BEAUTIFUL JOE

Govern the lipsAs they were palace doors, the king within;Tranquil and fair and courteous be all wordsWhich from that presence win.

Govern the lipsAs they were palace doors, the king within;Tranquil and fair and courteous be all wordsWhich from that presence win.

Govern the lipsAs they were palace doors, the king within;Tranquil and fair and courteous be all wordsWhich from that presence win.

Govern the lips

As they were palace doors, the king within;

Tranquil and fair and courteous be all words

Which from that presence win.

I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small town. The first thing I remember was lying close to my mother and being very snug and warm. The next thing I remember was being always hungry. I am very unwilling to say much about my early life. I have lived so long in a family where there is never a harsh word spoken, and where no one thinks of ill-treating anybody or anything, that it seems almost wrong even to think or speak of such a matter as hurting a poor dumb beast.

Joe

The man that owned my mother was a milkman. He kept one horse and three cows, and he had a shaky old cart that he used to put his milk-cans in. I don’t think there can be a worse man in the world than that milkman. He used to beat and starve my mother. I have seen him use his heavy whip to punish her. When I got older I asked her why she did not run away. She said she did not wish to; but I soon found out that the reason that she did not run away was because she loved her master. Cruel and savage as he was, she yet loved him, and I believe she would have laid down her life for him.

R. Ansdell.The Wounded Hound

R. Ansdell.The Wounded Hound

R. Ansdell.

The Wounded Hound

One reason for our master’s cruelty was his idleness. After he went his rounds in the morning with his milk-cans, he had nothing to do till late in the afternoon but take care of his stable and yard. If he had kept them clean, it would have taken up all his time; but he never did anything to make his home neat and pleasant.

My mother and I slept on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable, and when she heard his step in the morning she always roused me, so that we could run out as soon as he opened the stable door. He always aimed a kick at us as we passed, but my mother taught me how to dodge him.

After our master put the horse in the cart, and took in the cans, he set out on his rounds. My mother always went with him. I used to ask her why she followed such a man, and she would say that sometimes she got a bone from the different houses they stopped at. But that was not the whole reason. She liked the master so much, that in spite of his cruelty she wanted to be with him.

I had not her sweet and patient disposition, and I would not go with her. I watched her out of sight, and then ran up to the house to see if the master’s wife had any scraps for me. I nearly always got something, for she pitied me, and often gave me a kind word or look with the bits of food that she threw to me.

I had a number of brothers and sisters—six in all. One rainy day when we were eight weeks old the master, followedby two or three of his ragged, dirty children, came into the stable, and looked at us. Then he began to swear because we were so ugly, and said if we had been good looking, he might have sold some of us. Mother watched him anxiously, fearing some danger to her puppies, and looked up at him pleadingly. It only made him swear the more. He took one puppy after another, and right there, before his children and my poor distracted mother, put an end to their lives. It was very terrible. I lay weak and trembling, expecting every instant that my turn would come next. I don’t know why he spared me. I was the only one left.

My mother never seemed the same after this. She was weak and miserable. And though she was only four years old, she seemed like an old dog. She could not run after the master, and she lay on our heap of straw, only turning over with her nose the scraps of food I brought her to eat. One day she licked me gently, wagged her tail, and died.

As I sat by her, feeling lonely and miserable, my master came into the stable. I could not bear to look at him. He had killed my mother. There she lay, a little gaunt, scarred creature, starved and worried to death by him. She would never again look kindly at me, or curl up to me at night to keep me warm. Oh, how I hated her murderer! Still I kept quiet till he walked up to me and kicked at me. My heart was nearly broken, and I could stand no more. I flew at him and gave him a savage bite on the ankle.

“Oho!” he said. “So you are going to be a fighter, are you? I’ll fix you for that.” He seized me by the back of the neck and carried me out to the yard where a log lay on the ground. “Tom,” he called to one of his children, “bring me the hatchet!”

He laid my head on the log and pressed one hand on my struggling body. There was a quick, dreadful pain, and he had cut off my ear close to my head. Then he cut off the other ear, and turning me swiftly round, cut off my tail. Then he let me go, and stood looking at me as I rolled on the ground and yelped in agony. He was in such a passion that he did not think that people passing on the street might hear me.

There was a young man going by. He heard my screams, and hurrying up the path stood among us before the master caught sight of him.

In the midst of my pain, I heard the young man say, fiercely, “What have you been doing to that dog?”

“I’ve been cutting his ears, for fighting, my young gentleman,” said my master; “there is no law to prevent that, is there?”

“And there is no law to prevent me from taking a dog away from such a cruel owner, either,” cried the young man; and giving the master an angry look, he snatched me up in his arms, and walked down the path and out of the gate.

I was moaning with pain, but still I looked up occasionally to see which way we were going. We took the road to the town and stopped in front of a pleasant-looking home. Carrying me gently in his arms, the young man went up a walk leading to the back of the house. There was a small stable there. He went into it and put me down on the floor. Some boys were playing about the stable, and I heard them say, in horrified tones, “Oh, Cousin Harry, what is the matter with that dog?”

“Hush,” he said. “Don’t say anything. You, Jack, go down to the kitchen and ask Mary for a basin of warm water and a sponge, and don’t let your mother or Laura hear you.”

A few minutes later the young man had bathed my ears and tail, and had rubbed something on them that was cool and pleasant, and had bandaged them firmly with strips of cotton. I felt much better and was able to look about me.

Presently one of the boys cried out, “Here is Laura.” A young girl, holding up one hand to shade her eyes from the sun, was coming up the walk that led from the house to the stable. I thought then that I never had seen such a beautiful girl, and I think so still. She was tall and slender, and had lovely brown eyes and brown hair, and a sweet smile, and just to look at her was enough to make one love her.

“Why, what a funny dog!” she said, and stopped short and looked at me. Up to this, I had not thought what a queer-looking sight I must be. Now I twisted round myhead, saw the white bandage on my tail, and knowing I was not a fit spectacle for a pretty young lady like that, I slunk into a corner.

“Poor doggie, have I hurt your feelings?” she said. “What is the matter with your head, good dog?”

“Dear Laura,” said the young man, coming up, “he got hurt, and I have been bandaging him.”

“Who hurt him?”

“I would rather not tell you.”

“But I wish to know.” Her voice was as gentle as ever, but she spoke so decidedly that the young man was obliged to tell her everything. All the time he was speaking she kept touching me gently with her fingers. When he had finished his account of rescuing me from the master, she said quietly:—

“You will have the man punished?”

“What is the use? That won’t stop him from being cruel.”

“It will put a check on his cruelty.”

“I don’t think it would do any good,” said the young man.

“Cousin Harry!” and the young girl stood up very straight and tall, her brown eyes flashing, and one hand pointing at me. “That animal has been wronged; it looks to you to right it. The coward who has maimed it for life should be punished. A child has a voice to tell its wrong,—a poor, dumb creature must suffer in silence; in bitter, bitter silence. And you are doing the man himself an injustice. If he is bad enough to illtreat his dog, he will illtreat his wife and children. If he is checked and punished now for his cruelty, he may reform. And even if his wicked heart is not changed, he will be obliged to treat them with outward kindness through fear of punishment. I want you to report that man immediately. I shall go with you if you like.”

“Very well,” he said, and together they went off to the house.

The boys came and bent over me, as I lay on the floor in the corner. I wasn’t much used to boys, and I didn’t know how they would treat me. It seemed very strange to have them pat me, and call me “good dog.” No one had ever said that to me before to-day.

One of them said, “What did Cousin Harry say the dog’s name was?”

“Joe,” answered another boy.

“We might call him ‘Ugly Joe,’ then,” said a lad with a round fat face and laughing eyes.

“I don’t think Laura would like that,” said Jack, coming up behind him. “You see,” he went on, “if you call him ‘Ugly Joe,’ she will say that you are wounding the dog’s feelings. ‘Beautiful Joe’ would be more to her liking.”

A shout went up from the boys. I don’t wonder theylaughed. Plain-looking I naturally was; but I must have been hideous in those bandages.

“‘Beautiful,’ then, let it be,” they cried. “Let us go and tell mother, and ask her to give us something for our beauty to eat,” and they all trooped out of the stable.

—Marshall Saunders.

By permission of the Standard Publishing Co.

Into a ward of the whitewashed hallsWhere the dead and dying lay,Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,Somebody’s darling was borne one day—Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.Matted and damp are the curls of gold,Kissing the snow of that fair young browPale are the lips of delicate mould,—Somebody’s darling is dying now.Back from his beautiful, blue-veined browBrush all the wandering waves of gold,Cross his hands on his bosom now,Somebody’s darling is still and cold.Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,Murmur a prayer soft and low;One bright curl from its fair mates take,—They were somebody’s pride you know.Somebody’s hand had rested there,—Was it a mother’s, soft and white?And have the lips of a sister fairBeen baptized in those waves of light?God knows best; he has somebody’s love;Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;Somebody wafted his name above,Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.Somebody wept when he marched away,Looking so handsome, brave, and grand:Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,Somebody clung to his parting hand.Somebody’s waiting and watching for him,Yearning to hold him again to the heart;And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,And the smiling, childlike lips apart.Tenderly bury the fair young dead,Pausing to drop on his grave a tear:Carve on the wooden slab at his head,—“Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”—Marie Lacoste.

Into a ward of the whitewashed hallsWhere the dead and dying lay,Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,Somebody’s darling was borne one day—Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.Matted and damp are the curls of gold,Kissing the snow of that fair young browPale are the lips of delicate mould,—Somebody’s darling is dying now.Back from his beautiful, blue-veined browBrush all the wandering waves of gold,Cross his hands on his bosom now,Somebody’s darling is still and cold.Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,Murmur a prayer soft and low;One bright curl from its fair mates take,—They were somebody’s pride you know.Somebody’s hand had rested there,—Was it a mother’s, soft and white?And have the lips of a sister fairBeen baptized in those waves of light?God knows best; he has somebody’s love;Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;Somebody wafted his name above,Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.Somebody wept when he marched away,Looking so handsome, brave, and grand:Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,Somebody clung to his parting hand.Somebody’s waiting and watching for him,Yearning to hold him again to the heart;And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,And the smiling, childlike lips apart.Tenderly bury the fair young dead,Pausing to drop on his grave a tear:Carve on the wooden slab at his head,—“Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”—Marie Lacoste.

Into a ward of the whitewashed hallsWhere the dead and dying lay,Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,Somebody’s darling was borne one day—Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls

Where the dead and dying lay,

Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,

Somebody’s darling was borne one day—

Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,

Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,

Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,

The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,Kissing the snow of that fair young browPale are the lips of delicate mould,—Somebody’s darling is dying now.Back from his beautiful, blue-veined browBrush all the wandering waves of gold,Cross his hands on his bosom now,Somebody’s darling is still and cold.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow

Pale are the lips of delicate mould,—

Somebody’s darling is dying now.

Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow

Brush all the wandering waves of gold,

Cross his hands on his bosom now,

Somebody’s darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,Murmur a prayer soft and low;One bright curl from its fair mates take,—They were somebody’s pride you know.Somebody’s hand had rested there,—Was it a mother’s, soft and white?And have the lips of a sister fairBeen baptized in those waves of light?

Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,

Murmur a prayer soft and low;

One bright curl from its fair mates take,—

They were somebody’s pride you know.

Somebody’s hand had rested there,—

Was it a mother’s, soft and white?

And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in those waves of light?

God knows best; he has somebody’s love;Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;Somebody wafted his name above,Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.Somebody wept when he marched away,Looking so handsome, brave, and grand:Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,Somebody clung to his parting hand.

God knows best; he has somebody’s love;

Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;

Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.

Somebody wept when he marched away,

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand:

Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,

Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody’s waiting and watching for him,Yearning to hold him again to the heart;And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,And the smiling, childlike lips apart.Tenderly bury the fair young dead,Pausing to drop on his grave a tear:Carve on the wooden slab at his head,—“Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”—Marie Lacoste.

Somebody’s waiting and watching for him,

Yearning to hold him again to the heart;

And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,

And the smiling, childlike lips apart.

Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear:

Carve on the wooden slab at his head,—

“Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”

—Marie Lacoste.

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;Oh, give me my lowly, thatched cottage again.The birds singing gayly that came at my call;Give me them, and with the peace of mind, dearer than all.Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.How sweet, too, to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile,Let others delight ’mid new pleasures to roam,But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home!Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.To thee I’ll return, overburdened with care;The heart’s dearest face will smile on me there,No more from that cottage again will I roam,Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.—John Howard Payne.

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;Oh, give me my lowly, thatched cottage again.The birds singing gayly that came at my call;Give me them, and with the peace of mind, dearer than all.Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.How sweet, too, to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile,Let others delight ’mid new pleasures to roam,But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home!Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.To thee I’ll return, overburdened with care;The heart’s dearest face will smile on me there,No more from that cottage again will I roam,Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.—John Howard Payne.

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.

Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;Oh, give me my lowly, thatched cottage again.The birds singing gayly that came at my call;Give me them, and with the peace of mind, dearer than all.Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;

Oh, give me my lowly, thatched cottage again.

The birds singing gayly that came at my call;

Give me them, and with the peace of mind, dearer than all.

Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

How sweet, too, to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile,Let others delight ’mid new pleasures to roam,But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home!Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

How sweet, too, to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,

And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile,

Let others delight ’mid new pleasures to roam,

But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home!

Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

To thee I’ll return, overburdened with care;The heart’s dearest face will smile on me there,No more from that cottage again will I roam,Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.—John Howard Payne.

To thee I’ll return, overburdened with care;

The heart’s dearest face will smile on me there,

No more from that cottage again will I roam,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

—John Howard Payne.

There were plenty of little low houses in the pond, and in each one lived a family of beavers. It was the delight of the little beavers to explore every corner of the pond, from the brook at the upper end to the dam at the lower end.

Very likely the little fellows believed that the dam had always been there. But, in fact, the old beavers had built it themselves. When they first came to that spot in the woods, they found only a brook flowing over a hard, gravelly bottom. They first cut down a bush and floated it along till it stuck fast between a rock and a clump of trees. Next they cut other bushes, and carried down poles and branches, till they had a tangle of brush stretching from one bank to the other. Upon this they piled sticks and stones and mud, and then more sticks and stones and mud, and then still more sticks and stones and mud.

At last the dam was so high and solid that the water could not flow through. So it spread out in a pond above the dam till it was deep enough to trickle over the top and tinkle away in a little brook under the trees.

Tiny islands were left here and there in the pond. The old beavers built their houses on the islands or on the bank. First each mother and father dug two tunnels from the bottom of the pond up through the earth to the floor of their house. One tunnel was to be used when going in and outduring the summer. The other tunnel led to their winter pantry under the water. This pantry was to be a pile of fresh sticks cut in the woods every autumn.

The Beavers at Work

The Beavers at Work

Around the two holes in the floor the beavers laid logs and stones in a circle. Upon this foundation they piled sticks and sod to form walls and a roof. Then they plastered the house all over with mud. At the top of the roof they left a small hole, covered only with a tangle of sticks. This was for fresh air. Last of all they swam inside and made the walls even by gnawing off the sharp ends of the wood. Then the house was ready to be furnished with beds of leaves and grasses.

Perhaps during the happy summer the baby beavers believed that play was the most delightful thing in the world. But soon the father beavers came strolling back to the village to cut down trees for the winter. Then the little fellows found that work was even better fun than play.

One night the little beavers followed their parents into the woods and watched them cut down a tree. The father stood up on his hind legs, propping himself with his tail, and began to cut a notch around the trunk. The mother helped on the other side. They gnawed upwards and downwards, digging out huge chips with their chisel teeth. The circle grew deeper and deeper, till the father’s head was almost hidden whenever he thrust it in to take a fresh bite. When finally the wood cracked and the tree-top began tosway, all the family scampered away to the pond. They dived for the tunnel and hid in the house for a while. There was danger that some hungry wildcat had heard the crash of the branches and had hurried there to catch them for its supper.

As soon as it seemed safe to do so, the beavers paddled out again and trotted away to the fallen tree. The parents trimmed off the branches and cut the trunk into pieces short enough to carry. The father seized a thick pole in his teeth and swung it over his shoulders. As he dragged it towards the pond he kept his head twisted to one side, so that the end of the pole trailed on the ground.

It happened that he reached the pond just in time to help mend the dam with his thick pole. A pointed log had jammed a hole in the dam. The water was beginning to pour through the hole with a rush. If the pond should run dry, the doors of the tunnels would be left in plain sight. Then probably a wolf, or some other enemy, would hide there to catch the beavers on their way from the woods to their houses.

The old father pushed his pole into the water; then he jumped in, and taking hold of it with his teeth, he swam out above the hole. When he let go, the water carried the pole squarely across the break in the dam. The other beavers cut bushes and floated them down to weave across the hole. After that they scooped up mud and stonesto plaster the dam till not a drop trickled through the mended places.

The next work to be done that autumn was to gather food for the winter. Some of the trees with the juiciest bark grew too far away to be easily dragged to the pond. All the grown-up beavers set to work to dig a canal. They dug and scooped and gnawed off roots, and dragged out stones, till they had made a long canal more than a foot deep. The water flowed into this from the pond. Then it was easy enough to float wood from the juicy trees down to the beaver village.

Even the babies could help in towing the wood down the canal and across the pond to the different houses. Some of the wood became so heavy with soaked-up water that it sank to the bottom beside the doors, and could be packed in a solid pile as easily as on land. Most of the wood, however, kept light enough to float. Instead of heaping new sticks on top, the beavers pushed them under the top branches. Then more was pressed under that, and more under that, till the pile reached to the bottom. In the winter, of course, the top sticks could not be eaten, because they would be frozen fast in the ice.

All winter long the beavers lived quietly in their little homes under the snow. Most of the time they slept, each on his own soft bed in the dark. Whenever they were hungry, they paddled down the tunnel which led to thewoodpile. Gnawing off some sticks they swam back with the bundles under their chins. They used the middle of the room for a dining-table. There they nibbled the bark. Then they carried the peeled sticks back into the pond. They did not like to have rubbish left on the floor.

So the winter months slipped away. At last spring melted the ice on the pond. Here and there in the black water little brown heads came popping up. They went ploughing towards shore, leaving the rippled water stretching behind. Up the banks scrambled the beavers,—mother beavers and father beavers, big brother beavers and big sister beavers, and all the little beavers who had been babies the year before. Away roamed the fathers up the brook, to have a good time travelling all summer long. The grown-up brothers and sisters began to build dams and houses of their own, while the little fellows wandered into the woods to find their dinners of tender buds and twigs.

—Julia Augusta Swartz.

From “Wilderness Babies,” by permission of Little, Brown & Company.

There’s not a flower that decks the vale,There’s not a beam that lights the mountain,There’s not a shrub that scents the gale,There’s not a wind that stirs the fountain,But in its use or beauty showsTrue love to us, and love undying.

There’s not a flower that decks the vale,There’s not a beam that lights the mountain,There’s not a shrub that scents the gale,There’s not a wind that stirs the fountain,But in its use or beauty showsTrue love to us, and love undying.

There’s not a flower that decks the vale,There’s not a beam that lights the mountain,There’s not a shrub that scents the gale,There’s not a wind that stirs the fountain,But in its use or beauty showsTrue love to us, and love undying.

There’s not a flower that decks the vale,

There’s not a beam that lights the mountain,

There’s not a shrub that scents the gale,

There’s not a wind that stirs the fountain,

But in its use or beauty shows

True love to us, and love undying.

I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flow,To join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers,I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows,I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flow,To join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers,I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows,I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,

By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,

I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.

With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow,To join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow,

To join the brimming river;

For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,

And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me, as I travel

With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.

And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers,I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers,

I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows,I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows,

I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses;

I linger by my shingly bars;

I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

In my travels about the world I have made the acquaintance of a great many children, and I might tell you many things about their dress, their speech, and their habits of life in the different countries I have visited. I presume, however, that you would rather hear me relate some of my experiences in which children have taken part, so this shall be the story of my adventure with a little postboy, in the northern part of Sweden.

Very few foreigners travel in Sweden in the winter, on account of the intense cold. I made my journey in this season, however, because I was on my way to Lapland, where it is easier to travel when the swamps and rivers are frozen, and the reindeer sleds can fly along over the smooth snow. It was very cold, indeed, the greater part of the time; the days were short and dark, and if I had not found thepeople so kind, so cheerful, and so honest, I should more than once have felt inclined to turn back.

But I do not think there are better people in the world than those who live in Norrland, which is a province in the northern part of Sweden. They are a tall, strong race, with yellow hair and bright blue eyes. They live plainly, but very comfortably, in snug wooden houses, with double windows and doors to keep out the cold; and since they cannot do much outdoor work, they spin and weave and mend their farming implements in the large family room, thus enjoying the winter in spite of its severity.

Here there are neither railroads nor stages, but the government has established post stations at distances varying from ten to twenty miles. At each station a number of horses, and sometimes vehicles, are kept, but generally the traveller has his own sled, and simply hires the horses from one station to another. These horses are furnished either by the keeper of the station or by some of the neighboring farmers; and when they are wanted, a man or boy goes with the traveller to bring them back.

I had my own little sled, filled with hay and covered with reindeer skins to keep me warm. So long as the weather was not too cold, it was very pleasant to speed along through the dark forests, over the frozen rivers, or past farm after farm in the sheltered valleys, up hill and down until long after the stars came out, then to get a warm supperin some dark red post cottage, while the cheerful people sang or told stories around the fire.

The cold increased a little every day, to be sure; but I became gradually accustomed to it, and soon began to fancy that the Arctic climate was not so difficult to endure as I had supposed. At first the thermometer fell to zero; then it went down ten degrees below; then twenty, and finally thirty. Being dressed in thick furs from head to foot, I did not suffer greatly; but I was very glad when the people assured me that such extreme cold never lasted more than two or three days. Boys of twelve or fourteen very often went with me to bring their fathers’ horses, and so long as those lively, red-cheeked fellows could face the weather, it would not do for me to be afraid.

One night there was a wonderful aurora in the sky. The streamers of red and blue light darted hither and thither, chasing each other up to the zenith and down again to the northern horizon, with a rapidity and a brilliance which I had never seen before.

“There will be a storm soon,” said my postboy; “one always comes after these lights.”

Next morning the sky was overcast, and the short day was as dark as our twilight. But it was not quite so cold, and I travelled onwards as fast as possible. There was a long tract of wild and thinly settled country before me, and I wished to get through it before stopping for the night. Unfortunately it happened that two lumber merchants were travelling the same way and had taken the post horses; so I was obliged to wait at the stations until horses were brought from the neighboring farms. This delayed me so much that at seven o’clock in the evening I had still one more station of three Swedish miles before reaching the village where I intended to spend the night. Now, a Swedish mile is nearly equal to seven English miles, so that this station was at least twenty miles long.

I decided to take supper while the horse was eating his feed. The keeper’s wife—a friendly, rosy-faced woman—prepared me some excellent coffee, potatoes, and stewed reindeer meat, upon which I made a satisfactory meal. The house was on the border of a large, dark forest, and the roar of the icy northern wind in the trees seemed to increase while I waited in the warm room.

I did not feel inclined to go forth into the wintry storm, but, having set my mind on reaching the village that night, I was loath to turn back.

“It is a bad night,” said the woman, “and my husband who has gone on with the two lumbermen will certainly stay at Umea until morning. His name is Neils Petersen, and I think you will find him at the posthouse when you get there. Lars will take you, and they can come back together.”

“Who is Lars?” I asked.

“My son,” said she. “He is getting the horse ready. There is nobody else about the house to-night.”

Just then the door opened, and in came Lars. He was about twelve years old; but his face was so rosy, his eyes so clear and round and blue, and his golden hair was blown back from his face in such silky curls, that he appeared to be even younger. I was surprised that his mother should be willing to send him twenty miles through the dark woods on such a night.

“Come here, Lars,” I said. Then I took him by the hand and asked him, “Are you not afraid to go so far to-night?”

He looked at me with wondering eyes, and smiled, and his mother made haste to say:—

“You need not fear, sir. Lars is young, but he’ll take you safe enough. If the storm doesn’t get worse, you will be at Umea by eleven o’clock.”

The boy had put on his overcoat of sheepskin, tied the lappets of his fur cap under his chin and a thick woollen scarf around his nose and mouth, so that only the round blue eyes were visible. Drawing on his mittens of hare’s fur, he took a short leather whip, and was ready.

I wrapped myself in my furs, and we went out together. The driving snow cut me in the face like needles, but Lars did not mind it in the least. He jumped into the sled, which he had filled with fresh, soft hay, tucked in the reindeer skins at the sides, and we cuddled together on the narrow seat.

The night was dark, the snow blew incessantly, and the tall fir trees roared all around us. Lars, however, knew the way, and somehow or other we kept the beaten track. He talked to the horse so cheerfully that my own spirits began to rise.

“Ho there, Axel!” he would say. “Keep the road,—not too far to the left. Well done! Here’s a level; now trot a bit.”

So we went on,—sometimes up hill, sometimes down hill,—for a long time, as it seemed. I began to grow chilly, and even Lars handed me the reins, while he swung and beat his arms to keep the blood in circulation. He no longer sang little songs as when we first set out; but he was not in the least alarmed, or even impatient. Whenever I asked, as I did about every five minutes, “Are we nearly there?” he always answered, “A little farther.”

Suddenly the wind seemed to increase.

“Ah,” said he, “now I know where we are; it’s one mile more.” But one mile, you must remember, meantseven.

Lars checked the horse, and peered anxiously from side to side in the darkness. I looked also, but could see nothing.

“What is the matter?” I finally asked.

“We have got past the hills on the left,” he said. “The country is open to the wind, and here the snow drifts worse than anywhere else on the road. If there have been no snow ploughs out to-night, we shall have trouble.”

You must know that the farmers along the road are obliged to turn out with their horses and oxen, and plough down the drifts, whenever the road is blocked up by a storm.

In less than a quarter of an hour we could see that the horse was sinking in the deep snow. He plunged bravely forward, but made scarcely any headway, and presently became so exhausted that he stood quite still.

Lars and I stood up and looked around. In a few minutes the horse started again, and with great labor carried us a few yards farther.

“Shall we get out and try to find the road?” said I.

“It’s no use,” Lars answered. “In these new drifts we would sink to the waist. Wait a little, and we shall get through this one.”

It was as he said. Another pull brought us through the deep part of the drift, and we reached a place where the snow was quite shallow. But it was not the hard, smooth surface of the road; we could feel that the ground was uneven, and covered with roots and bushes. Bidding Axel stand still, Lars jumped out of the sled and began wading around among the trees.

I shouted to him, in order to guide him, and it was not long before he came back to the sled.

“If I knew where the road was,” said he, “I could get into it again. But I don’t know, and I think we must stay here all night.”

“We shall freeze to death in an hour!” I cried. I was already chilled to the bone. The wind had made me very drowsy, and I knew that if I slept, I should soon be frozen.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Lars, cheerfully. “I am a Norrlander, and Norrlanders never freeze. I went with the men to the bear hunt last winter, upon the mountains, and we were several nights in the snow. Besides, I know what my father did with a gentleman from Stockholm on this very road, and we’ll do it to-night.”

“What is it?”

“Let me take care of Axel first,” said Lars. “We can spare him some hay and one reindeer skin.”

It was a slow and difficult task to unharness the horse, but we accomplished it at last. Lars then led him under the drooping branches of a fir-tree, tied him to one of them, gave him an armful of hay, and fastened the reindeer skin upon his back. Axel began to eat as if satisfied with the arrangement.

When this was done, Lars spread the remaining hay evenly over the bottom of the sled and covered it with the skins, which he tucked in very firmly on the side towards the wind. Then lifting them on the other side, he said:—

“Now take off your fur coat, quick, lay it over the hay, and then creep under it.”

I obeyed as rapidly as possible. For an instant I shuddered in the icy air; but the next moment I lay stretchedin the bottom of the sled, sheltered from the storm. I held up the ends of the reindeer skins while Lars took off his coat and crept in beside me. Then we drew the skins down and pressed the hay against them. When the wind seemed to be entirely excluded, Lars said that we must pull off our boots, untie our scarfs, and loosen our clothes. When this was done and we lay close together, I found that the chill gradually passed out of my blood. My hands and feet were no longer numb; a delightful feeling of comfort crept over me, and I lay as snugly as in the best bed. I was surprised to find that, although my head was covered, I did not feel stifled. Enough air came in under the skins to prevent us from feeling oppressed.

In five minutes, I think, we were sound asleep, and I dreamed of gathering peaches on a warm August day at home. In fact, I did not wake up thoroughly during the night; neither did Lars, though it seemed to me that we both talked in our sleep. I remember that his warm soft hair pressed against my chin, and that his feet reached no farther than my knees.

Just as I was beginning to feel a little cramped and stiff from lying so still, I was suddenly aroused by the cold wind on my face. Lars had risen up on his elbow, and was peeping out from under the skins. “I think it must be near six o’clock,” he said. “The sky is clear, and I can see the big star. We can start in another hour.”

I felt so much refreshed that I was for setting out at once, but Lars remarked, very sensibly, that it was not yet possible to find the road. While we were talking, Axel neighed.

“There they are!” cried Lars, and he immediately began to put on his boots, his scarf, and heavy coat. I did the same, and by the time we were ready, we heard shouts and the crack of whips. We harnessed Axel to the sled, and proceeded slowly in the direction of the sounds, which came, as we presently saw, from a company of farmers, out this early to plough the road. They had six pairs of horses geared to a wooden frame, something like the bow of a ship, pointed in front and spreading out to a breadth of ten or twelve feet. The machine not only cut through the drifts, but packed the snow, leaving a good solid road behind it. After it had passed, we sped along merrily in the cold morning twilight, and in little more than an hour reached the posthouse at Umea. There we found Lars’s father prepared to return home. He waited until Lars had eaten a good warm breakfast, when I said good-by to both, and went on towards Lapland.

Lars was so quiet and cheerful and fearless, that although I had been nearly all over the world and he had never been away from home, I felt that I had learned a lesson from him, and might probably learn many more, if I should know him better.

—Bayard Taylor.

Two good friends had Hiawatha,Singled out from all the others,Bound to him in closest union,And to whom he gave the right handOf his heart, in joy and sorrow;Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Straight between them ran the pathway,Never grew the grass upon it;Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,Story-tellers, mischief-makers,Found no eager ear to listen,Could not breed ill-will between them,For they kept each other’s counsel,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.Most beloved by HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers.Beautiful and childlike was he,Brave as man is, soft as woman,Pliant as a wand of willow,Stately as a deer with antlers.When he sang, the village listened;All the warriors gathered round him,All the women came to hear him;Now he stirred their souls to passion,Now he melted them to pity.From the hollow reeds he fashionedFlutes so musical and mellow,That the brook, the Sebowisha,Ceased to murmur in the woodland,That the wood-birds ceased from singing,And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,And the rabbit, the Wabasso,Sat upright to look and listen.Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,Pausing, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach my waves to flow in music,Softly as your words in singing!”Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,Envious, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as wild and wayward,Teach me songs as full of frenzy!”Yes, the robin, the Opechee,Joyous, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as sweet and tender,Teach me songs as full of gladness!”And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,Sobbing, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as melancholy,Teach me songs as full of sadness!”All the many sounds of natureBorrowed sweetness from his singing;All the hearts of men were softenedBy the pathos of his music;For he sang of peace and freedom,Sang of beauty, love, and longing;Sang of death, and life undyingIn the Islands of the Blessed,In the kingdom of Ponemah,In the land of the Hereafter.Very dear to HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers;For his gentleness he loved him,And the magic of his singing.Dear, too, unto HiawathaWas the very strong man, Kwasind,He the strongest of all mortals,He the mightiest among many;For his very strength he loved him,For his strength allied to goodness.Idle in his youth was Kwasind,Very listless, dull, and dreamy,Never played with other children,Never fished and never hunted,Not like other children was he;But they saw that much he fasted,Much his Manito entreated,Much besought his Guardian Spirit.“Lazy Kwasind!” said his mother,“In my work you never help me!In the Summer you are roamingIdly in the fields and forests;In the Winter you are coweringO’er the firebrands in the wigwam!In the coldest days of WinterI must break the ice for fishing;With my nets you never help me!At the door my nets are hanging,Dripping, freezing with the water;Go and wring them, Yenadizze!Go and dry them in the sunshine!”Slowly, from the ashes, KwasindRose, but made no angry answer;From the lodge went forth in silence,Took the nets, that hung together,Dripping, freezing at the doorway;Like a wisp of straw he wrung them,Like a wisp of straw he broke them,Could not wring them without breaking,Such the strength was in his fingers.“Lazy Kwasind!” said his father,“In the hunt you never help me;Every bow you touch is broken,Snapped asunder every arrow;Yet come with me to the forest,You shall bring the hunting homeward.”Down a narrow pass they wandered,Where a brooklet led them onward,Where the trail of deer and bisonMarked the soft mud on the margin,Till they found all further passageShut against them, barred securelyBy the trunks of trees uprooted,Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,And forbidding further passage.“We must go back,” said the old man,“O’er these logs we cannot clamber;Not a woodchuck could get through them,Not a squirrel clamber o’er them!”And straightway his pipe he lighted,And sat down to smoke and ponder.But before his pipe was finished,Lo! the path was cleared before him:All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,To the right hand, to the left hand,Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,Hurled the cedars light as lances.“Lazy Kwasind!” said the young men,As they sported in the meadow;“Why stand idly looking at us,Leaning on the rock behind you?Come and wrestle with the others,Let us pitch the quoit together!”Lazy Kwasind made no answer,To their challenge made no answer,Only rose, and, slowly turning,Seized the huge rock in his fingers,Tore it from its deep foundation,Poised it in the air a moment,Pitched it sheer into the river,Sheer into the swift Pauwating,Where it still is seen in Summer.Once as down that foaming river,Down the rapids of Pauwating,Kwasind sailed with his companions,In the stream he saw a beaver,Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,Struggling with the rushing currents,Rising, sinking in the water.Without speaking, without pausing,Kwasind leaped into the river,Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,Followed him among the islands,Stayed so long beneath the water,That his terrified companionsCried, “Alas! good-by to Kwasind!We shall never more see Kwasind!”But he reappeared triumphant,And upon his shining shouldersBrought the beaver, dead and dripping,Brought the King of all the Beavers.And these two, as I have told you,Were the friends of Hiawatha,Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Long they lived in peace together,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Two good friends had Hiawatha,Singled out from all the others,Bound to him in closest union,And to whom he gave the right handOf his heart, in joy and sorrow;Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Straight between them ran the pathway,Never grew the grass upon it;Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,Story-tellers, mischief-makers,Found no eager ear to listen,Could not breed ill-will between them,For they kept each other’s counsel,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.Most beloved by HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers.Beautiful and childlike was he,Brave as man is, soft as woman,Pliant as a wand of willow,Stately as a deer with antlers.When he sang, the village listened;All the warriors gathered round him,All the women came to hear him;Now he stirred their souls to passion,Now he melted them to pity.From the hollow reeds he fashionedFlutes so musical and mellow,That the brook, the Sebowisha,Ceased to murmur in the woodland,That the wood-birds ceased from singing,And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,And the rabbit, the Wabasso,Sat upright to look and listen.Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,Pausing, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach my waves to flow in music,Softly as your words in singing!”Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,Envious, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as wild and wayward,Teach me songs as full of frenzy!”Yes, the robin, the Opechee,Joyous, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as sweet and tender,Teach me songs as full of gladness!”And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,Sobbing, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as melancholy,Teach me songs as full of sadness!”All the many sounds of natureBorrowed sweetness from his singing;All the hearts of men were softenedBy the pathos of his music;For he sang of peace and freedom,Sang of beauty, love, and longing;Sang of death, and life undyingIn the Islands of the Blessed,In the kingdom of Ponemah,In the land of the Hereafter.Very dear to HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers;For his gentleness he loved him,And the magic of his singing.Dear, too, unto HiawathaWas the very strong man, Kwasind,He the strongest of all mortals,He the mightiest among many;For his very strength he loved him,For his strength allied to goodness.Idle in his youth was Kwasind,Very listless, dull, and dreamy,Never played with other children,Never fished and never hunted,Not like other children was he;But they saw that much he fasted,Much his Manito entreated,Much besought his Guardian Spirit.“Lazy Kwasind!” said his mother,“In my work you never help me!In the Summer you are roamingIdly in the fields and forests;In the Winter you are coweringO’er the firebrands in the wigwam!In the coldest days of WinterI must break the ice for fishing;With my nets you never help me!At the door my nets are hanging,Dripping, freezing with the water;Go and wring them, Yenadizze!Go and dry them in the sunshine!”Slowly, from the ashes, KwasindRose, but made no angry answer;From the lodge went forth in silence,Took the nets, that hung together,Dripping, freezing at the doorway;Like a wisp of straw he wrung them,Like a wisp of straw he broke them,Could not wring them without breaking,Such the strength was in his fingers.“Lazy Kwasind!” said his father,“In the hunt you never help me;Every bow you touch is broken,Snapped asunder every arrow;Yet come with me to the forest,You shall bring the hunting homeward.”Down a narrow pass they wandered,Where a brooklet led them onward,Where the trail of deer and bisonMarked the soft mud on the margin,Till they found all further passageShut against them, barred securelyBy the trunks of trees uprooted,Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,And forbidding further passage.“We must go back,” said the old man,“O’er these logs we cannot clamber;Not a woodchuck could get through them,Not a squirrel clamber o’er them!”And straightway his pipe he lighted,And sat down to smoke and ponder.But before his pipe was finished,Lo! the path was cleared before him:All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,To the right hand, to the left hand,Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,Hurled the cedars light as lances.“Lazy Kwasind!” said the young men,As they sported in the meadow;“Why stand idly looking at us,Leaning on the rock behind you?Come and wrestle with the others,Let us pitch the quoit together!”Lazy Kwasind made no answer,To their challenge made no answer,Only rose, and, slowly turning,Seized the huge rock in his fingers,Tore it from its deep foundation,Poised it in the air a moment,Pitched it sheer into the river,Sheer into the swift Pauwating,Where it still is seen in Summer.Once as down that foaming river,Down the rapids of Pauwating,Kwasind sailed with his companions,In the stream he saw a beaver,Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,Struggling with the rushing currents,Rising, sinking in the water.Without speaking, without pausing,Kwasind leaped into the river,Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,Followed him among the islands,Stayed so long beneath the water,That his terrified companionsCried, “Alas! good-by to Kwasind!We shall never more see Kwasind!”But he reappeared triumphant,And upon his shining shouldersBrought the beaver, dead and dripping,Brought the King of all the Beavers.And these two, as I have told you,Were the friends of Hiawatha,Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Long they lived in peace together,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Two good friends had Hiawatha,Singled out from all the others,Bound to him in closest union,And to whom he gave the right handOf his heart, in joy and sorrow;Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Straight between them ran the pathway,Never grew the grass upon it;Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,Story-tellers, mischief-makers,Found no eager ear to listen,Could not breed ill-will between them,For they kept each other’s counsel,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.Most beloved by HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers.Beautiful and childlike was he,Brave as man is, soft as woman,Pliant as a wand of willow,Stately as a deer with antlers.When he sang, the village listened;All the warriors gathered round him,All the women came to hear him;Now he stirred their souls to passion,Now he melted them to pity.From the hollow reeds he fashionedFlutes so musical and mellow,That the brook, the Sebowisha,Ceased to murmur in the woodland,That the wood-birds ceased from singing,And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,And the rabbit, the Wabasso,Sat upright to look and listen.Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,Pausing, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach my waves to flow in music,Softly as your words in singing!”Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,Envious, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as wild and wayward,Teach me songs as full of frenzy!”Yes, the robin, the Opechee,Joyous, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as sweet and tender,Teach me songs as full of gladness!”And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,Sobbing, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as melancholy,Teach me songs as full of sadness!”All the many sounds of natureBorrowed sweetness from his singing;All the hearts of men were softenedBy the pathos of his music;For he sang of peace and freedom,Sang of beauty, love, and longing;Sang of death, and life undyingIn the Islands of the Blessed,In the kingdom of Ponemah,In the land of the Hereafter.Very dear to HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers;For his gentleness he loved him,And the magic of his singing.Dear, too, unto HiawathaWas the very strong man, Kwasind,He the strongest of all mortals,He the mightiest among many;For his very strength he loved him,For his strength allied to goodness.Idle in his youth was Kwasind,Very listless, dull, and dreamy,Never played with other children,Never fished and never hunted,Not like other children was he;But they saw that much he fasted,Much his Manito entreated,Much besought his Guardian Spirit.“Lazy Kwasind!” said his mother,“In my work you never help me!In the Summer you are roamingIdly in the fields and forests;In the Winter you are coweringO’er the firebrands in the wigwam!In the coldest days of WinterI must break the ice for fishing;With my nets you never help me!At the door my nets are hanging,Dripping, freezing with the water;Go and wring them, Yenadizze!Go and dry them in the sunshine!”Slowly, from the ashes, KwasindRose, but made no angry answer;From the lodge went forth in silence,Took the nets, that hung together,Dripping, freezing at the doorway;Like a wisp of straw he wrung them,Like a wisp of straw he broke them,Could not wring them without breaking,Such the strength was in his fingers.“Lazy Kwasind!” said his father,“In the hunt you never help me;Every bow you touch is broken,Snapped asunder every arrow;Yet come with me to the forest,You shall bring the hunting homeward.”Down a narrow pass they wandered,Where a brooklet led them onward,Where the trail of deer and bisonMarked the soft mud on the margin,Till they found all further passageShut against them, barred securelyBy the trunks of trees uprooted,Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,And forbidding further passage.“We must go back,” said the old man,“O’er these logs we cannot clamber;Not a woodchuck could get through them,Not a squirrel clamber o’er them!”And straightway his pipe he lighted,And sat down to smoke and ponder.But before his pipe was finished,Lo! the path was cleared before him:All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,To the right hand, to the left hand,Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,Hurled the cedars light as lances.“Lazy Kwasind!” said the young men,As they sported in the meadow;“Why stand idly looking at us,Leaning on the rock behind you?Come and wrestle with the others,Let us pitch the quoit together!”Lazy Kwasind made no answer,To their challenge made no answer,Only rose, and, slowly turning,Seized the huge rock in his fingers,Tore it from its deep foundation,Poised it in the air a moment,Pitched it sheer into the river,Sheer into the swift Pauwating,Where it still is seen in Summer.Once as down that foaming river,Down the rapids of Pauwating,Kwasind sailed with his companions,In the stream he saw a beaver,Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,Struggling with the rushing currents,Rising, sinking in the water.Without speaking, without pausing,Kwasind leaped into the river,Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,Followed him among the islands,Stayed so long beneath the water,That his terrified companionsCried, “Alas! good-by to Kwasind!We shall never more see Kwasind!”But he reappeared triumphant,And upon his shining shouldersBrought the beaver, dead and dripping,Brought the King of all the Beavers.And these two, as I have told you,Were the friends of Hiawatha,Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Long they lived in peace together,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Two good friends had Hiawatha,

Singled out from all the others,

Bound to him in closest union,

And to whom he gave the right hand

Of his heart, in joy and sorrow;

Chibiabos, the musician,

And the very strong man, Kwasind.

Straight between them ran the pathway,

Never grew the grass upon it;

Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,

Story-tellers, mischief-makers,

Found no eager ear to listen,

Could not breed ill-will between them,

For they kept each other’s counsel,

Spake with naked hearts together,

Pondering much and much contriving

How the tribes of men might prosper.

Most beloved by Hiawatha

Was the gentle Chibiabos,

He the best of all musicians,

He the sweetest of all singers.

Beautiful and childlike was he,

Brave as man is, soft as woman,

Pliant as a wand of willow,

Stately as a deer with antlers.

When he sang, the village listened;

All the warriors gathered round him,

All the women came to hear him;

Now he stirred their souls to passion,

Now he melted them to pity.

From the hollow reeds he fashioned

Flutes so musical and mellow,

That the brook, the Sebowisha,

Ceased to murmur in the woodland,

That the wood-birds ceased from singing,

And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,

Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,

And the rabbit, the Wabasso,

Sat upright to look and listen.

Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,

Pausing, said, “O Chibiabos,

Teach my waves to flow in music,

Softly as your words in singing!”

Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,

Envious, said, “O Chibiabos,

Teach me tones as wild and wayward,

Teach me songs as full of frenzy!”

Yes, the robin, the Opechee,

Joyous, said, “O Chibiabos,

Teach me tones as sweet and tender,

Teach me songs as full of gladness!”

And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,

Sobbing, said, “O Chibiabos,

Teach me tones as melancholy,

Teach me songs as full of sadness!”

All the many sounds of nature

Borrowed sweetness from his singing;

All the hearts of men were softened

By the pathos of his music;

For he sang of peace and freedom,

Sang of beauty, love, and longing;

Sang of death, and life undying

In the Islands of the Blessed,

In the kingdom of Ponemah,

In the land of the Hereafter.

Very dear to Hiawatha

Was the gentle Chibiabos,

He the best of all musicians,

He the sweetest of all singers;

For his gentleness he loved him,

And the magic of his singing.

Dear, too, unto Hiawatha

Was the very strong man, Kwasind,

He the strongest of all mortals,

He the mightiest among many;

For his very strength he loved him,

For his strength allied to goodness.

Idle in his youth was Kwasind,

Very listless, dull, and dreamy,

Never played with other children,

Never fished and never hunted,

Not like other children was he;

But they saw that much he fasted,

Much his Manito entreated,

Much besought his Guardian Spirit.

“Lazy Kwasind!” said his mother,

“In my work you never help me!

In the Summer you are roaming

Idly in the fields and forests;

In the Winter you are cowering

O’er the firebrands in the wigwam!

In the coldest days of Winter

I must break the ice for fishing;

With my nets you never help me!

At the door my nets are hanging,

Dripping, freezing with the water;

Go and wring them, Yenadizze!

Go and dry them in the sunshine!”

Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind

Rose, but made no angry answer;

From the lodge went forth in silence,

Took the nets, that hung together,

Dripping, freezing at the doorway;

Like a wisp of straw he wrung them,

Like a wisp of straw he broke them,

Could not wring them without breaking,

Such the strength was in his fingers.

“Lazy Kwasind!” said his father,

“In the hunt you never help me;

Every bow you touch is broken,

Snapped asunder every arrow;

Yet come with me to the forest,

You shall bring the hunting homeward.”

Down a narrow pass they wandered,

Where a brooklet led them onward,

Where the trail of deer and bison

Marked the soft mud on the margin,

Till they found all further passage

Shut against them, barred securely

By the trunks of trees uprooted,

Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,

And forbidding further passage.

“We must go back,” said the old man,

“O’er these logs we cannot clamber;

Not a woodchuck could get through them,

Not a squirrel clamber o’er them!”

And straightway his pipe he lighted,

And sat down to smoke and ponder.

But before his pipe was finished,

Lo! the path was cleared before him:

All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,

To the right hand, to the left hand,

Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,

Hurled the cedars light as lances.

“Lazy Kwasind!” said the young men,

As they sported in the meadow;

“Why stand idly looking at us,

Leaning on the rock behind you?

Come and wrestle with the others,

Let us pitch the quoit together!”

Lazy Kwasind made no answer,

To their challenge made no answer,

Only rose, and, slowly turning,

Seized the huge rock in his fingers,

Tore it from its deep foundation,

Poised it in the air a moment,

Pitched it sheer into the river,

Sheer into the swift Pauwating,

Where it still is seen in Summer.

Once as down that foaming river,

Down the rapids of Pauwating,

Kwasind sailed with his companions,

In the stream he saw a beaver,

Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,

Struggling with the rushing currents,

Rising, sinking in the water.

Without speaking, without pausing,

Kwasind leaped into the river,

Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,

Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,

Followed him among the islands,

Stayed so long beneath the water,

That his terrified companions

Cried, “Alas! good-by to Kwasind!

We shall never more see Kwasind!”

But he reappeared triumphant,

And upon his shining shoulders

Brought the beaver, dead and dripping,

Brought the King of all the Beavers.

And these two, as I have told you,

Were the friends of Hiawatha,

Chibiabos, the musician,

And the very strong man, Kwasind.

Long they lived in peace together,

Spake with naked hearts together,

Pondering much and much contriving

How the tribes of men might prosper.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Lost time is never found again.

Henry I, king of England, went over to Normandy with his son Prince William and a great retinue to have the prince acknowledged as his successor, and to contract a marriage between him and the daughter of the Count of Anjou. Both these things were triumphantly done, with great show and rejoicing; and on the 25th of November, in the year 1120, the whole company prepared to embark for the voyage home.

On that day, there came to the king, Fitz-Stephen, a sea-captain and said, “My liege, my father served your father all his life upon the sea. He steered the ship with the golden boy upon the prow, in which your father sailed to conquer England. I have a fair vessel in the harbor here, calledThe White Ship, manned by fifty sailors of renown. I pray you, Sire, to let your servant have the honor of steering you inThe White Shipto England.”

“I am sorry, friend,” replied the king, “that my ship is already chosen, and that I cannot, therefore, sail with the son of the man who served my father. But the prince and his company shall go along with you in the fairWhite Shipmanned by the fifty sailors of renown.” An hour or two afterwards, the king set sail in the vessel he had chosen, accompanied by other vessels, and, sailing all night with a fair and gentle wind, arrived upon the coast of England inthe morning. While it was yet night, the people in some of these ships heard a faint, wild cry come over the sea, and wondered what it was.

Now the prince was a dissolute young man of eighteen, who bore no love to the English, and who had declared that when he came to the throne, he would yoke them to the plough like oxen. He went aboardThe White Shipwith one hundred and forty youthful nobles like himself, among whom were eighteen noble ladies of the highest rank. All this gay company, with their servants and the fifty sailors, made three hundred souls aboard the fairWhite Ship.

“Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,” said the prince, “to the fifty sailors of renown. My father the king has sailed out of the harbor. What time is there to make merry here, and yet reach England with the rest?”

“Prince,” said Fitz-Stephen, “before morning my fifty andThe White Shipshall overtake the swiftest vessel in attendance on your father the king, if we sail at midnight.” Then the prince commanded to make merry; and the sailors drank the three casks of wine; and the prince and all the noble company danced in the moonlight on the deck.

When, at last, the ship shot out of the harbor, there was not a sober seaman on board. But the sails were all set, and the oars all going merrily. Fitz-Stephen had the helm. The gay young nobles and the beautiful ladieswrapped in mantles of various bright colors to protect them from the cold, talked, laughed, and sang. The prince encouraged the fifty sailors to row yet harder, for the honor ofThe White Ship.

Crash! A terrific cry broke from three hundred hearts. It was the cry the people, in the distant vessels of the king, heard faintly on the water.The White Shiphad struck upon a rock,—was filling,—going down! Fitz-Stephen hurried the prince into a boat with some few nobles. “Push off,” he whispered, “and row to the land. It is not far off, and the sea is smooth. The rest of us must die.” But as they rowed fast away from the sinking ship, the prince heard the voice of his sister calling for help. He never in his life had been so noble as he was then. He cried in agony, “Row back at any risk! I cannot bear to leave her!”

They rowed back. As the prince held out his arms to catch his sister, such numbers leaped into the boat that it was overturned. And in the same instant,The White Shipwent down. Only two men floated. They both clung to the main-yard of the ship, which had broken from the mast and now supported them. One asked the other who he was. He replied, “I am a nobleman,—Godfrey by name, son of Gilbert. And you?”—”I am a poor butcher of Rouen,” was the answer. Then they said together, “Lord be merciful to us both!” and tried to encourage each otheras they drifted in the cold, benumbing sea on that unfortunate November night.

By and by another man came swimming towards them, whom they knew, when he pushed aside his long wet hair, to be Fitz-Stephen. “Where is the prince?” said he. “Gone, gone!” the two cried together. “Neither he, nor his brother, nor his sister, nor the king’s niece, nor her brother, nor any of all the brave three hundred, noble or commoner, except us three, has risen above the water!” Fitz-Stephen, with a ghastly face, cried, “Woe! woe to me!” and sank to the bottom.

The other two clung to the yard for some hours. At length the young noble said faintly, “I am exhausted, and chilled with the cold, and can hold no longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve you!” So he dropped and sank; and, of all the brilliant crowd, the poor butcher of Rouen alone was saved. In the morning some fishermen saw him floating in his sheepskin coat, and got him into their boat,—the sole relater of the dismal tale.

For three days no one dared to carry the intelligence to the king. At length they sent into his presence a little boy who, weeping bitterly and falling at his feet, told him thatThe White Shipwas lost with all on board. The king fell to the ground like a dead man, and never, never afterwards was seen to smile.

—Charles Dickens.

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