Читать книгу Standard Selections: A Collection And Adaptation Of Superior Productions From Best Authors For Use In Class Room And On The Platform - The Original Classic Edition - Fulton Robert - Страница 2

"I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do;

With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap,

That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,

And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss, and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan,

And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,

And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags,

To be lost evermore in the main.

THE RIDER OF THE BLACK HORSE George Lippard

It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was cloudless, the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold, the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground, from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel, on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet.[Pg 99] Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart.

Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood came a rider on a black horse, rushing towards the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air, he points to the distant battle and lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there through intervals of cannon-smoke you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse dashing, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle?

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Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer-coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of redcoat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. At this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now, cowards! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the[Pg 100] unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down!"

This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the redcoat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict, a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.

Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, towards the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep--that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when all is

dismay and horror, here, crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black[Pg 101] steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on towards the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now, British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, redcoat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls

dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball.

Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will

see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. The rider of the black horse was

Benedict Arnold.

SAILING BEYOND SEAS Jean Ingelow

Methought the stars were blinking bright, And the old brig's sails unfurl'd;

I said: "I will sail to my love this night, At the other side of the world."

I stepp'd aboard--we sail'd so fast-- The sun shot up from the bourn;

But a dove that perch'd upon the mast

Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. O fair dove! O fond dove!

And dove with the white, white breast-- Let me alone, the dream is my own,

And my heart is full of rest.[Pg 102] My true love fares on this great hill, Feeding his sheep for aye;

I look'd in his hut, but all was still, My love was gone away.

I went to gaze in the forest creek, And the dove mourn'd on apace;

No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek

Rose up to show me his place.

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O last love! O first love!

My love with the true, true heart,

To think I have come to this your home, And yet--we are apart!

My love! He stood at my right hand, His eyes were grave and sweet; Methought he said: "In this far land, O, is it thus we meet?

Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; I have no place, no part,

No dwelling more by sea or shore, But only in thy heart."

O fair dove! O fond dove!

Till night rose over the bourn,

The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast, Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. THE SANDS OF DEE

Charles Kingsley

"O Mary go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee!"

The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she.[Pg 103]

The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she.

"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--

A tress o' golden hair,

O' drowned maiden's hair

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes o' Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,-- To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee.

THE SCHOOL OF SQUEERS[13] Charles Dickens

The following advertisement appeared in the morning papers:

Education.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all languages liv-ing and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, single-stick, if required, writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other branch of classical literature. Terms twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town and attends[Pg 104] daily, from one till four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual salary, five pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred.

Nicholas Nickleby obtained the above situation, having found that it was not absolutely necessary to have acquired the degree, and

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arrived at the inn, to join Mr. Squeers, at eight o'clock of a November morning. He found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with five little boys in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys. "This is two penn'orth of milk, is

it, waiter?" said Squeers, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.

"That's two penn'orth, sir," replied the waiter.

"What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London! Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will you?"

"To the very top, sir? Why, the milk will be drowned."

"Never you mind that. Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?" "Coming directly, sir."

"You needn't hurry yourself, there's plenty of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognized Nicholas.

"Sit down, Mr. Nickleby. Here we are, a-breakfasting, you see! Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William? Very good; don't forget the bread and butter presently. Ah! here's richness! Think of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?"

"Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas.

"When I say number one, the boy on the left hand nearest[Pg 105] the window may take a drink; and when I say number two, the

boy next him will go in, and so till we come to number five which is the last boy. Are you ready?

"Yes, sir," cried all the little boys.

"That's right, keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, boys, and you've conquered human nature. This is the way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby. Number one may take a drink."

Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.

"And now," said Squeers, dividing the bread for three into as many portions as there were children, "You had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off.--Ah! I thought it wouldn't be long; put what you haven't had time to eat in here, boys! You'll want it on the road." Which they certainly did, for the air was cool, and the journey was long and tiresome. However, they arrived quite safely; and Nicholas, weary, retired to rest.

In the morning he was taken to the school-room accompanied by Squeers.

"There, this is our shop, Nickleby." It was a crowded scene. A bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copybooks and paper. Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, little faces, which should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering. There was childhood with

the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone and its helplessness alone remaining--truly an incipient Hell. A few minutes having

elapsed, Squeers called up the first class.

"This is the first class in English, spelling, and philosophy,[Pg 106] Nickleby. We'll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now then, where's the first boy?"

"Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor window."

"So he is, to be sure. We go upon the practical mode of teaching, Nickleby, the regular educational system. C-l-e-a-n, clean. Verb ac-tive. To make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder. A casement. When a boy knows this out of his book he goes and does it. It's just the same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy?"

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"Please, sir, he's weeding the garden."

"To be sure, so he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney. Noun substantive. A knowledge of plants. When a boy learns that bottinney is a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's our system, Nickleby. Third boy, what's a horse?"

"A beast, sir."

"So it is. A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped is Latin for beast, as everybody that's gone through the grammar knows, or else where's the use of havin' grammars at all? As you're perfect in that, go and look after my horse, and rub him down well or I'll rub you down. The rest of the class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for it's washing day to-morrow and they want the coppers filled."

So saying, he dismissed his first class to their experiments in practical philosophy.

It was Squeers's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis. They were therefore soon recalled from the house, window, garden, stable, and cow yard, and Mr. Squeers entered the room. A deathlike silence immediately prevailed.

"Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you as strong and as well as ever."

According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sighs of extra strength with the chill on.

[Pg 107]"I have seen the parents of some boys, and they're so glad to hear how their sons are getting on, that there's no prospect at all of their going away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon for all parties. But I've had disappointments to contend against. Bolder's father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?

"Here he is, please, sir."

"Come here, Bolder," said Squeers.

An unhealthy boy with warts all over his hands, stepped from his place to the Master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to

Squeers's face.

"Bolder, if your father thinks that because--why, what's this, sir?"

As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket, and surveyed the warts with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.

"What do you call this, sir?"

"I can't help it, indeed, sir. They will come; it's the dirty work, I think, sir--at least I don't know what it is, sir, but it's not my fault." "Bolder, you're an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last thrashing did you no good, we'll see what another will do towards

beating it out of you."

With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy and caned him soundly; not leaving off, indeed, until his arm was tired out.

"There, rub away as hard as you like, you won't rub that off in a hurry. Now let us see. A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey. Oh! Cobbey's grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking, which is all the news his sister sends, except eighteen pence, which will just pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you take the money?

"Graymarsh, he's the next. Stand up, Graymarsh. Graymarsh's aunt is very glad to hear he's so well and happy, and[Pg 108] sends her respectful compliments to Mrs. Squeers and thinks she must be an angel. She likewise thinks that Mr. Squeers is too good for this world, but hopes he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent the two pairs of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a tract instead, and hopes that Graymarsh will put his trust in Providence. Hopes, above all, that he will study

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in everything to please Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that he will love master Squeers, and not

object to sleeping five in a bed, which no Christian should. Ah! a delightful letter. Very affecting indeed.

"Mobbs!--Mobbs's motherin-law took to her bed on hearing that he wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know, by an early post, where he expects to go to if he quarrels with his vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was told her in the London newspapers--not by Mr. Squeers, for he's too kind and good to set anybody against anybody. She is sorry to find he is discontented, which is sinful and hor-rid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into a happier state of mind. With which view she has also stopped his half penny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed knife with a cork-screw in it to the missionaries, which she had bought on purpose for him. A sulky state of feeling won't do. Cheerfulness and contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!"

Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired, with as good cause as a boy need have.

This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of

the boys in the school-room which was very cold, and where a meal of bread was served out shortly after dark.

There was a small stove at that corner of the room which was[Pg 109] nearest the master's desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, de-pressed and self-degraded.

As he was absorbed in his meditations, he all at once encountered the upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was observed, shrank back, as if expecting a blow.

"You need not fear me. Are you cold?" "N-n-o."

"You are shivering."

"I'm not cold. I'm used to it."

There was such an obvious fear of giving offense in his manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, "Poor fellow!"

"Oh dear, oh dear! my heart will break. It will, it will!" said Smike. "Hush! Be a man; you are nearly one by years. God help you!"

"By years! Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where are they all?"

"Of whom do you speak? Tell me."

"My friends, myself--my--oh! what sufferings mine have been!" "There is always hope."

"No, no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that died here?" "I was not here, you know."

"Why, I was with him at night, and when it was all silent, he cried no more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round his bed that came from home. He said they smiled, and talked to him; and he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?"

[Pg 110]"Yes, yes," rejoined Nicholas.

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"What faces will smile on me when I die? Who will talk to me in those long nights? They cannot come from home; they would frighten me if they did, for I shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive or dead. No hope, no hope!"

The bell rang to bed; and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards--no, not retired, there was no retirement there--followed to his dirty and crowded dormitory.

FOOTNOTE:

[13] Adapted by E. P. Trueblood from "Nicholas Nickleby." THE SECRET OF DEATH

Edwin Arnold

"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away; Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair; On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

Over her eyes, that gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch; With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; About her brows and beautiful face

They tied her veil and her marriage lace,

And drew on her feet her white silk shoes-- Which were the whitest no eye could choose-- And over her bosom they crossed her hands. "Come away!" they said; "God understands." And there was silence, and nothing there

But silence, and scents of eglantere,[Pg 111] And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;

And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she." And they held their breath till they left the room, With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom. But he who loved her too well to dread

The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,-- He lit his lamp, and took the key

And turned it,--alone again,--he and she. He and she; but she would not speak,

Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. He and she; yet she would not smile,

Though he called her the name she loved erewhile. He and she; still she did not move

To any one passionate whisper of love.

Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath, Is there no voice, no language of death?

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct, intense? "See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; What was the secret of dying, dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all

That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel

The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep

Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?[Pg 112] "Did life roll back its records, dear,

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And show, as they say it does, past things clear? "And was it the innermost heart of the bliss

To find out so, what a wisdom love is? "Oh, perfect dead! Oh, dead most dear, I hold the breath of my soul to hear!

"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,

As high as to heaven, and you do not tell. "There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet! "I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,

And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,-- "I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise, "The very strangest and suddenest thing

Of all the surprises that dying must bring." Ah, foolish world! Oh, most kind dead!

Though he told me, who will believe it was said? Who will believe that he heard her say,

With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way: "The utmost wonder is this,--I hear

And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; "And am your angel, who was your bride,

And know that, though dead, I have never died." [Pg 113]

SHAMUS O'BRIEN

A TALE OF '98, AS RELATED BY AN IRISH PEASANT Joseph Sheridan le Fanu

Jist after the war, in the year '98,

As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate,

'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got, To hang him by trial--barrin' such as was shot. An' the bravest an' hardiest Boy iv them all

Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall. An' it's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught, An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought;

An' it's many the one can remember right well The quare things he did: an' it's oft I heerd tell How he frightened the magistrates in Chirbally, An' 'scaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley; How he leathered the yeoman, himself agin four,

An' stretched the two strongest on ould Golteemore.

But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest, An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best;

Afther many a brave action of power and pride,

An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,

In the darkness of night he was taken at last. Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,

For the door of the prison must close on you soon. Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,

An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still. Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake,

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And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake! An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail, An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail.[Pg 114] Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone, The terrible day iv the thrial kem on,

There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword-in-hand;

An' the courthouse so full that the people were bothered, An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered; An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,

An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead; An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big With his gown on his back, and an illegant wig; An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas said The court was as still as the heart of the dead,

An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.

For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,

An' he looked at the bars so firm and so strong, An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, A chance to escape, nor a word to defend;

An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;

And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, An' Jim didn't understand it nor mind it a taste,

An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?" An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:

"My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetime

I thought any treason, or did any crime

That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow Before God and the world I would answer you, No! But if you would ask me, as I think it like,

If in the Rebellion I carried a pike,[Pg 115]

An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,

An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again,

Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dhry, An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."

Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;

By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap! In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.

Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by, Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:

"O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word! The crather is young, have mercy, my lord;

He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';

You don't know him, my lord--O, don't give him to ruin! He's the kindliest crathur, the tindherest-hearted;

Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted!

Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, An' God will forgive you--O, don't say the word!" That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,

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When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken; An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;

An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,

But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break; But at last, by the strength of his high-mountin' pride, He conquered and masthered his grief 's swelling tide;

"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart, For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;

And God knows it's better than wand'ring in fear

On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,[Pg 116]

To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast, From labor and sorrow, forever shall rest.

Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken, in this my last hour; For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven, No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!" Then toward the Judge Shamus bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said. The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;

But why are the men standin' idle so late?

An' why do the crowds gather fast in the strate? What come they to talk of ? what come they to see? An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree? O Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast,

May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last; Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,

When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die!-- At last they threw open the big prison-gate,

An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state, An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it, Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin', A wild, wailin' sound kem on by degrees,

Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,

An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on;

An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,

A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,

An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;[Pg 117] An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round.

Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill; An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,

For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare;

An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer. But the good priest did more, for his hands he unbound, An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground; Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabers;

He's not down! he's alive! now stand to him, neighbors! Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,-- By the heavens, he's free!--than thunder more loud,

By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken-- One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.

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The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,

An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.

Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourselves you must hang. MY SHIPS[14]

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

If all the ships I have at sea-- Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah well! the harbor could not hold So many ships as there would be,

If all my ships came home to me. If half my ships now out at sea

Should come a-sailing home to me,[Pg 118] Ah well! I should have wealth as great

As any king that sits in state,

So rich the treasure there would be

In half my ships now out at sea. If but one ship I have at sea

Should come a-sailing home to me,

Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown, For if the others all went down,

Still rich and glad and proud I'd be, If that one ship came home to me. If that one ship went down at sea, And all the others came to me,

Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, Of riches, glory, honor, gold,

The poorest soul on earth I'd be, If that one ship came not to me.

Oh, skies, be calm, oh, winds, blow free! Blow all my ships safe home to me!

But if thou sendest some awrack, To never more come sailing back, Send any--all that skim the sea, But send my love ship back to me. FOOTNOTE:

[14] By permission of the author. THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE R. D. C. Robbins

"I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift,--no,

not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute, at his post; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was! I know he only fell asleep one little second;--he was so young,[Pg 119] and not strong, that boy

of mine! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty! Twenty-four hours, the telegram said,--only twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now?"

"We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, soothingly. "Yes, yes; let us hope; God is very merciful!"

"'I should be ashamed, father!' Bennie said, 'when I am a man, to think I never used this great right arm,'--and he held it out so

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proudly before me,--'for my country, when it needed it! Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow!'

"'Go then, go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you!' God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan!" and the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them.

"Like the apple of His eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not!"

Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. "It is from him," was all she said.

It was like a message from the dead! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers,

and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child. The minister opened it, and read as follows:

"Dear Father:--When this reaches you, I shall be in eternity. At first, it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so much now, that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me; but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on the battlefield, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be fighting[Pg 120] gloriously; but to be shot

down like a dog for nearly betraying it,--to die for neglect of duty! O father, I wonder the very thought does not kill me! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about it; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I cannot now.

"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother I would look after her boy; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Toward night we went in on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, everybody else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake

if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I did not know it until--well, until it was too late."

"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post."

"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve,--given to me by circumstances,--'time to write to you,' our good Colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my stead.

"I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, father! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war

is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me: it is very hard to bear! Good-by, father! God seems near and dear to me; not at all as if He wished me to perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for His poor,[Pg 121] sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with Him and my Saviour in a better--better life."

A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said solemnly,--"Amen."

"To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home from pasture, and precious little Blossom standing on the back stoop, waiting for me--but I shall never, never come! God bless you all! Forgive your poor Bennie."

Late that night the door of the "back stoop" opened softly, and a little figure glided out, and down the footpath that led to the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right nor to the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her hands as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern he held in his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all; and no father could have cared more tenderly for his only child than he for our little Blossom.

She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell her father where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with her; no good, kind heart, like the President's, could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom reached the Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House.

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The President had but just seated himself to his morning's task, of overlooking and signing important papers, when, without one word of announcement, the door softly opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes, and folded hands, stood before him.

[Pg 122]"Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, "what do you want so bright and early in the morning?" "Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered Blossom.

"Bennie? Who is Bennie?"

"My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post."

"Oh, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. "I remember! It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable negligence."

"So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely; "but poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not his; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was tired, too."

"What is this you say, child? Come here; I do not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a

justification of an offense.

Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he seemed, and he was President of the United States, too! A dim thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's mind; but she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read.

He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell. Blossom heard this order given: "Send this dispatch at once."

The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or--wait until to-morrow; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death; he shall go with you."

[Pg 123]"God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard and registered the request?

Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House with his little sister. He was called into the President's private room, and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said: "The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and Blossom took their way to the Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot to welcome them back; and as Farmer Owen's hand grasped that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say fervently, "The Lord be praised!"

THE SONG[15] Walter Scott

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more;

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

While our slumbrous spells assail ye,

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Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveille;[Pg 124] Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; Think not of the rising sun,

For at dawning to assail ye Here no bugles sound reveille. FOOTNOTE:

[15] From "Lady of the Lake."

THE STIRRUP CUP[16]

John Hay

My short and happy day is done; The long and lonely night comes on And at my door the pale horse stands To carry me to distant lands.

His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, Sounds dreadful as a gathering storm; And I must leave this sheltering roof And joys of life so soft and warm. Tender and warm the joys of life-- Good friends, the faithful and the true; My rosy children and my wife,

>So sweet to kiss, so fair to view. So sweet to kiss, so fair to view,

The night comes on, the lights burn blue; And at my door the pale horse stands

To bear me forth to unknown lands. FOOTNOTE:

[16] By permission of Mrs. Hay.

[Pg 125]

THE SWAN-SONG Katherine R. Brooks

The great old-fashioned clock struck twelve, but as yet not one of the boys had stirred. All were listening too intently to what Carl von Weber was saying to notice the time. Around one of the grand pianos a group of boys was gathered. Perched on the top of it was a bright, merry-looking boy of fourteen. By his side sat a pale, delicate little fellow, with a pair of soft, dark eyes, which were fixed in eager attention upon Carl's face. Below, and leaning carelessly upon the piano, was Raoul von Falkenstein, a dark, handsome boy of fifteen.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, scornfully, after Carl had finished. "Is that all? just for a few paltry thalers and a beggarly violin, to work

myself to death? No! I don't think I shall trouble myself about it."

"Oh, Raoul!" cried Franz, the little fellow who sat by Carl, "you forget that it is to be the most beautiful violin in Germany, and to be given to us by the Empress herself. And the two hundred thalers--just think of that!" and Franz's dark eyes grew bright to think what he could do with them.

"Really," returned Raoul, insolently, "you don't mean to say that you are going to try! Why, the last time you played you broke down

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entirely!"

The color mounted into Franz's face, and the tears came into his eyes; and Carl cried out, angrily: "For shame! you know very well that it was only fright that made Franz fail.

"Don't mind him," he said, putting his arm around his friend's neck, "he is only hateful, as he always is. Let us go and see who is to be chosen for the concert. Come, Franz!"

"No, Carl," said his friend, quietly; "I would rather stay here. You go and find out, and then come and tell me."

The Empress once a year gave a prize to the school, but this[Pg 126] year it was to be finer than usual, and her Majesty had sent to Herr Bach and requested him to choose five of his best boys, each of whom was to compose a piece of his own. No one was to see it until the end of three weeks, when they were to play it at a grand concert, which the imperial family were to attend with the whole court. Franz was very anxious to be chosen, for he wanted the prize very much. He thought how pleased the mother would be, and he thought how hard she worked to give her little boy a musical education, and how many comforts the thalers would buy. Oh, he would work hard for it. The dear mother would be so surprised. And he fell into a brown study, from which he was awakened by feeling a pair of strong arms around him, and being frantically whirled around the room, while a voice shouted in his ear:

"We've got it! We're chosen--you, Gottfried, Johann, old hateful Raoul, and I!"

The boys worked very hard, for there was only a short time given them. Franz put his whole soul into his composition, and made himself almost sick over it. Raoul went about declaring, in his usual contemptuous manner, that he did not intend to kill himself over it, but secretly he worked with great industry.

One lovely moonlight night, as he sat by his window composing, for the moon was so bright he could see very well, he impatiently flung his pen down and muttered, "There is no use; I can never do it; this will never do!" and began angrily to tear up one of the music sheets, when suddenly he stopped and raised his head and listened intently. Such a lovely melody, so soft and clear, rising and falling in the sweetest cadences, now growing louder and louder in a wild, passionate crescendo, and then dying slowly away!

For a moment, the boy remained silent; then, suddenly springing to his feet, he cried:

"It is Franz! I know it, for no one but he could write any[Pg 127]thing so beautiful. But it shall be mine, for it is the piece that will gain the prize! Ah, Franz, I play before you, and what I play shall be--"

He stopped, and the moonlight streaming in at the window glanced across the room, and revealed a look of half triumph, half shame on his dark, haughty face. Why had he stopped? Perhaps his guardian angel stood behind him, warning him against what he was about to do. For a moment, a fierce struggle seemed to take possession of the boy, between his good and his evil spirit. But, alas! the evil conquered, and, sitting down, he wrote off what he had heard, aided by his wonderful memory; and, after an hour, he threw down the piece, finished. Then, with an exulting smile, he cried, "The prize is mine!" and, throwing himself on the bed, he fell into a troubled sleep.

The time had come at last for the great concert, and the boys were so excited they could hardly keep still; even Franz, whose cheeks glowed with a brilliant hectic flush, and whose eyes were strangely bright. The hall was crowded. The imperial family was there, together with the whole court.

The concert began with an overture from the orchestra. Then came Fraulein, the prima donna of the Imperial Opera, and then the boys. Carl came first, and played a brilliant, sparkling little piece, and was loudly applauded; next Gottfried and Johann, and then Raoul. When he stepped out upon the platform, his handsome face and fine form seemed to make an impression on the audience, for they remained perfectly silent. Raoul commenced. At first Franz paid no attention to him, then suddenly he started. The melody flowed on; louder and louder, clearer and clearer it rose. Franz stood motionless, listening in strained, fixed attention, until at last, overcome with grief and astonishment, he sank upon the floor and cried out piteously, with tears streaming down his face:

"Oh, Raoul! Raoul! how could you, could you do it--my own little piece that I loved so much? Oh, mother! mother!"--and,[Pg 128]

burying his head in his arms, he sobbed in an agony of grief.

He heard the burst of applause that greeted his piece--not Raoul's; he heard it all, but moved not until he heard Carl say:

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"Come, Franz! it's time to go. They are all waiting for you; but I am afraid that Raoul has won the prize."

What should he do, he wondered? And then he thought perhaps the kind Father in heaven would help him. So, breathing a little prayer in his heart, he walked calmly forth upon the platform.

At first, he trembled so that he could hardly begin; then a sudden inspiration seemed to come to him--a quick light swept across his

face. He raised the violin to his shoulder and began.