Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Half Title
 Title Page
 List of Illustrations
 Back Matter
 Back Cover

Group Title: Golden gift
Title: The Golden gift
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00015719/00001
 Material Information
Title: The Golden gift a book for the young
Physical Description: 160 p. : ill. ; 22 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Nimmo, William Philip, 1831-1883 ( Publisher )
Cameron, Hugh, 1835-1918 ( Illustrator )
Stanton, Clark, 1832-1894 ( Illustrator )
Weir, Harrison, 1824-1906 ( Illustrator )
MacWhirter, John, 1839-1911 ( Illustrator )
Halswelle, Keeley, 1832-1891 ( Illustrator )
Lawson, John, fl. 1865-1909 ( Illustrator )
Paterson, Robert, fl. 1860-1899 ( Engraver )
Murray and Gibb ( Printer )
Publisher: William P. Nimmo
Place of Publication: Edinburgh
Manufacturer: Murray and Gibb
Publication Date: 1868
Copyright Date: 1868
Subject: Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1868   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1868   ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance) -- 1868   ( rbprov )
Gold stamped cloth (Binding) -- 1868   ( local )
Bldn -- 1868
Genre: Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance)   ( rbprov )
Gold stamped cloth (Binding)   ( local )
Spatial Coverage: Scotland -- Edinburgh
Statement of Responsibility: with illustrations by Hugh Cameron, Clark Stanton, Harrison Weir, John M'Whirter, Keeley Halswelle, John Lawson, and other eminent artists.
General Note: Preface, page 6, dated 1868.
General Note: Added title page, engraved by R. Paterson.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00015719
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: ltqf - AAA8250
notis - ALH0931
oclc - 05524812
alephbibnum - 002230571

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter 1
        Front Matter 2
    Half Title
        Page 1
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
    List of Illustrations
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
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        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
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        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
    Back Matter
        Page 161
        Page 162
    Back Cover
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
Full Text

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I'rN 'LRS T( HER M.'\JI.S ,- I \ >'1 i.\. I:V OlFl LF .


T H IS Gift-Book has been prepared partly with the view
of bringing young people into contact, in a way that
will please and attract them, with the works of some of
those great or popular writers whom, when they grow up
into men and women, it will be their pride to study and
admire. The selection, however, has not been strictly
limited by this purpose; it will be found that the book is
not without material fitted to interest youthful minds even
in an early stage of intelligence. The Editor would not
claim for the volume the merit of filling up the gap in
our Gift-Book Literature, which might be supplied by care-
fully and pleasingly enlisting the interest of the young
in those great stores of English Literature in which, when
they are older, they will find at once the enjoyment and

____ __


the solace of life. But such a gap does exist; and the
Editor trusts that this attempt towards making good the
deficiency, will be judged with favour at once on account
of its purpose and its execution.

EDINBURGH, Novemberl 1868.

----------- sl---- --



The Child's Talent, .
Besieged in the Snow,
The Wreck of the Hesperus,
Clever Alice, .
The Cameronian's Dream,
The Lost Daughter, .
The Broken Flower,
The Birds of Killingworth,
The Mouse and the Cake,
Uncle Toby's Battery,
The Battle of Blenheim,
Little White Lily, .
Sancho Panza's Judgment of the Staff,
The Confident Robin,
Stars at Bedtime, ..
The Long Night of Rip Van Winkle,
The River, .
The Holly Tree, .
A Child at Prayer, .
The Slave's Dream, .
Ye Mariners of England,
The Musicians of Bremen,
To a Mountain Daisy,
The Sparrow's Nest,
The Sailor's Mother,
Christmas, .
The Man with the Muck Rake,

.4 nonyi s, . .
S Thomas de Quincey,
S lenry W. Longfellow, .
R. Paterson,
S ames ZHislop,
S Rev. 7olzn Todd, .
S R. Paterson,
S Henry W. Longfellow,
S Eliza Cook,
Lawrence Sterne,
o J inony s, .
S George Macdonald, .
. C r'ivnites, .
S ames Thomson,
M rs. Wells,
W nashington Irving,
. TlThomas Aird,
S Robert Southey,
S Byron, .
S Henry W. Loiig'llf .
S Thomas Campbell,
R. Paterson,. .
Robert Burns,
W. IfW'lorth, .
S W. Wordsworth, .
I Iarict E. Prescott,
J ohn Bunyan, .



12 --"
S 65,
S 79
S 80
S 82
S 84
S 86

S 93
S 95
S 96
S 98
S 99-

- -- --L .C-----s*~..~l~ _ I -I ~_ ~

- ~ __~


Address to a Wild Deer.
What are Children ? .
Lost in the Woods, .. .
The Girl and the Gleaner,
Death's Final Conquest,
The Wooing of Master Fox,
The Mother to her Babe, .
The Little Mariner, .
The Diverting History of John Gilpin,
Dream-Children, .
The Pitman to his Wife, .

7ohn iilson,
John Neal, .
R. Paterson,.
Maria S. Cumming,
James .S-r;'cyl,
Lord Lytton,
George Wither,
Mary Io-,,ill,
Williamn Cowper, .
Charles Lamb,
Dora Greenwell,.

. 104

S 14
* I15,-O
S 138
. 151"

-----r ------------r----_~.. 1_-_. .1_.1...~__,_~. ~_,~~~~ ~_~_~~~~__~ ~ ~__~~____~_ _~_ ~ ~_~__ ---------~



Title-page, .
Ick.iegcd in the Snow,
The Wreck of the Hesperus,
Clever Alice, .
Do., .
The CaDncronian's Dream,
The Broken Flower,
The Mouse and the Cake,
The Battle of Blenheim,
The Confident Sparrow,
Rip Van Winkle,
The River, .
A Child at Prayer,
Ye Mariners of Englanild,
The Musicians of Bremen,
The Sparrow's Nest,
Christiana at the Gate,
What are Children ? .
The Girl and the Gleaner,
Lost in the Wud,1, .
The W\ ,iig of Ma-t,: 1ox, .,
The Little .arinci, .

C 0. O. _/i,,",..'
Paterson, .
C. j7. .S/aa.n .
7 Lawson, .
C. A. 1) '7e, .
S l'eeleky Hlswoelle, A.. : S.A.,

S J. L' Wiine, . A'.... .

S IZi-rrison ir, .
George lay, .
A Paterson,
M W. A' Viirter, A.I. A ..., .
GGeorge lay,, . .
IR. person, .
y. Lr..,, .
[[. F. 1V7i.+'[,,, .
C. A. Doyle,
7. Al' Wh/irter, l. A. : ., .
George Iay, .
A ]les,-',\{, .
Clark/ Stanton, A. I. S. A.,
AR. l'aterso n (~/?er IL FA'n), .
A'. aterson,
If,/liso. eir, .
A'. Palersoin, ,


_ ~I ~ II~

_ __


The Little Mariner, .
The Mother and her Babh,
John Gilpin,
The Pitman to his Wife,

. Pateson, 133
A. Paterson (froJm a 1'/! < 135
I-. CGaneron, A.R.S.A., 141
. G /n' .A. . .S I., 145
J. Lawson, 153
7. Lawson, 57

The Ornamental DeI)ig ln tlihrughut the Volume are by CLARK STANTON, A.R..S.A.\.

., ,,

*-\.V y


_ ___


O D entrusts to all
J T;alents few or many ;
None so young and small
That they have not any.

Though the great and wise

Have a greater numnl)Clr,
Yet my one I prize,
And it must not slumncr.

God will surely ask,
Ere I enter Heaven,
Have I done the task
Which to me was given?

Little drops of rain
Bring the springing flowers;
And I may attain
Much by little powers.

Every little mite,
Every little measure,
Helps to spread the light,
Helps to swell the treasure.

7L_ _



T was to a sale of domestic furniture, at the house of some pro-
prietor in Langdale, that George and Sarah Green set forward
in the forenoon of a day fated to be their last on earth. The sale
was to take place in Langdalehead; to which, from their own cot-
tage in Easdale, it was possible in daylight, and supposing no mist
on the hills, to find out a short cut of not more than five or six
miles. By this route they went; and, notwithstanding the snow lay
on the ground, they reached their destination in safety. The attend-
ance at the sale must have been diminished by the rigorous state
of the weather; but still the scene was a gay one, as usual. The
time for general separation was considerably after sunset; and the
final recollections of the crowd with respect to George and Sarah
Green were, that upon their intention being understood to retrace
their morning path, and to attempt the perilous task of dropping
down into Easdale from the mountains above Langdalehead, a sound
of remonstrance arose from many quarters. However, at such a
moment, when everybody was in the hurry of departure, the op-
position could not be very obstinate. Party after party rode off;
the meeting melted away, or, as the northern phrase is, scaled; and
the Greens quitted the scene, professing to obey some advice or
other upon the choice of roads, but, at as early a point as they
could do so unobserved, began to ascend the hills. After this they
were seen no more. They had disappeared into the cloud of death.
Voices were heard, some hours afterwards, from the mountains-
voices, as some thought, of alarm ; others said, No, that it was only
the voices of jovial people, carried by the wind into uncertain
regions. The result was, that no attention was paid to the sounds.

~_ _I ~ I__~~_ _~ ~ __ ___ _I~~



That night, in little peaceful Easdale, six childrii sat by a peat
fire, expecting the return of their parents, upon whom they de-
pended for their daily bread. Let a day pass, and they were
starving. Every sound, every echo amnng the hills, was listeniled to
for five hours, from seven to twelve. At length the eldest girl of
the family- ahort nine years old-told her little brothers and sisters
to go to bed. They had been trained to obedience ; and all of
them, at the voice of their eldest sister, went off fearfully to their
beds. Some time in the course of the evening-but it was late, and
after midnight-the moon arose, and shed a torrent of light upon
the Langdale fells, which had already, long hours before, witnessed
in darkness the death of their parents.

_ ~ _~~~~_ _ _I ~~_ _ _II_ _I_~ ~__ ~~ _~~__~



That night, and the following morning, came a further and a
heavier fall of snow; in consequence of which the poor children were
completely imprisoned, and cut off from all possibility of communi-
cating with their next neighbours. The brook was too much for
them to leap; and the little crazy wooden bridge could not be
crossed, or even approached, with safety, from the drifting of the
snow having made it impossible to ascertain the exact situation of
some treacherous hole in its timbers, which, if trod upon, would
have let a small child drop through into the rapid waters. Their
parents did not return. For some hours -of the morning the children
clung to the hope that the extreme severity of the night had tempted
them to sleep in Langdale; but this hope forsook them as the day
wore away. The poor desolate children, hourly becoming more
convinced that they were orphans, huddled together in the evening
round their hearth-fire of peats, and held their little family councils
upon what was to be done towards any chance-if chance remained-
of yet giving aid to their parents; for a slender hope had sprung
up that some hovel or sheep-fold might have furnished them a
screen against the weather quarter of the storm, in which hovel they
might even now be lying snowed up; and secondly, as regarded
themselves, in what way they were to make known their situation,
in case the snow should continue or should increase: for starvation
stared them in the face, if they should be confined for many days
to their house.
Meantime the eldest sister, little Agnes, though sadly alarmed,
and feeling the sensation of ceriness as twilight came on, and she
looked out from the cottage door to the dreadful fells on which,
too probably, her parents were lying corpses (and possibly not many
hundred yards from their own threshold), yet exerted herself to take
all the measures which their own prospects made prudent. Having
caused all her brothers and sisters-except the two little things,



not yet of a fit age-to kneel down and say the prayers which
they had been taught, this admirable little maiden turned herself
to every household task that could have proved useful to them in
a long captivity. First of all, upon some recollection that the clock
was nearly going down, she wound it up. Next, she took all the
milk which remained from what her mother had provided for the
children's consumption during her absence, and for the breakfast of
the following morning-this luckily was still in sufficient plenty for
two days' consumption-and scalded it, so as to save it from turning
sour. That done, she next examined the meal chest; made the
common oatmeal porridge of the country ; but put all of the children,
except the two youngest, on short allowance; and, by way of recon-
ciling them in some measure to this stinted meal, she found out a
little hoard of flour, part of which she baked for them upon the
hearth into little cakes: and this unusual delicacy persuaded them
to think that they had been celebrating a feast. Next, before night
coming on should make it too trying to her own feelings, or before
fresh snow coming on might make it impossible, she issued out of
doors. There her first task was, with the assistance of two younger
brothers, to carry in from the peat-stack as many peats as might
serve them for a week's consumption. That done, in the second
place she examined the potatoes, buried in 'brackens' (that is,
withered fern) : these were not many, and she thought it better to
leave them where they were, excepting as many as would make
a single meal, under a fear that the heat of their cottage would
spoil them if removed.
Having thus made all the provision in her power for supporting
their own lives, she turned her attention to the cow. Her she milked;
but unfoirtunIatcl the milk she ga\ c, either from being badly fed
or from some other cause, was too trifling to be of much considera-
tion towards the wants of a large family. Here, h(w\\c\er, her chief


anxiety was to get down the hay for the cow's food from a loft
abovethe outhouse; and in this she succeeded but imperfectly, from
want of strength and size to cope with the difficulties of the case,
besides that the increasing darkness by this time, together with the
gloom of the place, made it a matter of great self-conquest for her
to work at all. But, as respected one night at any rate, she placed
the cow in a situation of luxurious warmth and comfort. Then
retreating into the warm house, and barring the door, she sat down
to undress the two youngest of the children: them she laid carefully
and cosily in their little nests up-stairs, and saw them to sleep. The
rest she kept up to bear her- company until the clock should tell
them it was midnight ; up to which time she had a lingering hope
that some welcome shout from the hills above, which they were all
to strain their ears to catch, might yet assure them that they were
not wholly orphans, even though one parent should have perished.
No shout was ever heard; nor could. a shout in any case have been
heard, for the night was one of tumultuous wind. And though,
amidst its ravings, sometimes they fancied a sound of voices, still,
in the dead lulls that now and then succeeded, they heard nothing
to confirm their hopes. The night slipped away, and morning came,
bringing with it no better hopes of any kind. Change there had
been none, but for the worse. The snow had greatly increased in
quantity, and the drifts seemed far more formidable. A second day
passed like the first; little Agnes still keeping her young flock quiet
and tolerably comfortable, and still calling on all the elders in suc-
cession to say their prayers morning and night.
A third day came; and whether on that or on the fourth, J do
not now recollect, but on one or other, there came a welcome gleam
of hope. The arrangement of the snow-drifts had shifted during the
night; and though the wooden bridge was still impracticable, a low
wall had been exposed, over which, by a circuit round the brook, it

_ ___ __ __


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seemed possible that abroad might be found into Grasmere. The
little boys accompanied their sister till she came to the other side of
the hill, which, lying more sheltered from the weather, offered a path
onwards comparatively easy. Here they parted ; and little Agnes
pursued her solitary mission to the nearest house she could find
accessible in Grasmere. No house could have proved a wrong one
in such a case. Horror in an instant displaced the smile of hos-
pitable greeting, when little weeping Agnes told her sad tale. No
tongue can express the fervid sympathy which travelled through the
vale, like fire in an American forest, when it was learned that neither
George nor Sarah Green had been seen by their children since the
day of the Langdale sale. Within half-an-hour, or little more, from
the remotest parts of the valley, all the men of Grasmere had
assembled ; and sixty at least set off with the speed of Alpine
hunters to the hills. The dangers of the undertaking were consider-
able, under the uneasy and agitated state of the weather; and all
the women of the vale were in the greatest anxiety, until night
brought them back, in a body, unsuccessful. Three days at the
least, and I rather think five, the search was ineffectual. The zeal
of the people,-meantime, was not in the least abated, but rather
quickened, by the wearisome disappointment; every hour of day-
light was turned to account; no man of the valley ever came home
to meals. At length sagacious dogs were taken up; and about
noonday, a shout from an aerial height, amongst thick volumes of
cloudy vapour, propagated through repeating bands of men for a
'distance of many miles, conveyed as by telegraph into Grasmere
the news that the bodies were found. George Green was lying at
the bottom of a precipice, from which he had fallen. Sarah Green
was found on the summit of the precipice. It was conjectured that
the husband had desired his wife to pause for a few minutes, wrapping
her meantime in his own greatcoat, whilst he should go forward and




reconnoitre the ground, in order to catch a sight of some object
(rocky peak, or tarn, or peat-field) which might ascertain their true
position. Either the snow above, already lying in drifts, or the
blinding snow-storm driving into his eyes, must have misled him as
to the nature of the circumjacent ground ; for the precipice over
which he had fallen was but a few yards from the spot on which he
had quitted his wife.
The funeral of the ill-fated Greens was, it may be supposed,
attended by all the vale: it took place about eight days after they
were found; and the day happened to be in the most perfect con-
trast to the sort of weather which prevailed at the time of their
misfortune. Some snow still remained here and there upon the
ground, but the azure of the sky was unstained by a cloud; and
a golden sunlight seemed to sleep, so balmy and tranquil was the
season, upon the very hills where the pair had wandered-then a
howling wilderness, but now a green pastoral lawn in its lower
ranges, and a glittering expanse of virgin snow in its higher. After
the solemn ceremony of the funeral was over, a regular distribution
of the children was made amongst the wealthier families of the vale.
And thus, in so brief a period as one fortnight, a household that,
by health and strength, by the humility of poverty, and by innocence
of life, seemed sheltered from all attacks but those of time, came
to be utterly broken up. George and Sarah Green slept in Gras-
mere Churchyard, never more to know the want of 'sun or guiding
star.' Their children were scattered through the vales of Grasmere
and Rydal; and Blentarn Ghyll, after being shut up for a season,
and ceasing for months to send up its little column of smoke at
morning and evening, finally passed into the hands of a stranger.
-Albidged frotim Rcco7,l'ctios of the Lakes.'

_ _



IT was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea ;
And the skipper hath taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the lairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.
That op~e in the month of May.

II -

I _



The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish Main,
' I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.

' Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see !'
The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the North-east;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.

'Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow.'

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.



'Oh, father! I hear the church-bells ring;
Oh, say, what may it be ?
' Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast.!'
And he steered for the open sea.

'Oh, father! I hear the sound of guns;
Oh, say, what may it be ?'
'Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!'

'Oh, father I see a gleaming light;
Oh, say, what may it be ?'
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;




It was the sound of the trampling surf,
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool;
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank:
Ho ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!

_I _





T HERE was once a man who had a daughter, and who thought
so much of her that he called her 'Clever Alice.' One day
he said to his wife, 'We must see about having our Alice married.'
'Ay, truly,' replied her mother, 'but not to any suitor shall we
give our daughter.'




Some years after, a proper youth came to make a proposal to
marry her; but he required one condition, 'that she should be very
prudent.' 'Ay, and that you will find her,' quoth her parent.
'Clever Alice can see the wind, and hear a fly cough.' 'Very
good,' replied the suitor; 'but unless I find her so, remember I shall
not marry her.' And so they betook themselves to dinner.
Discovering that the beer had not been drawn, Alice took a jug
and proceeded to the cellar. As soon as she got there, she sat
down on a stool by the side of the cask. She placed the can
beneath the tap, and waited patiently until it was nigh filled.
Casting her eyes around-peering into this nook and that corner
-she raised them towards the roof, when they lighted on a hatchet
sticking from a rafter right over her head. At this Clever Alice
began to cry, saying, 'Oh! if I marry Hans, and we have a child,
and he grows up, and we send him into the cellar to draw beer,
might not this axe fall and kill him ?' And she wept bitterly.
All the while the parents and Hans were waiting for the beer.
The mother by and by sent the servant to see what had befallen
Alice. Finding her seated by the cask, and weeping, she asked her
young mistress the reason. 'Ah !' she exclaimed, have not I cause ?
If I marry Hans, and we have a child, and he grows up, and we
send him into the cellar to draw beer, might not this axe fall and
kill him?' 'Oh!-ah!' said the maid, 'what a clever Alice we
have!' And she too sat down and wept, in anticipation of the
No beer being brought to the dinner-table, Alice's father sent
with all haste his little boy-the more so that they were beginning
to feel very thirsty. Arriving in the cellar, Alice related to him the
sad tale; at which he squatted himself on the floor, and squeezed
his knuckles into his eyes, exclaiming, 'Oh! what a clever Alice
we have!'



At last the father, losing all patience, went to the cellar himself,
where he found all three seated in sad lamentation; and when he
heard the reason, he too exclaimed, 'Oh! what a clever Alice we
have!' and joined in the dismal wail.
Meanwhile the bridegroom sat waiting at the dinner-table; but
when nobody returned (for the mother too had gone below), the
thought came into his head that they might be waiting for him: so
he went down to see what was the matter. When he entered, there
sat the whole five weeping and wailing, in anything but a harmonious
'What has happened ?' he asked.
'Ah, dear Hans!' cried Alice, 'if you and I should marry, and
we have a child, and he grow up, and we send him to draw beer,
might not this axe fall upon his head and kill him ? and do you not
think this is enough to weep about ?'
'Now, here is proof of prudence-more than this is inconceivable
-I shall at once take you to be my wife,' replied Hans. And so
they got married.
Shortly after, Hans says to his wife, 'Will you, while I am at
business, go into the field and gather some corn ?' To which she
assented; and, cooking a fine mess of pottage, set off to the field,
where arriving, she said to herself, Shall I cut first, or eat first ?
Ay, I will eat.' Then she ate up the pottage. Whereupon she
thought to herself, 'Now, shall I reap first, or sleep first? Well, I
think I shall take forty winks.' And down she laid herself.
Evening came, and Hans, on returning from business, found his
wife still absent. 'Oh, what a prudent Alice I have! She is so
anxious and industrious, slie does not even return to have food.' And
so Hans proceeded to the field to see how much she had reaped;
but, lo! there she lay among the corn fast asleep. So home he ran,
and procuring a net with numerous bells attached, he returned, and,



throwing it over her while she slept, went back to his cottage, and
began working very hard.
At last Alice awoke, and springing to her feet, the net fell around
her, jingling at every step she took. She got so alarmed, that she
began to doubt whether she was indeed Clever Alice, saying to her-
self, 'Am I Alice, or am I not?' And so she went on to consider.
Arriving at her own door, she gently tapped, and asked, 'Hans, is
your wife within?'

'Yes,' he answered; and the bells giving a louder jingle than
before, she darted from the house, exclaiming, 'Ah, truly, I am not
Alice.' And she ran to another door; but the jingling of the bells
so frightened everybody, that they refused to open their doors to
her; and she ran away from the village, and no one ever knew what
became of her.

_ ~





IN a dream of the night I was wafted away
To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn, amongg the heather was lying.

'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew
Glistened there amongg the heath-bells and mountain flowers blue.

And far up in heaven, near the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud;




And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights, of July's sweet morning.

But oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealing,
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,
Concealed amongg the mist where the heath-fowl were crying;
For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,
But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed;
With eyes turned to Heaven in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded:
Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.



The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming;
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

i9_qy(y~E~E~ ~





When the righteous had fall'n, and the combat was ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels, on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining;
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding;
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

'0 .. 1)"1'



IN the early settlement of Pennsylvania, there arrived, among
other emigrants, a poor, pious German family. There were
no schools established then, and no public worship on the Sabbath.
But the poor man, and all that were within his humble gates, literally
rested on that holy day, while he taught them from his German
Bible according to the best of his ability.
In 1754, the .fearful war, commonly called 'the old French war,'
broke out between the French and the English. Canada was the
seat of the war, as it was the centre of the French power. The
Indians were induced to join them, and thus they became a terror
to all the frontier settlements. When civilised people make war,
they usually spare a conquered foe, and treat him with some degree
of kindness; but the savage, as his name imports, is even more so
after the battle than while fighting.
In this war the Indians used to go, sometimes with the French
and sometimes alone, in small parties, and fall upon the defenceless
inhabitants, and murder them without mercy; burning their dwell-
ings, and destroying their property. On such an excursion as this,
they came across the dwelling of our poor, pious German. Now,
although God has promised to watch over His people, and not to
let a hair fall from their head without His notice, yet He has no-
where promised to reward them for their piety in this life. He will
not offer the poor rewards of time for their service.
The father, and his eldest son, and the two girls, named Barbara
and Regina, were at home. The mother and one boy had gone to
carry some grain to a mill at a distance. On their return, they
found the father and the oldest son cruelly murdered, and their

II _ I



humble dwelling and barn, and all that they had, burned or carried
off. The two little girls, too, were carried away; and at night the
poor mother had only one little boy left of all her family, and not
a shelter for her head. All that she could learn respecting her
daughters was, that the Indians had carried them into the wilder-
ness along with many other weeping children.
It was never known what became of Barbara, the oldest girl.
But Regina, with another sweet little girl, a stranger of two years
old, were carried away into the country of the Indians, and given to
an old Indian woman. She was very cross and very cruel. Her
only son lived with her, and, for the most part, supplied her with
food by hunting; but he was frequently gone away for weeks, and
then she used to send the little girls alone into the woods to dig
roots for her food; and if they failed to procure enough, she beat
them fiercely. The little white-haired girl clung to Regina as her
only friend; and as Regina had been well taught by her parents,
she used often to tell her little friend all she knew about Jesus
Christ; and often alone, in the mighty forest, would these two little,
apparently forsaken creatures, say over such hymns and texts of
Scripture as Regina could recall, and then kneel down and pray to
that God who heareth the young ravens when they cry.
Nine long years were thus spent in this bondage, till Regina was
nineteen years old, and her little friend eleven. In all this time
their hearts seemed to be yearning after what was good. There
was one favourite hymn which they often repeated together.
In the year 1764, by the good providence of God, Colonel Bou-
quet, of the English army, came to that part of the country where
these captives resided. He conquered the Indians, and compelled
them to ask for peace. This he granted, on the condition that all
the white prisoners should be given up to him. More than four
hundred were brought to the Colonel, and among these the girls




whose story I am telling. They were truly wretched objects. He
carried them to Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and published in all the news-
papers of the State, that all parents who had lost children by the
Indians, might come and see if they were among these four hundred
captives. What a gathering was there at Carlisle! What multitudes
of fathers and mothers were seen coming with throbbing hearts to
see if they could find their long-lost children Among others came
the poor German's widow. She was seen walking up and down
among the captives, pale, agitated, and in tears. Now she would
stop and gaze at the long-haired, Indian-clad captives, and try to
recall the features of her child. But Regina had grown up, was
altered, was dressed as an Indian, and neither mother nor daughter
knew each other. As the poor mother stood sobbing, the kind-
hearted Colonel came along, and his heart was touched.
'Is there nothing,' said he, 'by which your children can be dis-
covered ?'
'Oh! sir, nothing-nothing; I can't find either!'
'Is there nothing which you taught them which they might re-
collect if they heard it?'
Nothing, sir-nothing; unless it be a hymn which we used to
sing with their father.'
'Sing it, sing it,' said the Colonel.
The poor woman began,:

'Alone, yet not alone, am I,
Though in this solitude so drear;
I feel my Saviour always nigh,
He comes the weary hour to cheer.
I am with Him, and He with me:
E'en here alone I cannot be !'
Scarcely had she begun to sing it, ere Regina rushed from the
crowd, and joined in singing it, as she used to do when she was a



little girl, and then threw herself into her mother's arms. They both
wept aloud; for the lost child was found, and the Colonel gave the
captive to her mother. With what tears did she thank him! But
no parents came to claim the other little girl. They had probably
been murdered. She clung to Regina, and there was no hand that
tried to separate them. The first thing that Regina inquired for,
was 'the book in which God speaks to us;' and it was found that
she could read the Bible at once.


_ __

_ ___




D EEP in a mountain valley grew
A little flower, of lovely hue,
Nourished by a drop of dew.

But ere it oped its petals fair,
To scent th' already balmy air,
Off dropt the cheering pearly tear.

And thro' the vale fierce wind and rain
Rushed with a heedless might and main,
That snapped its slender stem in twain.

1 I



Thus in the churchyard grassy graves,
And on the ocean rolling waves,
And in the mountain sculptured caves,

Say to us all that we must die,
And in the earth or ocean lie-
Travellers to Eternity.

And little tombs say, little flowers
Transplanted are to safer bowers:
Thus thou art there, sweet one of ours !

_ ~





IT was the season, when through all the land
The merle and mavis build, and building sing
Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand,
Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-heart King;
When on the boughs the-purple-buds expand,
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring;
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,
And wave.their fluttering signals from the steep.

The robin and the blue-bird, piping loud,
Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;
The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be,;
And hungry crows assembled in a crowd,
Clamoured their piteous prayer incessantly,
Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said,
'Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread !'

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed,
Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet
Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed
The village with the cheers of all their fleet;
Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street
Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise
Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys.

I -- I I

I -



Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago;
And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth,
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow,
That mingled with the universal mirth,
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe:
They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words
To swift destruction the whole race of birds.

And a town-meeting was convened straightway
To set a price upon the guilty heads
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay,
Levied black-mail upon the garden beds
And corn-fields, and beheld without dismay
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds:
The skeleton that waited at their feast,
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.

[The majestic Squire, the austere Parson, and the p mpnis De c',on set out
for the meeting-; and]

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned
The hill of Science with its vane of brass,
Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round,
Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass,
And all absorbed in reveries profound
Of fair Almira in the upper class,
Who was, as in a sonnet he had said,
As pure as water, and as good as bread.



These came together in the new town-hall,
With sundry farmers from the region round.
The Squire presided, dignified and tall,
His air impressive and his reasoning sound :
Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small;
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found,
But enemies enough, who every one
Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun.

When they had ended, from his place apart
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong,
And, trembling like a steed before the start,
Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng;
Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart
To speak out what was in him, clear and strong,
Alike regardless of their smile or frown,
And quite determined not to be laughed down.

'Plato, anticipating the Reviewers,
From his Republic banished without pity
The Poets; in this little town of yours,
You put to death, by means of a Committee,
The ballad-singers and the Troubadours,
The street-musicians of the heavenly city,
The birds, who make sweet music for us all
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.

'The thrush that carols at the dawn of day
From the green steeples of the piny wood;
The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay,
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food;

~- -- - - - -- -- -- -------



The blue-bird balanced on some topmost spray,
Flooding with melody the neighbourhood;
Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng
That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song.

' You slay them all! and wherefore ? for the gain
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat,
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,
Scratched up at random by industrious feet,
Searching for worm or weevil after rain!
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet
As are the songs these uninvited guests
Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts.

'Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ?
Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
The dialect they speak, where melodies
Alone are the interpreters of thought ?
Whose household words are songs in many keys,
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven!

'Think, every morning when the sun peeps through
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove,
How jubilant the happy birds renew
Their old, melodious madrigals of love!
And when you think of this, remember too
'Tis always morning somewhere, and above
The awakening continents, from shore to shore,
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

__ __

I - -



'Think of your woods and orchards without birds!
Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams,
As in an idiot's brain remembered words
Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds
Make up for the lost music, when your teams
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more
The feathered gleaners follow to your door?

' What! would you rather see the incessant stir
Of insects in the winrows of the hay,
And hear the locust and the grasshopper
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play?
Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr
Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay,
Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take
Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ?

'You call them thieves and pillagers; but know
They are the winged wardens of your farms,
Who from the corn-fields drive the insidious foe,
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms;
Even the blackest of them all, the crow,
Renders good service as your man-at-arms,
Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail,
And crying havoc on the slug and snail.

'How can I teach your children gentleness,
And mercy to the weak, and reverence
For Life, which, in its weakness or excess,
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence,

_ I __

I I I _



Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less
The selfsame light, although averted hence,
When by your laws, your actions, and your speech,
You contradict the very things I teach?'

With this he closed; and through the audience went
A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves ;
The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent
Their yellow heads together like their sheaves:
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment
Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves.
The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows,
A bounty offered for the heads of crows.

And so the dreadful massacre began;
O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests,
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran.
Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts,
Or wounded crept away from sight of man,
While the young died of famine in their nests :
A slaughter to be told in groans, not words,
The very St. Bartholomew of Birds!

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead;
The days were like hot coals; the very ground
Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed
Myriads of caterpillars, and around
The cultivated fields and garden beds
Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found
No foe to check their march, till they had made
The land a desert without leaf or shade.

IldI)ICHCDIIIIIIII~11~6~1~ ICI -II )(III~ICI11111 .-

-..~--~-----~-y-~l .II--- -. I --- p-r~--~L~ ----I3P-~~IPe~----~11.9_~----~



Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town,
Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly
Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down
The canker-worms upon the passers-by,
Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown,
Who shook them off with just a little cry:
They were the terror of each favourite walk,
The endless theme of all the village talk.

The farmers grew impatient, but a few
Confessed their error, and would not .complain;
For, after all, the best thing one can do
When it is raining, is to let it rain.
Then they repealed the law, although they knew
It would not call the dead to life again;
As school-boys, finding their mistake too late,
Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate.

That year in Killingworth the Autumn came
Without the light of his majestic look,
The wonder of the falling tongues of flame,
The illumined pages of his Doomsday-Book.
A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame,
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook,
While the wild wind went moaning everywhere,
Lamenting the dead children of the air!

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen,
A sight that never yet by bard was sung,
As great a wonder as it would have been
If some dumb animal had found a tongued

-~----- -cl----- ---i----I----



A waggon, overarched with evergreen,
Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung,
All full of singing birds, came down the street,
Filling the air with music wild and sweet.

From all the country round these birds were brought,
By order of the town, with anxious quest,
And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought
In woods and fields the places they loved best,
Singing loud canticles, which many thought
Were satires to the authorities addressed;
While others, listening in green lanes, averred
Such lovely music never had been heard!

But blither still and louder carolled they
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know
It was the fair Almira's wedding-day;
And everywhere, around, above, below,
When the Preceptor bore his bride away,
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow,
And a new heaven bent over a new earth
Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth.


A MOUSE found a beautiful piece of plum-cake,
The richest and sweetest that mortal could make;
'Twas heavy with citron and fragrant with spice,
And covered with sugar all sparkling as ice.

I i i
~- L8
- .. -
i^ _: ~ i- I
L ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-t

________________________ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I


'My stars,' cried the mouse, while his eyes beamed with glee,
' Here's a treasure I 've found-what a feast it will be !
But hark there's a noise: 'tis my brothers at play,
So I'll hide with the cake, lest they wander this way.

'Not a bit shall they have, for I know I can eat
Every morsel myself, and I '11 have such a treat!'
So off went the mouse as he held the cake fast,
While his hungry brothers went scampering past.

He nibbled, and nibbled, and panted, but still
He kept gulping it down till he made himself ill;
Yet he swallowed it all, and 'tis easy to guess
He was soon so unwell that he groaned with distress.

His family heard him; and as he grew worse,
They sent for the doctor, who made him rehearse
How he 'd eaten the cake to the very last crumb,
Without giving his playmates and relatives some.

'Ah me !' cried the doctor, 'advice is too late;
You must die before long, so prepare for your fate:
If you had but divided the cake with your brothers,
'Twould have done you no harm, and been good for the others.

' Had you shared it, the treat had been wholesome enough;
But eaten by one, it was dangerous stuff:
So prepare for the worst.' And the word had scarce fled
When the doctor turned round, and the patient was dead.

Now all little people the lesson may take,
And some large ones may learn from the mouse and the cake,.
Not to be over-selfish with what we may gain,
Or the best of our pleasures may turn into pain.


S- . .._;4 -



MY Uncle Toby came down with plans along with him of
almost every fortified town in Italy and Flanders; so let
the Duke of Marlboro', or the Allies, have set down before what
town they pleased, my Uncle Toby was prepared for them. His
way, which was the simplest one in the world, was this: As soon
as ever a town was invested (but sooner when the design was known)
to take the plan of it (let it be what town it would), and enlarge
it upon a scale to the exact size of his bowling-green; upon the
surface of which, by means of a large roll of pack-thread, and a
number of small piquets driven into the ground, at the several angles
and redans, he transferred the lines from his paper; then, taking the
profile of the place, with its works, to determine the depths and slopes
of the ditches, the talus of the glacis, and the precise height of the
several banquettes, parapets, etc., he set Corporal Trim to work; and
sweetly went it on. The nature of the soil, the nature of the work
itself-and, above all, the good-nature of my Uncle Toby, sitting
by from morning to night, and chatting kindly with the Corporal
upon past done deeds-left labour little else but the ceremony of



the name. When the town, with its works, was finished, my Uncle
Toby and the Corporal began to run their first parallel, not at
random, or anyhow, but from the same points and distances the
Allies had begun to run theirs; and regulating their approaches
and attacks by the accounts my Uncle Toby received from the daily
papers, they went on, during the whole siege, step by step with the
I must observe that, although in the first year's campaign the
word town is often mentioned, yet there was no town at that time
within the polygon; that addition was not made till the summer
following the spring in which the bridges and sentry-box were
painted, which was the third year of my Uncle Toby's campaigns;
when, upon his taking Amberg, Bonn, and Rhinberg, and Huy and
Limbourg, one after another, a thought came into the Corporal's
head, that to talk of taking so many towns without one town to show
for it, was a very nonsensical way of going to work ; and so proposed
to my Uncle Toby" that they should have a little model of a town
built for them, to be run up together of slit deals, and then painted,
and clapped within the interior polygon to serve for all. My Uncle
Toby felt the good of the project instantly, and instantly agreed
to it; but with the addition of two singular improvements, of which
he was almost as proud as if he had been the original inventor of the
project himself. The one was to have the town built'exactly in the
style of those of which it was most likely to be the representative;
with grated windows, and the gable ends of the ': .. facing the
streets, etc., as those in Ghent and Bruges, and the rest of the towns
in Brabant and Flanders. The other was, not to'have the houses
run up together, as the Corporal proposed, but have every house
independent, to hook off or on, so as to form into the plan of what-
ever town they pleased. This was put directly into hand; and many
and many a look of mutual congratulation was exchanged between


my Uncle Toby and the Corporal, as the carpenter did the work.
It answered prodigiously the next summer: the town was a perfect
Proteus .
In the fourth year, my Uncle Toby, thinking a town looked
foolishly without a church, added a very fine one with a steeple.
Trim was for having bells in it-My Uncle Toby said the metal
had better be cast into cannon. This led the way, the next part
of the campaign, for half a dozen brass field-pieces, to be planted
three on each side of my Uncle Toby's sentry-box; and, in a short
time, these led the way for a train somewhat larger; and so on from
pieces of half an inch bore, till it came at last to my father's jack-
boots. The next year, which was that in which Lisle was besieged,
and at the close of which both Ghent and Bruges fell into our hands,
my Uncle Toby was sadly put to it for proper ammunition; I say
proper ammunition, because his great artillery would not bear powder;
and 'twas well for the Shandy family they would not,-for so full
were the papers, from the beginning to the end of the siege, of the
incessant firing kept up by the besiegers, and so heated was my Uncle
Toby's imagination with the accounts of them, that he had infal-
libly shot away all his estate. Something therefore was wanting as
a succedaneum, especially in one or two of the more violent paroxysms
of the siege, to keep up something like a continual firing in the
imagination; and this something, the Corporal, whose principal
strength lay in invention, supplied by an entirely new system of
battering of his own.
With two or three other trinkets, small in themselves, but of
great regard, which poor Tom, the Corporal's unfortunate brother,
had sent him over, with the account of his marriage with the Jew's
widow, there was a Montero cap and two Turkish tobacco-pipes.
The Turkish tobacco-pipes had nothing particular in them; they
were fitted up and ornamented as usual with flexible tubes of


morocco leather and gold wire, and mounted at their ends, the one
of them with ivory, the other with black ebony tipped with silver.
I '11 be bound,' said the Corporal, speaking to himself, 'to give
away my Montero cap to the first beggar who comes to the door,
if I do not manage this matter to his Honour's satisfaction.' The
completion was no farther off than the very next morning, which was
that of the storm of the counterscarp betwixt the Lower Deule to the
right, and the gate of St. Andrew's; and on the left, between St.
Magdalen's and the river. As this was the most memorable attack
in the whole war the most gallant and obstinate on both sides,
and, I must add, the most bloody too (for it cost the Allies them-
selves, that morning, above eleven hundred men)-my Uncle Toby
prepared himself for it with a more than usual solemnity.
So that, what with one tlihin a.id what with another, as it always
falls out when a man is in the most haste, 'twas ten o'clock (which
was half an hour later than his usual time) before my Uncle Toby
sallied out.
My Uncle Toby had scarce turned the corner of his yew-hedge,
which separated his kitchen-garden from his bowling-green, when he
perceived the Corporal had begun the attack without him. Let
me stop and give you a picture of the Corporal's apparatus, and
of the Corporal himself in the height of the attack, just as it struck
my Uncle Toby, as he turned towards the sentry-box, where the
Corporal was at work,-for in nature there is not such another;
nor can any combination of all that is grotesque and whimsical in
her works produce its equal.
The Corporal, who the night before had resolved in his mind to
supply the grand desideratum of keeping up something like an in-
cessant firing upon the enemy during the heat of the attack, had
no farther idea in his fancy, at that time, than a contrivance of
smoking tobacco against the town, out of one of my Uncle Toby's


six field-pieces, which were planted on each side of his sentry-box;
the means of effecting which occurring to his fancy at the same
time, though he had pledged his cap, he thought it in no danger
from the miscarriage of his projects.
Upon turning it this way and that a little in his mind, he soon
began to find out that, by means of his two Turkish tobacco-pipes,
with the supplement of three smaller tubes of wash-leather at each
of their lower ends, to be tagged by the same number of tin-pipes
fitted to the touch-holes, and sealed with clay next the cannon, and
then tied hermetically with waxed silk at their several insertions
into the morocco tube-he should be able to fire the six field-pieces
all together, and with the same ease as to fire one. The Corporal
sat up the best part of the night in bringing his project to perfec-
tion; and having made a sufficient proof of his cannon, with charging
them to the top with tobacco, he went with contentment to bed.
The Corporal had slipped out about ten minutes before my Uncle
Toby, in order to fix his apparatus, and just give the enemy a shot
or two before my Uncle Toby came. He had drawn the six field-
pieces, for this end, all close up in front of my Uncle Toby's sentry-
box, leaving only an interval of about a yard and a half betwixt
the three, on the right and left, for the conveniency of charging, etc.-
and for the sake, possibly, of two batteries, which he might think
double the honour of one. In the rear, and facing this opening,
with his back to the door of the sentry-box, for fear of being
flanked, had the Corporal wisely taken his post.
He held the ivory pipe, appertaining to the battery on the right,
betwixt the finger and thumb of his right hand; and the ebony pipe,
tipped with silver, which appertained to the battery on the left,
betwixt the finger and thumb of the other; and, with his right knee
fixed firm upon the ground, as if in the front rank of his platoon,
was the Corporal, with his Montero cap upon his head, furiously


playing-off his two cross batteries at the same time against the
counter-guard, which faced the counterscarp, where the attack was
to be made that morning. His first intention, as I said, was no
more than giving the enemy a single puff or two; but the pleasure
of the puffs, as well as the ..', had insensibly got hold of the
Corporal, and drawn him on from puff to puff, into the very height
of the attack, by the time my Uncle Toby joined him.
My Uncle Toby took the ivory pipe out of the Corporal's hand;
looked at it half a minute; and returned it. In less than two
minutes, my Uncle Toby took the pipe from the Corporal again,
and raised it half-way to his mouth,-then hastily gave it back a
second time. The Corporal ,I..,L.k!.J the attack; my Uncle Toby
smiled, then looked grave, then smiled for a moment, then looked
serious for a long time.-' Give me hold of the ivory pipe, Trim,'
said my Uncle Toby. My Uncle Toby put it to his lips-drew it
back directly-gave a peep over the hornbeam hedge. Never did
my Uncle Toby's mouth water so much for a pipe in his life.-My
Uncle Toby retired into the sentry-box with his pipe in his hand.
-Dear Uncle Toby! don't go into the sentry-box with the pipe;
there 's no trusting a man's self with such a thing in such a corner.
Tristram Szandy.


IT was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him, sporting on the green,
His little grandchild Wilhelrine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found.
He came to ask what he had found
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And heaved a natural sigh:
' 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,
'Who fell in the great victory.

'I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out:
For many thousand men,' said he,
'Were slain in that great victory.'

Now tell us what 'twas all about,'
Young Peterkin he cries;


And little Wilhelmine looks up,
With wonder-waitinfg eyes;
'Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for.'

'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
Who put the French to rout ;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out:
But everybody said,' quoth he,
'That 'twas a famous victory.

'My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burned his cottage to the ground,
And he. was forced to fly:
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

'With fire and sword the country. round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a tender mother then,
And new-born baby, died:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

'They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won,
For many a thousand bodies there
Lay rotting in the sun :


But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

* s-

as~- ----


'Great praise the Duke of Marlboro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.'
'Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !'
Said little Wilhelmine.
'Nay, nay, my little girl,' quoth he,
' It was a famous victory.

'And everybody praised the duke
Who this great fight did win.'


'But what good came of it at last ?'
Quoth little Peterkin.
'Why, that I cannot tell,' said he;
But 'twas a famous victory.'

I TTLE white Lily sat on a stone,
SDro'oping and waiting till the sun shone.
Little white Lily sunshine has fed;
Little white Lily is lifting her head.

Little white Lily said, 'It is good;
Little white Lily's clothing and food.'
Little white Lily drest like a bride!
Shining with whiteness, and crowned beside!

Little white Lily droopeth with pain,
Waiting and waiting for the wet rain.
Little white Lily holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling and filling it up.

Little white Lily said, Good again,
When I am thirsty to have nice rain;
Now I am stronger, now I am cool;
Heat cannot burn me, my veins are so full.'

Little white Lily smells very sweet;
On her head sunshine, rain at her feet.
' Thanks to the sunshine, thanks to the rain !
Little white Lily is happy again !'



[SANCHO PANZA, as every body knows, was the squire of the
renowned knight-errant Don Quixote; and his master had often
promised to make him governor of an island, which was to be conquered
in some adventure. A great nobleman who entertained Don Quixote
handsomely, and was pleased with the humour of his squire, sent Sancho
Panza, for a jest, to govern a town of a thousand inhabitants; and on
his arrival there, he took his seat in the court, of justice.]
Two old men presented themselves before him. One of them
carried a cane in his hand for a staff; the other, who had no staff,
said to Sancho: 'My lord, some time ago I lent this man ten crowns
of gold to oblige and serve him, upon condition that he should return
them on demand. I let some time pass without asking for them,
being unwilling to put him to a greater strait to pay me than he
was in when I lent them. But at length, thinking it full time to
be repaid, I asked him for my money more than once, but to no
purpose; he not only refuses payment, but denies the debt, and says
I never lent him any such sum; or, if I did, that he has already paid
me. I have no witnesses to the loan, nor has he of the payment
which he pretends to have made, but which I deny; yet if he will
swear before your worship that he has returned the money, I from
this moment acquit him of the debt.' 'What do you say to this,
old gentleman?' quoth Sancho. 'I confess, ry lord,' replied the
old fellow, 'that he did lend me the money; and if your worship
pleases to hold down your wand of justice, since he. leaves it to my
oath, I will swear I have really and truly returned it to him.' The
governor accordingly held down his wand, and the old fellow, seeming
encumbered with his staff, gave it to his creditor to hold while he



was swearing; and then, taking -hold of the cross on the wand, he
said it was indeed true that the other had lent him ten crowns, but
that he had restored them into his own hand; but having, he sup-
posed, forgotten it, he was continually asking them of him. Upon
which his lordship the governor demanded of the creditor what he
had to say in reply to the solemn declaration he had heard. He
said that he submitted, and could not doubt but that his debtor
had sworn the truth; for he believed him to be an honest man and
a good Christian; and that, as the fault'inust have been in his own
memory, he would thenceforward ask him no more for his money.
The debtor now took his staff again, and, bowing to the governor,
went out )f court.
Sancho having observed the defendant take his staff and walk
away, and noticing also the resignation of the plaintiff, he began
to meditate, and laying the forefinger of his right hand upon his
forehead, he continued a short time apparently full of thought; and
then raising his head, he ordered the old man with the staff to be
called back; and when he had returned, Honest friend,' said the
governor, 'give me that staff, for I have occasion for it.' 'With
all my heart,' answered the old fellow, and delivered it into his
hand. Sancho took it, and immediately giving it to the other old
man, he said, 'There, take that, and go about your business, for you
are now paid.' 'I paid, my lord!' answered the old man; 'What!
is this cane worth ten golden crowns ?' 'Yes,' quoth the governor,
' or I am the greatest dunce in the world; and it shall now appear
whether or not I have a head to govern a whole kingdom.' He
then ordered the cane to be broken in court; which being done, ten
crowns of gold were found within it. All the spectators were struck
with admiration, and began to look upon their new governor as a
second Solomon. They asked him how he had discovered that the
ten crowns were in the cane. He told them that, having observed


the defendant give it to the plaintiff to hold, while he took his oath
that he had truly restored the money into his own hands, and that
being done he took his staff again, it came into his head that the
money in dispute must be enclosed within it. From this, he added,
they might see that it sometimes pleased God to direct the judgments
of those who govern, though otherwise little better than blockheads.
The cause being ended, the two old men went away, the one abashed
and the other satisfied; and the secretary, who minuted down the
words, actions, and behaviour of Sancho Panza [for the amusement
of the nobleman who had given him the governorship] could not
determine in his own mind whether he should set him down for
wise or simple.
-Don Quixote, Part II.


THE cherished fields
Put on their winter robe of purest white.
'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current. Low the woods
Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun
Faint from the west emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around


- ~IIIIL~ ill

TlIe \ I.llll: .i _-ll bur,., an' l I lli t.ll :
Ihtth: b,,, ,n I-
\W hich I 'r.c i .n ah-i.in- ithcn. i..


In joylujs; tilds and thuirny tlickclt lad "
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights



On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is-
Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs
Attract his slender feet.



SIFT up the curtain, Bridget,-
You need no longer stay;
I want to see the stars shine
When you have gone away.

I 'd rather say my prayers, here,
When nobody is by,
And only angel eyes look
From out the blessed sky.

The stars, so sweetly shining
When earth and sky are dim,-
It seems as if God bade them
Invite our hearts to Him.

I think Mamma is near them,
For she to heaven is gone.-
Kiss me good-night, dear Bridget,
And let me lie alone.

_ __




RIP VAN WINKLE was a great favourite among all the good
wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took
his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they
talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the
blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too,
would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their
sports, made their playthings, taught them to, fly kites and shoot
marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians.
Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by
a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and
playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog
would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion
to all kinds of profitable labour. It could not be from the want of
assiduity or perseverance, for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod
as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a
murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single
nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours
together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down
dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never
refuse to assist a neighbour even in the roughest toil, and was a
foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or
building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to
employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as
their less obliging husbands would not do for them;-in a word,
Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but


as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was
the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; every-
thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong in spite of him.
His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either
go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow
quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a
point of setting-in just as he had some out-door work to do; so that,
though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his manage-
ment acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch
of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm
in the neighbourhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild
as if they belonged to nobody. Rip Van Winkle, however, was one
of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take
the world easy, cat white bread or brown, whichever can be got
with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny
than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled
life away in perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually
dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin
he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue
was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to
produce a torrent of household eloquence.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair, and his only al-
ternative to escape from the labour of the farm and the clamour of
his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods.
Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and
share the contents of his wallet with his dog Wolf, with whom he
sympathised as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. Poor Wolf!' he
would say, thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never
mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand


by thee!' Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's
face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the
sentiment with all his lcarrt.

In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill
Mountains. He was after his favourite sport of squirrel-shooting, and
the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his

_ 11__1~_ ~ __~____ __~_~_~ __ ____I~_ _ I



gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon,
on a green knoll covered with mountain herbage that crowned the
brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees, he could
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland.
He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson far, far below him, moving
on its silent, majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud,
or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy
bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On the other
side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and
shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs,
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For
some time Rip lay musing on the scene; evening was gradually
advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows
over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could
reach the village; and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of
encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance,
hallooing, 'Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle !' He looked around,
but could see nothjig but a crow winging its solitary flight across
the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and
turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry through the
still evening air: Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle !'-at the same
time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to
his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt
a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the
same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the
rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his
back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and
unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighbour-
hood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity


of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow,
with thick bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the
antique Dutch fashion-a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist,
several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated
with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He
bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and
made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied
with his usual alacrity, and mutually relieving each other, they
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long
rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a
deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, towards which their
rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it
to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers, which
often take place'in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through
the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, sur-
rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which im-
pending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses
of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole
time, Rip and his companion had laboured on in silence; for though
the former marvelled greatly what could be the object of carrying a
keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange
and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and
checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented
themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-
looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a
quaint outlandish fashion: some wore short doublets, others jerkins,
with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous
breeches of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too,


were peculiar; one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish
eyes ; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was
surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's
tail. They had all beards of various shapes and colours. There was
one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentle-
man with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet,
broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings,
and high-heeled shoes with roses in them.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks
were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest
faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melan-
choly party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted
the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever
they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of
thunder. As Rip and his companions approached them, they suddenly
desisted from their play, and stared at him with such a fixed statue-
like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that
his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His
companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons,
and made signs to him to wait on the company. He obeyed with
fear and trembling; they quaffed their liquor in profound silence,
and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage,
which he found had much of the flavour of excellent Hollands. He
was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the
draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to
the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his
eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into
a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from whence he


had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes-it was
a bright sunny morning. He looked round for his gun, but in place
of the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying
by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, the stock
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the
mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with
liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared,
but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He
whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes
repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to visit the scene of the last evening's gambol,
and, if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun.
As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting
in his usual activity. These mountain beds do not agree with me,'
thought Rip; 'and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the
rheumatism, I shall have a happy time with Dame Van Winkle.'
With some difficulty he got down into the glen;'he found the gully
up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening;
but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down
it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling mur-
murs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working
his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-
hazel; and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape-
vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and
spread a kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through
the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening re-
mained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over which
the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into
a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding
forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again


called and whistled after his dog: he was only answered by the
cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree
that overhung a sunny precipice, and who, secure in their elevation,
seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities.
What was to be done? The morning was passing away, and Rip
felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his
gun and dog; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to
starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the
rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned
his steps homeward.
As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but
none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had
thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round.
Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was
accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise,
and, whenever they cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their
chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip involun-
tarily to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard
had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange
children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his
gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an
old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village
was altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows
of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had
been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were
over the doors-strange faces at the windows-everything was
strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether
both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely-this
was his native village which he had left but a day before. There
stood the Kaatskill Mountains-there ran the silver Hudson at a

. ,i
i N'i /''t-'
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-i._ .~ ,
, K: "H ?!-^ '
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distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always
been. Rip was sorely perplexed. That flagon last night,' thought
he, 'has addled my poor head sadly !'
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own
House, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame
Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay-the roof fallen
in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-
starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip
called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and
passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. My very dog,' sighed
poor Rip, 'has forgotten me.' He entered the house, which, to tell
the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It
was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolation
overcame all his connubial fears-he called loudly for his wife and
children-the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice,
and then all again was" silence.
He now hurried forth and hastened to his old resort, the village
inn-but it too was gone. .A large rickety wooden building stood
in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken,
and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was
painted, 'The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.' There was, as
usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recog-
nised. The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his
rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and
children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the attention
of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him
from head to foot, with great curiosity. . The poor man
humbly assured them that he meant no harm, but merely came
there in search of some of his neighbours who used to keep about
the tavern.
ell-who are they ? Name them.'


Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired 'Where's Nicholas
There was silence for a little while, when an old man replied in
a thin piping voice, 'Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone
these eighteen years! a There was a wooden tombstone in the church-
yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too.'
'Where's Brom Dutcher?'
'Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some
say he was killed at the storming of Stony-Point-others say he
was drowned in the squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't
know-he never came back again.'
Where 's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?'
He went off to the wars too, was a great militia-general, and is
now in Congress.'
Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his
home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. He
had no courage to ask after more friends, but cried out in despair,
'Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?'
'Oh, Rip Van Winkle!' exclaimed two or three; 'Oh, to be
sure! that 's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.'
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he
went up to the mountain, apparently as lazy, and certainly as
ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He
doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another
man. In the midst of his bewilderment, a man demanded who he
was, and what was his name?
'God knows,' exclaimed he, at his wits end; 'I 'm not myself-
I 'm somebody else-that 's me yonder-no-that's somebody else
got into my shoes. I was myself last night; but I fell asleep on the
mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed,
and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!'


The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. At this
critical moment, a fresh comely woman passed through the throng
to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in
her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. Hush, Rip,'
cried she, 'hush, you little fool, the old man wont hurt you.' The
name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all
awakened a train of recollections in his mind. What is your name,
my good woman ?' said he.
'Judith Gardeiner.'
'And your father's name ?'
Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's twenty years
since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been
heard of since; his dog came home without him; but whether he
shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell.
I was then but a little girl.'
Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a
faltering voice: 'Where's your mother?'
Oh, she too had died but a short time since. She broke a blood-
vessel in a fit of passion at a New England pedlar.'
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught
his daughter and her child in his arms. 'I am your father!' cried
he-'young Rip Van Winkle once-old Rip Van Winkle now!
-Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?'
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among
the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and, peering under it in his
face for a moment, exclamed, 'Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle
-it is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbour-why, where
have you been these twenty long years?'
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been
to him but as one night. The neighbours stared when they heard


it. It was determined to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk,
who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was the most
ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful
events and traditions of the neighbourhood. He recollected Rip
at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner.
He assured the company that the Kaatskill Mountains had always
been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great
Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept
a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-
moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his
enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and great city
called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their
old Dutch dresses, playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain;
and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound
of their balls like distant peals of thunder.
Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug,
well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom
Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his
back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen
leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm;
but evinced a hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but
his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for
the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among
the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favour.
-A bridged from Sketch-Book.



INFANT of the weeping hills,
Nursling of the springs and rills,
Growing River, flowing ever,
Wimpling, dimpling, staying never-
Lisping, gurgling, ever going,
LI. ii:,, slipping, ever flowing;
Toying round the polished stone,
Kiss the sedge and journey on.
Here 's a creek where bubbles come,
Whirling make your ball of foam.


There's a nook so deep and cool,
Sleep into a glassy pool.
Breaking, gushing,
Downward rushing,
Narrowing green against the bank,
Where the alders grow in rank-
Thence recoiling,
Outward boiling,
Fret, in rough shingly shallows wide,
Your difficult way to yonder side.
Thence away, aye away,
Bickering down the sunny day,
In the Sea, in yonder West,
Lose yourself, and be at rest.

0 READER, hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly-Tree ?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves,
Ordered by an Intelligence so wise
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen,
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound ;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.


I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralise;
And in this wisdom of the Holly-Tree
Can emblems see,
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude;
Gentle at home amid my friends I 'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree.
And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree.
And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly-leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly-Tree ?
So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,
So would I seem among the young and gay
More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly-Tree.

___ _1 I ~__~_~_~ ~__~_


KNEEL, my child, for God is here !
Bend in love, and not in fear;
Kneel before Him now in prayer;
Thank Him for His constant care;
Praise Him for His bounty shed
Every moment on thy head;
Ask Him to point out thy way,
And to guard thee through the day;
Ask Him still to watch and keep
Thee in the silent hours of sleep;
Ask for light to know His word;
Ask for love to shed abroad;
Pray for strength, for thou art weak,
And for grace and mercy seek ;
Ask for faith, to bear thee on,
Through the might of Christ, His Son ;
Pray for mercy in His name
Who from Heaven to save thee came;
Ask His Spirit still to guide thee
Through the ills that may betide thee;
Ask for peace to lull to rest
Every tumult of the breast;
Ask His soul-sustaining truth
As the spring-dew of thy youth;
Ask His promises to bless
Thee in thy age's helplessness ;
Ask in awe, but not in fear;
Kneel, my child, for God is here!


God thy father is, and friend,
Thy only stay, thy only trust;
He loves thee, and His wings extend
To shield thee, though a child of dust.
Love Him, then, for He is good;
Sink before Him-He is wise ;
Life and health, and rest and food,
He still ordains, and still supplies.



Love Him-for He loveth thee,
Bendeth now thy prayer to hear;
Kneel, then, in deep humility,
And pray, my child, for God is near.


BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode,
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand !-
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;


His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream ;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty ;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep, and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!



YE Mariners of England !
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe !
And sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave !
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep ;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below;




As they roar on the shore
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

ONCE upon a time there happened to be an ass which had
the misfortune to be owned by a very ungrateful miller.
The poor donkey had spent all his life in this man's service, and
had now grown feeble and unable for the same hard toil as
he had been accustomed to. The miller, begrudging the poor
creature the miserable pittance required to keep him in life, de-
termined to end matters by killing his faithful servant, The
donkey, not relishing this idea (which by some good chance had
come to his ears), made what speed he could to outwit the miller,
and took the road to Bremen, saying to himself as he went, 'Though
my master is so ungrateful, perhaps the good citizens of Bremen
may choose me as town musician.' Becoming tired, he lay down by
the roadside. He had not lain long when a greyhound, in a half-


starved condition, and almost out of breath, came to the spot. Seeing
the donkey he stopped, and with a low whine saluted him. In
return, the donkey bade him Good evening,' and inquired what
might be the load which, to all appearance, lay upon his heart, to
make him so sad and ill. 'Alas!' quoth the greyhound, 'being
now old, and unable to go out with the other hounds, my master
was about to kill me, when I made off; and am now worse than if
I had allowed myself to be killed.' You know the proverb,' re-
turned the donkey, While there 's life there 's hope." Listen. I am
in the same predicament; I am going to Bremen, where I hope to
be made town musician; come along with me-a duet is more
pleasing to most people than a solo.' And off they trudged together.
They had not gone far on their way when they overtook a cat with
a woful countenance; of whom the donkey commiseratingly inquired,
'What has occurred to ruffle your generally smooth skin ?' The
reply of puss was similar to that of the greyhound, whereupon the
ass made answer, 'You know the proverb, While there's life there's
hope." We are in the same predicament ; we go to Bremen in the
hope of being made town musicians; come along with us-a trio
is more pleasing to most people than a duet.' Puss accordingly
joined their company. A little further on the road, stood a farm-
yard, near which a cock was cowering in a niche of a wall, yet ever
and anon unable to resist screeching, as it were in very defiance.
'Good. evening,' cried the donkey, greyhound, and cat in a breath;
'what ill hath befallen you that your cap has so paled, and your
temper become so uncertain?' 'Ay, ay, you may well ask; but
did you feel the grasp of death around your throats as I do, in truth
you would not jeer at my misfortune.' The cock being prevailed
upon to join their company, on the ground that a quartett was
more pleasing than a trio to most people,' they proceeded on their
way to Bremen.


Night, however, was too far advanced, and they therefore deter-
mined to pass it under a large tree, in an adjacent wood. The
donkey stretched himself at full length, the dog curled himself up,
while the cat and cock chose to ascend among the branches.
Scarcely had they done so, when the cat, with her quick eye, dis-
covered a light at some distance, and immediately made the fact
known ; whereupon the whole company resolved to go in search
of the house from which the light proceeded, in the hope of getting
something to refresh themselves with.



Reaching the spot, the ass raised himself on his hind quarters,
looked in at the window, and saw a number of robbers regaling
themselves; upon which he turned to his companions, and, telling
them the state of matters, remarked, 'These dainties, my friends,
methinks are just such as would suit us.' Thereupon they laid
their heads together how to drive the robbers out, and fell upon
the following idea :-The ass, raising himself upon his hind feet,
permitted his shoulders to be bestrode by the greyhound, who in
turn was surmounted by the cat, the cock occupying the highest
position, on the cat's head. At a given signal the ass brayed, the
dog howled, the cat screamed, and the cock crowed lustily; and
at the same time all made a sudden rush at the window. The
robbers were frightened beyond measure, and did not lose a moment
in fleeing from the scene of their revelry, and taking refuge in the
neighboring wood. The four musicians found themselves so com-
fortable, after partaking of the viands which had been prepared by
the robbers, that they put out the lights and went to rest, each in
his own way.
Soon after, the robber chief, seeing the lights extinguished,
ordered one of the band to return to the house. The messenger,
on searching in the kitchen for a light to the candle, thought the
cat's fiery eyes were live coals, and held a match to them, when
the cat flew at him and scratched his face severely. Being terribly
frightened, he was rushing out of the house when he unfortunately
trod on the fore paw of the dog, who with a surly growl bit him
in the leg. As he pursued his course through the farm-yard, the
donkey hastened his departure with a kick, which, combined with a
cock-a-doodle-doo from the hen-roost, drove the poor robber quite
beside himself.
Approaching his chief well nigh out of breath, he exclaimed, 'Oh
dear! in the house dwells a wicked old hag of a witch, who flew-at


me and scratched my face with her claws; in another room a man
stands with a knife, who stabbed me in the leg; outside, a fearful
monster hit me with a club; while on the roof sits a judge, who
called out, Bring the rascal here!" But, fortunately, I escaped them
all, though not without hurt.' From that time the robbers dared not
go near the house; and the four musicians spent the remainder of
their lives in peace and quietness.

On Turning one Down with the Plough, in April 1786.
W EE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the store
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonny gem.

Alas! it 's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonny lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' speckled breast,
When upward springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble, birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,


Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ;
But thou, beneath the random bield
0' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stubble field
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such fate to -Lffi. ing worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven
To misery's brink,
Till, wrenched of every stay but heaven,
He ruined sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till, crushed beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom !


IN\. \ ,,. I i-? n III I I

tU l"I.-'l i 'l-. I),'" lI in til'- Ie-'Ly j .ll'.' -,
S T l.... brihllt blur t,-
Stllh'r laid !
OLn )n1 he lli hacllt-dClc r'd algill
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started-seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,--
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My father's house, in wet or dry,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together visited.


She look'd at it as if she fear'd it;
Still wishing, dreading, to be near it;
Such heart was in her, being then
A little prattler among men.
The blessing of my latter years
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.


()NE morning (raw it was and wet,
A foggy day in winter time)
A woman on the road I met,
Not old, but something past her prime:
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
And like a Roman matron was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;
Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair:
She begged an alms, like one in poor estate,
I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
With the first word I had to spare

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