnery Stuart22How She Went into BusinessJoel Chandler Harris28The Leadership of Educated MenGeorge William Curtis34Jean Valjean and the BishopVictor Hugo38Coom, Lassie, Be Good to MeCharles McIlvaine43A Bird in the HandF. S. Weatherby44The Slow ManErnest Poole45Emmy LouGeorge Madden Martin49GloryJohn Luther Long53The Rose and the GardenerAustin Dobson57The Cap that FitsAustin Dobson58The Cure's ProgressAustin Dobson60The Philosopher in the Apple OrchardAnthony Hope61The PhotographPaul Laurence Dunbar67A Message to GarciaElbert Hubbard68Lovey-LovesBen King69The Fall of the House of UsherEdgar Allan Poe70Nini, Ninette, NinonFrederick S. Weatherby77With Any AmazementRudyard Kipling78One, Two, ThreeH. C. Bunner83Mr. Dooley, on the Grip85
Editorials97-100The Sign of the CrossWilson Barrett101My Heart Leaps Up When I BeholdWilliam Wordsworth105"Gentlemen, the King"Robert Barr106The Only WayCharles Dickens111The New AmericanismHenry Watterson114A Plea for PatriotismBenjamin Harrison116FameBen Jonson117The Independence of CubaJ. M. Thurston118The Children of the PoorTheodore Parker122BurnsGeorge William Curtis124A Night in Ste. PilagieMary H. Catherwood127The Call of the WildJack London131The Prisoner of ZendaAnthony Hope135In the Toils of the EnemyJohn S. Wood139The Advocate's First PleaGeorge Barr McCutcheon144The Tell-Tale HeartEdgar Allan Poe148The Trial of Ben ThomasH. S. Edwards151Even This Shall Pass AwayTheodore Tilton155On MiltonJohn Dryden156RichelieuBulwer Lytton157Flower in the Crannied WallLord Tennyson161The Burgomaster's Death (from "The Bells")162Jathrop Lathrop's CowAnna Warner167The HunchbackSheridan Knowles172LoveShakespeare180Last Speech of William McKinley181For Dear Old YaleJames Langston184The Lance of Kanana189
Editorials193-198ReadingElizabeth B. Browning198The Shave-StoreEdmund Vance Cooke199The Moo-Cow-MooEdmund Vance Cooke200Brother Wolf and the Horned CattleJoel Chandler Harris201A Summer LullabyEudora S. Bumstead204The First Nowell(Old Carol)205A RiddleJonathan Swift206Tiny Tim (from "A Christmas Carol")Charles Dickens207The American FlagJoseph R. Drake212A Grace for a ChildRobert Herrick212The FairiesWilliam Allingham213The Rule for Birds' Nesters(Old Rhyme)214Queen MabThomas Hood215The Star SongRobert Herrick216O Little Town of BethlehemPhillips Brooks217Santa Claus(Anonymous)218RecessionalRudyard Kipling219The Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl'Robert Ford220The Flag Goes ByHenry Holcomb Bennett221PocahontasWilliam Makepeace Thackeray222A FarewellCharles Kingsley223The Shepherd Boy SingsJohn Bunyan223Two Apple-Howling Songs(Old Rhymes)224A Boy's PrayerHenry Charles Beeching224To-dayThomas Carlyle225Be TrueHoratio Bonar225My Native LandSir Walter Scott226Green Things GrowingDinah Maria Mulock226The Wonderful Country of Good-Boy LandMary E. Blake227The Fir-TreeHans Christian Andersen229From a Railway CarriageRobert Louis Stevenson233The Land of NodRobert Louis Stevenson234BurnsGeorge William Curtis124Whole Duty of ChildrenRobert Louis Stevenson234The Story of Joseph(Arranged from Genesis)235Auld Daddy DarknessJames Ferguson240The Owl and the Pussy-CatEdward Lear241The Angel's WhisperSamuel Lover242Going into BreechesCharles and Mary Lamb243The Lost DollCharles Kingsley244Baby Corn(Unknown)245Who Stole the Bird's Nest?Lydia Maria Child246Po' Little LambPaul Laurence Dunbar248Little Brown BabyPaul Laurence Dunbar250An Incident of the French CampRobert Browning251Lullaby of an Infant ChiefSir Walter Scott252Old IronsidesOliver Wendell Holmes253Concord HymnRalph Waldo Emerson254His College Examination (from "Up from Slavery")Booker T. Washington255A Child's GraceRobert Burns260A Howdy SongJoel Chandler Harris261DutyRalph Waldo Emerson261Bud's Fairy TaleJames Whitcomb Riley262The Boy that was Scaret o' Dyin'Annie Trumbull Slosson268What Does Little Birdie Say?Lord Tennyson270Laetus Sorte Mea (from "The Story of a Short Life")Juliana H. Ewing271The Victor of Marengo275Good MorningRobert Browning279Miranda and Her Friend Kroof (from "The Heart of the Ancient Wood")Charles G. D. Roberts277Little NellCharles Dickens282Parsifal the Pure(from "Stories from Wagner")285