My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,With thy proudly arch’d and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed,I may not mount on thee again—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;The stranger hath thy bridle-rein—thy master hath his gold—Fleet-limb’d and beautiful! farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold!Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger’s home:Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;The silky mane I braided once must be another’s care.
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,With thy proudly arch’d and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed,I may not mount on thee again—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;The stranger hath thy bridle-rein—thy master hath his gold—Fleet-limb’d and beautiful! farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold!Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger’s home:Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;The silky mane I braided once must be another’s care.
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,With thy proudly arch’d and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed,I may not mount on thee again—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arch’d and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed,
I may not mount on thee again—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.
Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;The stranger hath thy bridle-rein—thy master hath his gold—Fleet-limb’d and beautiful! farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold!
Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein—thy master hath his gold—
Fleet-limb’d and beautiful! farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold!
Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger’s home:Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;The silky mane I braided once must be another’s care.
Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger’s home:
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
The silky mane I braided once must be another’s care.
SchreyerArabs at a Well in the Desert
SchreyerArabs at a Well in the Desert
Schreyer
Arabs at a Well in the Desert
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with theeShall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:Evening shall darken on the earth; and o’er the sandy plainSome other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,Thy master’s home,—from all of these my exiled one must fly.Thy proud, dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master’s hand to meet.Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,Then must I, starting, wake to feel—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed!Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,Till foam-wreaths lie like crested waves, along thy panting side,And the rich blood that’s in thee swells in thy indignant pain,Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be—Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.And yet, if haply, when thou’rt gone my lonely heart should yearn,Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish’d from his view?When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears.Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step alone,Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on!And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think:It was here he bow’d his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!When last I saw thee drink!—Away! the fever’d dream is o’er;I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong,They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.Who said that I had given thee up, who said that thou wert sold?’Tis false—’tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold.Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!—Caroline Norton.
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with theeShall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:Evening shall darken on the earth; and o’er the sandy plainSome other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,Thy master’s home,—from all of these my exiled one must fly.Thy proud, dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master’s hand to meet.Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,Then must I, starting, wake to feel—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed!Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,Till foam-wreaths lie like crested waves, along thy panting side,And the rich blood that’s in thee swells in thy indignant pain,Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be—Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.And yet, if haply, when thou’rt gone my lonely heart should yearn,Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish’d from his view?When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears.Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step alone,Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on!And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think:It was here he bow’d his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!When last I saw thee drink!—Away! the fever’d dream is o’er;I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong,They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.Who said that I had given thee up, who said that thou wert sold?’Tis false—’tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold.Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!—Caroline Norton.
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with theeShall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:Evening shall darken on the earth; and o’er the sandy plainSome other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:
Evening shall darken on the earth; and o’er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,Thy master’s home,—from all of these my exiled one must fly.Thy proud, dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master’s hand to meet.
Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master’s home,—from all of these my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud, dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master’s hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,Then must I, starting, wake to feel—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed!
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting, wake to feel—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed!
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,Till foam-wreaths lie like crested waves, along thy panting side,And the rich blood that’s in thee swells in thy indignant pain,Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie like crested waves, along thy panting side,
And the rich blood that’s in thee swells in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be—Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.And yet, if haply, when thou’rt gone my lonely heart should yearn,Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be—
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if haply, when thou’rt gone my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish’d from his view?When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears.
Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish’d from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears.
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step alone,Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on!And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think:It was here he bow’d his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step alone,
Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on!
And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think:
It was here he bow’d his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!
When last I saw thee drink!—Away! the fever’d dream is o’er;I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong,They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
When last I saw thee drink!—Away! the fever’d dream is o’er;
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong,
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up, who said that thou wert sold?’Tis false—’tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold.Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!—Caroline Norton.
Who said that I had given thee up, who said that thou wert sold?
’Tis false—’tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold.
Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!
—Caroline Norton.
For many days we had been pushing our way, as best we could, through one of the densest of South American forests. Late one afternoon we stopped by the side of a narrow but swiftly flowing river, and began to prepare our camp for the night. Suddenly we heard, at some distance from us on the other side of the stream, a great chattering and screaming, as if thousands of monkeys were moving among the trees and each trying to make more noise than all the rest.
“An army of monkeys on the march,” said our guide. “They are coming this way, and will most likely cross the river yonder where the banks are so steep, with those tall trees growing on either side.”
“How will they cross there?” I asked. “The water runs so swiftly that they certainly cannot swim across.”
“Oh, no,” said the guide; “monkeys would rather go into fire than water. If they cannot leap the stream, they will bridge it.”
“Bridge it! and how will they do that?”
“Wait, captain, and you shall see,” answered the guide.
We could now plainly see the animals making their way through the tree-tops and approaching the place which the guide had pointed out. In front was an old gray-headed monkey who directed all their movements and seemed to be the general-in-chief of the army, while here and there were other officers, each of whom appeared to have certain duties to perform.
One ran out upon an overhanging branch, and, after looking across the stream as if to measure the distance, scampered back and made a report to the leader. There was at once a change in the conduct of the army. Commands were given, and a number of able-bodied monkeys were marched to the front. Then several ran along the bank, examining the trees on both sides.
At length all gathered near a tall cottonwood, that grew over the narrowest part of the stream, and twenty or thirty of them climbed its trunk. The foremost—a strong fellow—ran out upon a limb, and, taking several turns of his tail around it, slipped off, and hung head downwards. Thenext on the limb climbed down the body of the first, and, wrapping his tail tightly around him, dropped off in his turn, and hung head downwards. And thus the third monkey fastened himself to the second, and the fourth to the third, and so on, until the last one upon the string rested his fore paws upon the ground.
The living chain now commenced swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The motion was slight at first, but gradually increased, the monkey at the lower end striking his hands against the ground and pushing out with all his strength. This was kept up until the end of the chain was thrown among the branches of the tree on the opposite bank. One of these the lowermost monkey caught and held fast. The chain now reached from one side of the stream to the other, forming a living bridge over which all the other monkeys, young and old, passed without confusion or delay.
The army was soon safely across, but how were the animals forming the bridge to get themselves over? Should the monkey at the top of the chain let go of the cottonwood branch, the other end of the bridge was so much lower that he, with those nearest him, would be dashed against the opposite bank or soused into the water.
The question was soon answered. A powerful fellow was seen taking firm hold of the lowest on the bridge, then another fastened himself to him in like manner, and this was continued until a dozen more were added to the string.These last monkeys then ran up to a high limb, and lifted that end of the bridge until it was several feet above that on the opposite bank.
Then the monkey who had formed the first link in the chain loosed his hold upon the cottonwood branch, and the whole bridge swung safely over. The lowermost links dropped lightly to the ground, while the higher ones leaped to the branches and came down by the trunk. The whole army then scampered away into the forest, and the sound of their chattering was soon lost in the distance.
—Mayne Reid.
By special permission.
I met a little cottage girl;She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad;Her eyes were fair, and very fair—Her beauty made me glad.“Sisters and brothers, little maid,How many may you be?”“How many? Seven in all,” she said,And wondering looked at me.“And where are they? I pray you tell.”She answered, “Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.“Two of us in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother;And in the churchyard cottage IDwell near them with my mother.”“You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,Sweet maid, how this may be?”Then did the little maid reply:“Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the churchyard lie,Beneath the churchyard tree.”“You run about, my little maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the churchyard laid,Then ye are only five.”“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”The little maid replied;“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,And they are side by side.“My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit,And sing a song to them.“And often after sunset, sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there.“The first that died was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain,And then she went away.“So in the churchyard she was laid;And, when the grass was dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I.“And when the ground was white with snow,And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side.”“How many are you, then,” said I,“If they two are in Heaven?”Quick was the little maid’s reply,“O master! we are seven.”“But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in Heaven!”—’Twas throwing words away; for stillThe little maid would have her will,And said, “Nay, we are seven!”—William Wordsworth.
I met a little cottage girl;She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad;Her eyes were fair, and very fair—Her beauty made me glad.“Sisters and brothers, little maid,How many may you be?”“How many? Seven in all,” she said,And wondering looked at me.“And where are they? I pray you tell.”She answered, “Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.“Two of us in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother;And in the churchyard cottage IDwell near them with my mother.”“You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,Sweet maid, how this may be?”Then did the little maid reply:“Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the churchyard lie,Beneath the churchyard tree.”“You run about, my little maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the churchyard laid,Then ye are only five.”“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”The little maid replied;“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,And they are side by side.“My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit,And sing a song to them.“And often after sunset, sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there.“The first that died was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain,And then she went away.“So in the churchyard she was laid;And, when the grass was dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I.“And when the ground was white with snow,And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side.”“How many are you, then,” said I,“If they two are in Heaven?”Quick was the little maid’s reply,“O master! we are seven.”“But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in Heaven!”—’Twas throwing words away; for stillThe little maid would have her will,And said, “Nay, we are seven!”—William Wordsworth.
I met a little cottage girl;She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.
I met a little cottage girl;
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad;Her eyes were fair, and very fair—Her beauty made me glad.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair—
Her beauty made me glad.
“Sisters and brothers, little maid,How many may you be?”“How many? Seven in all,” she said,And wondering looked at me.
“Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.”She answered, “Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
“Two of us in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother;And in the churchyard cottage IDwell near them with my mother.”
“Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage I
Dwell near them with my mother.”
“You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,Sweet maid, how this may be?”
“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be?”
Then did the little maid reply:“Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the churchyard lie,Beneath the churchyard tree.”
Then did the little maid reply:
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree.”
“You run about, my little maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the churchyard laid,Then ye are only five.”
“You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five.”
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”The little maid replied;“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,And they are side by side.
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little maid replied;
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.
“My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit,And sing a song to them.
“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
“And often after sunset, sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there.
“And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
“The first that died was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain,And then she went away.
“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.
“So in the churchyard she was laid;And, when the grass was dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I.
“So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
“And when the ground was white with snow,And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side.”
“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”
“How many are you, then,” said I,“If they two are in Heaven?”Quick was the little maid’s reply,“O master! we are seven.”
“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in Heaven?”
Quick was the little maid’s reply,
“O master! we are seven.”
“But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in Heaven!”—’Twas throwing words away; for stillThe little maid would have her will,And said, “Nay, we are seven!”—William Wordsworth.
“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in Heaven!”—
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”
—William Wordsworth.
A long, long time ago there lived in a quiet spot a young man and his wife. They had one child, a little daughter, whom they both loved with all their hearts. I cannot tell you their names, for they long since have been forgotten; but the name of the place where they lived was Matsuyama, in one of the provinces of Japan.
It happened once, while the little girl was still a baby, that the father was obliged to go to the great city, the capital of Japan, upon some business. It was too far for the mother and her little one to go, and so he set out alone, after promising to bring home some pretty presents for them. The mother had never been farther from home than the next village, and she could not help being very anxious at the thought of the long journey her husband was about to take. Yet she was proud, too, for he was the first man in all that countryside who had been to the big town where the king and his great lords lived, and where there were so many beautiful and curious things to be seen.
At last the time came when she might expect her husband to return; so she dressed the baby in her best clothes, and herself put on an embroidered blue robe which she knew her husband liked. You may fancy how glad she was to see him home again, and how the little girl clapped her hands and laughed with delight when she saw the pretty toys her father had brought for her. He had much to tell of all the wonderful things he had seen upon his long journey, and in the great town which he had visited.
“I have brought you a very curious present,” said the young man to his wife. “Look, and tell me what you see inside of this.”
Then he gave her a plain, white wooden box, and when she had opened it, she found a round piece of metal. One side of the metal was white like frosted silver, and ornamented with raised figures of birds and flowers; the other side was bright as the clearest crystal. Into its shining surface the young mother looked with wonder and delight, for there she saw smiling at her, with parted lips and bright eyes, a happy, joyous face.
“What do you see?” again asked the husband, pleased at her astonishment, and glad to show that he had learned something while he had been away.
“I see a pretty woman looking at me, and she moves her lips as if she were speaking, and—how very odd, she has on a blue dress like mine!”
“Why, you silly woman, it is your own face that you see,” said the husband, proud of knowing something that his wife did not know. “That round piece of metal is called a mirror. In the city everybody has a mirror, but in this country place no one has ever before seen one.”
The wife was charmed with her present, and for a few days could not look into the mirror often enough; for you must remember that, as this was the first time she had seen a mirror, so of course it was the first time she had ever seen the reflection of her own fair face. But she considered such a wonderful thing far too precious for everyday use, and soon shut it up in its box again, and put it away carefully among her most valued treasures.
Years passed on, and the husband and wife still lived happily. The joy of their life was their little daughter, who grew up the very image of her mother, and who was so dutiful and affectionate that everybody loved her. Remembering her own passing vanity on finding herself so lovely in the mirror, the mother kept it carefully hidden away, fearing that its use might breed a spirit of pride in her little girl.
She never spoke of the mirror and the father had forgotten all about it. So it happened that the daughter grew up as simple as the mother had been, and knew nothing of her own good looks, or of the mirror which would have reflected them.
But by and by a sad misfortune came upon this happy little family. The good, kind mother became ill; and although her daughter waited upon her day and night with loving care, the sick woman grew worse and worse, until at last they knew that she must soon die.
When she found that she must leave her husband and child, the poor woman felt very sorrowful, grieving for those she should see no more, and most of all for her little daughter. She called the girl to her and said: “My darling child, you know that I am very ill: soon I must die, and leave your dear father and you alone. When I am gone, promise me that you will look into this mirror every night and every morning: there you shall see me and know that I am still watching over you.”
With these words she took the mirror from the secret place where it was kept, and gave it to her daughter. The child promised, with many tears, to obey, and the mother, having become calm and resigned, died within a short time.
Now the daughter never forgot her mother’s last request, but each morning and evening took the mirror from its hiding place and looked in it long and earnestly. There she saw the bright and smiling vision of her lost mother; not pale and sickly as she was in her last days, but young and beautiful as in the days of long ago. To her mother at night the young girl told the story of the trials and difficulties of the day; and to her mother in the morning she looked forsympathy and encouragement in whatever might be in store for her.
So day by day she lived as in her mother’s sight, striving still to please her as she had always done, and careful always to avoid whatever might pain or grieve her. The maiden’s greatest joy was to be able to look into the mirror and say: “Mother, I have been to-day what you would have me to be.”
Seeing that his daughter looked into the mirror every night and morning, and seemed to hold converse with it, her father at length asked her the reason of her strange behavior.
“Father,” she said, “I look into the mirror every day to see my dear mother and to talk with her.” Then she told him of her mother’s dying wish, and that she had never failed to fulfil it.
Touched by so much simplicity, and such faithful, loving obedience, the father shed tears of pity and affection. Nor could he find it in his heart to tell the child that the image she saw in the mirror was but the reflection of her own sweet face becoming day by day more and more like her dead mother’s.
—From the Japanese.
Press on! if once and twice thy feetSlip back and stumble, harder try;From him who never dreads to meetDanger and death, they’re sure to fly.
Press on! if once and twice thy feetSlip back and stumble, harder try;From him who never dreads to meetDanger and death, they’re sure to fly.
Press on! if once and twice thy feetSlip back and stumble, harder try;From him who never dreads to meetDanger and death, they’re sure to fly.
Press on! if once and twice thy feet
Slip back and stumble, harder try;
From him who never dreads to meet
Danger and death, they’re sure to fly.
It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn budsThat ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now west, now south.Then up and spake an old sailor,Had sailed the Spanish Main,“I pray thee put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!”The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the northeast;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable’s length.“Come hither! come hither! my little daughterAnd do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow.”He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast.“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say what may it be?”“’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”And he steered for the open sea.“O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say what may it be?”“Some ship in distress that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!”“O father! I see a gleaming light,O say what may it be?”But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waveOn the Lake of Galilee.And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman’s Woe.And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf,On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sankHo! ho! the breakers roared!At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,On the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman’s Woe!—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn budsThat ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now west, now south.Then up and spake an old sailor,Had sailed the Spanish Main,“I pray thee put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!”The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the northeast;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable’s length.“Come hither! come hither! my little daughterAnd do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow.”He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast.“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say what may it be?”“’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”And he steered for the open sea.“O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say what may it be?”“Some ship in distress that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!”“O father! I see a gleaming light,O say what may it be?”But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waveOn the Lake of Galilee.And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman’s Woe.And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf,On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sankHo! ho! the breakers roared!At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,On the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman’s Woe!—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.
It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn budsThat ope in the month of May.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now west, now south.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now west, now south.
Then up and spake an old sailor,Had sailed the Spanish Main,“I pray thee put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.
Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish Main,
“I pray thee put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!”The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.
“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!”
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the northeast;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the northeast;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable’s length.
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable’s length.
“Come hither! come hither! my little daughterAnd do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow.”
“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow.”
He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast.
He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say what may it be?”“’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”And he steered for the open sea.
“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
O say what may it be?”
“’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”
And he steered for the open sea.
“O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say what may it be?”“Some ship in distress that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!”
“O father! I hear the sound of guns,
O say what may it be?”
“Some ship in distress that cannot live
In such an angry sea!”
“O father! I see a gleaming light,O say what may it be?”But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.
“O father! I see a gleaming light,
O say what may it be?”
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waveOn the Lake of Galilee.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That savèd she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman’s Woe.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf,On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sankHo! ho! the breakers roared!
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,On the billows fall and rise.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman’s Woe!—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman’s Woe!
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Tender-handed stroke a nettle,And it stings you for your pains,Grasp it like a man of mettle,And it soft as silk remains.
Tender-handed stroke a nettle,And it stings you for your pains,Grasp it like a man of mettle,And it soft as silk remains.
Tender-handed stroke a nettle,And it stings you for your pains,Grasp it like a man of mettle,And it soft as silk remains.
Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains,
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains.
King Edward I of England, commonly known as “Longshanks,” nearly conquered Scotland. It was from no lack of spirit or energy that he did not quite complete his troublesome task, but he died a little too soon. On his death-bed he called his pretty, spiritless son to him, and made him promise to carry on the war; he then ordered that his bones should be wrapped up in a bull’s hide, and carried at the head of the army in future campaigns against the Scots. Edward II soon forgot his promise to his father, and spent his time in dissipation among his favorites, and allowed the resolute Scots to recover Scotland.
Good James, Lord Douglas, was a very wise man in his day. He may not have had long shanks, but he had a very long head. He was one of the hardest foes with whom the two Edwards had to contend, and his long head proved quite too powerful for the second Edward, who, in his single campaign against the Scots, lost at Bannockburn nearly all that his father had gained.
The tall Scottish castle of Roxburgh stood near the border, lifting its grim turrets above the Teviot and the Tweed. When the Black Douglas, as Lord James was called, had recovered castle after castle from the English, he desired to gain this stronghold, and determined to accomplish his wish. But he knew it could be taken only by surprise, anda very wily affair it must be. He had outwitted the English so many times that they were sharply on the lookout for him.
Near the castle was a gloomy old forest, called Jedburgh. Here, just as the first days of spring began to kindle in the sunrise and the sunsets, and warm the frosty hills, the Black Douglas concealed sixty picked men.
It was Shrove-tide, and the festival was to be celebrated with song and harp and a great blaze of light, and free offerings of wine in the great hall of the castle. The garrison was to have leave for merrymaking and indulging in revelry.
The sun had gone down in the red sky, and the long, deep shadows began to fall on the woods, the river, the hills, and valleys. An officer’s wife had retired from the great hall, where all was preparation for the merrymaking, to the high battlements of the castle, in order to quiet her little child and put it to rest. The sentinel, from time to time, paced near her. She began to sing:—
“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye:The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye:The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye:The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye:
The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
She saw some strange objects moving across the level ground in the distance. They greatly puzzled her. They did not travel quite like animals, but they seemed to have four legs.
“What are those queer-looking things yonder?” she asked of the sentinel as he drew near.
“They are Farmer Asher’s cattle,” said the soldier, straining his eyes to discern the outlines of the long figures in the shadows. “The good man is making merry to-night, and has forgotten to bring in his oxen; lucky ’twill be if they do not fall a prey to the Black Douglas.”
So sure was he that the objects were cattle, that he ceased to watch them longer. The woman’s eye, however, followed the queer-looking cattle for some time, until they seemed to disappear under the outer works of the castle. Then feeling quite at ease, she thought she would sing again. Spring was in the evening air; and, perhaps, it was the joyousness of spring which made her sing.
Now, the name of the Black Douglas had become so terrible to the English that it was used to frighten the children, who, when they misbehaved, were told that the Black Douglas would get them. The little ditty I have quoted must have been very quieting to good children in those alarming times.
So the good woman sang cheerily:—
“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;
The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Do not be so sure of that,” said a husky voice close beside her, and a mail-gloved hand fell solidly upon her shoulder. She was dreadfully frightened, for she knew from the appearance of the man he must be the Black Douglas.
The Scots came leaping over the walls. The garrison was merrymaking below, and, almost before the disarmed revellers had any warning, the Black Douglas was in the midst of them. The old stronghold was taken, and many of the garrison were put to the sword; but the Black Douglas spared the woman and the child, who probably never afterwards felt quite so sure about the little ditty:—
“Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
“Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;
The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”
Douglas had caused his picked men to approach the castle by walking on their hands and knees, with long black cloaks thrown over their bodies, and their ladders and weapons concealed under their cloaks. The men thus presented very nearly the appearance of a herd of cattle in the deep shadows, and completely deceived the sentinel, who was probably thinking more of the music and dancing below, than of the watchful enemy who had been haunting the gloomy woods of Jedburgh.
The Black Douglas fought with King Robert Bruce at Bannockburn. One lovely June day, in the far-gone year of 1329, King Robert lay dying. He called Douglas to his bedside, and told him that it had been one of the dearest wishes of his heart to go to the Holy Land, and recover Jerusalem from the Infidels; but since he could not go, he wished him to embalm his heart after his death, and carry it to the Holy City, and deposit it in the Holy Sepulchre.
Douglas had the heart of Bruce embalmed and enclosed in a silver case, and wore it on a silver chain about his neck. He set out for Jerusalem, but resolved first to visit Spain and engage in the war waged against the Moorish king of Granada. He fell in Andalusia, in battle. Just before his death he threw the silver casket into the thickest of the fight, exclaiming, “Heart of Bruce, I follow thee or die!”
His dead body was found beside the casket, and the heart of Bruce was brought back to Scotland and deposited in the ivy-clad Abbey of Melrose.
Douglas was a real hero, and few things more engaging than his exploits were ever told under the holly and mistletoe, or in the warm Christmas light of the old Scottish Yule-logs.—Sir Walter Scott.
King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down in a lonely mood to think;’Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, but his heart was beginning to sink,For he had been trying to do a great deed to make his people glad,He had tried and tried, but couldn’t succeed, and so he became quite sad.He flung himself down in low despair, as grieved as man could be;And after a while as he pondered there, “I’ll give it all up,” said he.Now just at the moment a spider dropped, with its silken cobweb clew,And the king in the midst of his thinking stopped to see what the spider would do.’Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, and it hung by a rope so fine,That how it would get to its cobweb home, King Bruce could not divine.It soon began to cling and crawl straight up with strong endeavor,But down it came, with a slipping sprawl, as near to the ground as ever.Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed, to utter the least complaint,Till it fell still lower, and there it lay, a little dizzy, and faint.Its head grew steady—again it went, and travelled a half yard higher,’Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, and a road where its feet would tire.Again it fell and swung below, but again it quickly mounted,Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts were counted.“Sure,” cried the king, “that foolish thing will strive no more to climb,When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time.”But up the insect went once more, ah me, ’tis an anxious minute;He’s only a foot from his cobweb door, oh, say will he lose or win it?Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, higher and higher he got,And a bold little run at the very last pinch, put him into his native spot.“Bravo, bravo!” the king cried out, “all honor to those who try;The spider up there defied despair; he conquered, and why shouldn’t I?”And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, and gossips tell the tale,That he tried once more as he tried before, and that time he did not fail.Pay goodly heed, all you who read, and beware of saying, “I can’t,”’Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead to Idleness, Folly, and Want.Whenever you find your heart despair of doing some goodly thing,Con over this strain, try bravely again, and remember the Spider and King.
King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down in a lonely mood to think;’Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, but his heart was beginning to sink,For he had been trying to do a great deed to make his people glad,He had tried and tried, but couldn’t succeed, and so he became quite sad.He flung himself down in low despair, as grieved as man could be;And after a while as he pondered there, “I’ll give it all up,” said he.Now just at the moment a spider dropped, with its silken cobweb clew,And the king in the midst of his thinking stopped to see what the spider would do.’Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, and it hung by a rope so fine,That how it would get to its cobweb home, King Bruce could not divine.It soon began to cling and crawl straight up with strong endeavor,But down it came, with a slipping sprawl, as near to the ground as ever.Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed, to utter the least complaint,Till it fell still lower, and there it lay, a little dizzy, and faint.Its head grew steady—again it went, and travelled a half yard higher,’Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, and a road where its feet would tire.Again it fell and swung below, but again it quickly mounted,Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts were counted.“Sure,” cried the king, “that foolish thing will strive no more to climb,When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time.”But up the insect went once more, ah me, ’tis an anxious minute;He’s only a foot from his cobweb door, oh, say will he lose or win it?Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, higher and higher he got,And a bold little run at the very last pinch, put him into his native spot.“Bravo, bravo!” the king cried out, “all honor to those who try;The spider up there defied despair; he conquered, and why shouldn’t I?”And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, and gossips tell the tale,That he tried once more as he tried before, and that time he did not fail.Pay goodly heed, all you who read, and beware of saying, “I can’t,”’Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead to Idleness, Folly, and Want.Whenever you find your heart despair of doing some goodly thing,Con over this strain, try bravely again, and remember the Spider and King.
King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down in a lonely mood to think;’Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, but his heart was beginning to sink,For he had been trying to do a great deed to make his people glad,He had tried and tried, but couldn’t succeed, and so he became quite sad.
King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down in a lonely mood to think;
’Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, but his heart was beginning to sink,
For he had been trying to do a great deed to make his people glad,
He had tried and tried, but couldn’t succeed, and so he became quite sad.
He flung himself down in low despair, as grieved as man could be;And after a while as he pondered there, “I’ll give it all up,” said he.Now just at the moment a spider dropped, with its silken cobweb clew,And the king in the midst of his thinking stopped to see what the spider would do.
He flung himself down in low despair, as grieved as man could be;
And after a while as he pondered there, “I’ll give it all up,” said he.
Now just at the moment a spider dropped, with its silken cobweb clew,
And the king in the midst of his thinking stopped to see what the spider would do.
’Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, and it hung by a rope so fine,That how it would get to its cobweb home, King Bruce could not divine.It soon began to cling and crawl straight up with strong endeavor,But down it came, with a slipping sprawl, as near to the ground as ever.
’Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, and it hung by a rope so fine,
That how it would get to its cobweb home, King Bruce could not divine.
It soon began to cling and crawl straight up with strong endeavor,
But down it came, with a slipping sprawl, as near to the ground as ever.
Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed, to utter the least complaint,Till it fell still lower, and there it lay, a little dizzy, and faint.Its head grew steady—again it went, and travelled a half yard higher,’Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, and a road where its feet would tire.
Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed, to utter the least complaint,
Till it fell still lower, and there it lay, a little dizzy, and faint.
Its head grew steady—again it went, and travelled a half yard higher,
’Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, and a road where its feet would tire.
Again it fell and swung below, but again it quickly mounted,Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts were counted.“Sure,” cried the king, “that foolish thing will strive no more to climb,When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time.”
Again it fell and swung below, but again it quickly mounted,
Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts were counted.
“Sure,” cried the king, “that foolish thing will strive no more to climb,
When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time.”
But up the insect went once more, ah me, ’tis an anxious minute;He’s only a foot from his cobweb door, oh, say will he lose or win it?Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, higher and higher he got,And a bold little run at the very last pinch, put him into his native spot.
But up the insect went once more, ah me, ’tis an anxious minute;
He’s only a foot from his cobweb door, oh, say will he lose or win it?
Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, higher and higher he got,
And a bold little run at the very last pinch, put him into his native spot.
“Bravo, bravo!” the king cried out, “all honor to those who try;The spider up there defied despair; he conquered, and why shouldn’t I?”And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, and gossips tell the tale,That he tried once more as he tried before, and that time he did not fail.
“Bravo, bravo!” the king cried out, “all honor to those who try;
The spider up there defied despair; he conquered, and why shouldn’t I?”
And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, and gossips tell the tale,
That he tried once more as he tried before, and that time he did not fail.
Pay goodly heed, all you who read, and beware of saying, “I can’t,”’Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead to Idleness, Folly, and Want.Whenever you find your heart despair of doing some goodly thing,Con over this strain, try bravely again, and remember the Spider and King.
Pay goodly heed, all you who read, and beware of saying, “I can’t,”
’Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead to Idleness, Folly, and Want.
Whenever you find your heart despair of doing some goodly thing,
Con over this strain, try bravely again, and remember the Spider and King.
—Eliza Cook.
When I was a little girl, I caught a grasshopper and put him into a bottle. Then I sat down outside the bottle, and looked at the grasshopper. He sat inside the bottle, and looked at me.
It began to grow upon my mind that the grasshopper looked much like an old man. His face, with the big, solemn eyes and straight mouth, was like an old man’s face. He wore a gray coat, like a loose duster. He had a wrinkled greenish vest. He wore knee-breeches and long red stockings. The more I looked at him, the more he looked like a little, grave, old-time man who came to visit my aged grandfather. But I thought my grasshopper in the bottle felt like a prisoner. I said, “Now you may go, my Old Man of the Meadow.”
I took the cork out of the bottle. The grasshopper at once leaped up, and sat on the rim of the bottle. Then a strange thing happened. The Old Man of the Meadowspread out two wide brown wings. They had a broad, lemon-colored band on them. They were gay as the wings of a butterfly. On them he sailed away.
I could hardly believe my eyes. I ran after him to a tall stalk of golden-rod. There he sat, a plain, gray-green old man. But again he spread out the wide wings, and was gone. My Old Man of the Meadow had then this splendid dress-coat under his sober overcoat. Seated at rest, he looked plain and quiet,—a creature of the earth. Lifted into the air, he was nearly as fine as a butterfly.
The grasshopper lives much in the grass, and his chief motion is in hops, or long jumps. He has another name, “the murmurer.” This is given him because of the noise or song he makes. His song is loud and shrill. It is made by rubbing his wings one upon the other. He has a little piece of skin like a tight drumhead set in each wing. As he moves his wings, this tiny drum vibrates, or trembles, and makes the shrill sound. Mrs. Grasshopper does not have this drum in her wings.
Let us take a closer look at the grasshopper. As he is an insect, he should have a body made in rings, in three parts, with four wings and six legs set on the second, or chest part. His front pair of legs is shorter than the others. This hinders him in walking over a level surface. But it helps him in walking up a tree, or small plant, or a wall. See the hind legs! They are more than twice as long as theothers. The thigh, or upper part, is very long and strong. By means of these big legs the grasshopper is a famous jumper.
Now, if you have a grasshopper to look at, you will see that the feet have four parts. The part of the leg between the foot and the thigh has sharp points like the teeth of a comb. The hind part of the body is long and slender, and, being made of rings, can bend easily. In the great green grasshopper all the body is of a fine green tint.
Let us look at the wings. The upper pair, or wing-covers, are large and long. Notice two things about the wings: they lap at the tips, and are high in the middle. When they are shut, they have a shape like a slanting roof. The upper ones are longer than the lower ones. These wing-cases have large veins. Lift up a wing-case and pull out a lower wing. It is folded very closely, in lengthwise plaits. Where these wings join Mr. Grasshopper’s body, you will find his drum plate for making music. One kind of grasshopper has very short wing-covers. In that kind, both Mr. and Mrs. Grasshopper make music. There is also one grasshopper, a little green fellow, that has no drum, and is silent.
The upper side of the grasshopper’s chest is shaped like a great horny collar. The head is large, and has two big glossy eyes. There is, also, a knob on the forehead. Between the eyes are set the feelers. They are very long, even longer than all the body. The mouth of the grasshopper iswide, and it has strong jaws. But they are not so strong as those of his cousin, the cricket.
Grasshoppers prefer vegetable food. They will sometimes eat animal food. When two are shut up in a box, they will fight, and the one which is killed will be eaten by the victor.
If you could look inside the grasshopper’s body, you would see that he has a gizzard much like that of a chicken. It is made of little bands set with fine teeth. These teeth chew up into a pulp the leaves which the grasshopper has eaten. After he has eaten for a long time, he sits quite still. He looks as if he were thinking. Sometimes, when he sits in this way, he moves his mouth as if chewing. From this action, people used to think that he chewed the cud, as cows and sheep do. But he does not chew the cud. If you watch him well, in these silent times, you will see him gravely licking his long feelers and his lips. He seems to be cleaning them. To do this, he runs out a long, limber tongue, shaped much like yours.
The color in the grasshopper does not seem to be laid on the surface of his coat, as on that of the beetle. It is not put on in plumes and scales, as the butterfly has it. But it is dyed through and through the wings and body. The wing-cases and the rings of the body are not hard, like horn or shell, as in the beetle tribe. They are of a tough skin, and are dyed with the color.
The grasshopper does not change its home. It dies near where it was born. Frost and cold kill it. It does not outlive the winter, as butterflies, bees, and wasps do. Each grasshopper lives alone. He does nothing for his neighbor, and his neighbor does nothing for him.
—Julia MacNair Wright.
John Gilpin riding
John Gilpin was a citizenOf credit and renown,A train-band captain eke was heOf famous London town.John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,“Though wedded we have beenThese thrice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen.“To-morrow is our wedding-day,And we will then repairUnto the Bell at Edmonton,All in a chaise and pair.“My sister and my sister’s child,Myself and children three,Will fill the chaise; so you must rideOn horseback after we.”He soon replied, “I do admireOf womankind but one;And you are she, my dearest dear,Therefore it shall be done.“I am a linen-draper bold,As all the world doth know,And my good friend the calenderWill lend his horse to go.”Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said;And for that wine is dear,We will be furnished with our own,Which is both bright and clear.”John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;O’erjoyed was he to find,That though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.
John Gilpin was a citizenOf credit and renown,A train-band captain eke was heOf famous London town.John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,“Though wedded we have beenThese thrice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen.“To-morrow is our wedding-day,And we will then repairUnto the Bell at Edmonton,All in a chaise and pair.“My sister and my sister’s child,Myself and children three,Will fill the chaise; so you must rideOn horseback after we.”He soon replied, “I do admireOf womankind but one;And you are she, my dearest dear,Therefore it shall be done.“I am a linen-draper bold,As all the world doth know,And my good friend the calenderWill lend his horse to go.”Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said;And for that wine is dear,We will be furnished with our own,Which is both bright and clear.”John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;O’erjoyed was he to find,That though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.
John Gilpin was a citizenOf credit and renown,A train-band captain eke was heOf famous London town.
John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A train-band captain eke was he
Of famous London town.
John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,“Though wedded we have beenThese thrice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen.
John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,
“Though wedded we have been
These thrice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
“To-morrow is our wedding-day,And we will then repairUnto the Bell at Edmonton,All in a chaise and pair.
“To-morrow is our wedding-day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.
“My sister and my sister’s child,Myself and children three,Will fill the chaise; so you must rideOn horseback after we.”
“My sister and my sister’s child,
Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we.”
He soon replied, “I do admireOf womankind but one;And you are she, my dearest dear,Therefore it shall be done.
He soon replied, “I do admire
Of womankind but one;
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.
“I am a linen-draper bold,As all the world doth know,And my good friend the calenderWill lend his horse to go.”
“I am a linen-draper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go.”
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said;And for that wine is dear,We will be furnished with our own,Which is both bright and clear.”
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said;
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.”
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;O’erjoyed was he to find,That though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O’erjoyed was he to find,
That though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.