Front Cover
 Title Page
 A modern hero
 Facing the world
 The lights of Paris
 A man's a man for a' that
 The weaver of Bruges
 Longfellow in Westminster
 The Washingtons' English home
 Songs of praises - The Troubad...
 The carlisle school for Indian...
 "Won't take a baff"
 Mr. Any-time the Spaniard
 A maple sugar camp
 The mystery of Spring
 A little witch
 Two hunters
 Bingen on the Rhine
 Two Persian schoolboys
 Intimations of immortality
 The brook
 How they brought the good news...
 Ring out, wild bells
 O may I join the choir invisib...
 He couldn't say no
 Old-time cookery
 Our royal neighbors at Sandrin...
 A hero
 Jenny of swan's
 The critic
 The boy bishop
 Heroines of the poets
 Mother and poet
 Autumn gold
 A wind-mill pilgrimage
 Heroines of the poets
 Camp Hamperford
 Little brown thrushes - Little...
 Heroines of the poets
 To a skylark
 A day with rags, tatters & co.
 The little gold miners of...
 The queen of Toloo
 Our Eversley dogs - Dandy, Sweep,...
 The baby's revery - The bravest...
 Benny's wigwam
 My Arizona class
 Little Justine
 Ellie's holocaust
 Caryl's plum
 Early to school
 The lost chord
 Paul Revere's ride
 Heroines of the poets
 A little painter
 Evan Cogswell's ice fort
 Naming the kitten
 Robin Hood's ghost
 The man in the tub
 A winter garden
 Joe Lambert's ferry
 The Christmas gift
 General Grant
 Her angel
 The ballad of a sad, bad girl
 Our business boys
 Little biographies - How success...
 The American crystal palace - The...
 Back Cover

Group Title: Stories for little men and women : selections from the best juvenile authors
Title: Stories for little men and women
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00082537/00001
 Material Information
Title: Stories for little men and women selections from the best juvenile authors
Physical Description: 336 p., 7 leaves of plates : ill. (some col.), ports ; 27 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Robertson ( Engraver )
Milburn, William Henry, 1823-1903
J. H. Moore & Company ( Publisher )
A. Zeese & Co ( Engraver )
Publisher: J.H. Moore & Company
Place of Publication: Philadelphia
Publication Date: 1893
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1893   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1893
Genre: Children's stories
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Pennsylvania -- Philadelphia
United States -- Illinois -- Chicago
Statement of Responsibility: edited by William Henry Milburn. Profusely illustrated by celebrated American artists.
General Note: Some illustrations engraved by Robertson and A. Zeese & Co., Chi.
General Note: Plates printed in a color.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00082537
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002224937
notis - ALG5209
oclc - 05745579

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Title Page
        Title Page 1
        Title Page 2
        Page xiii
        Page xiv
        Page xv
        Page xvi
        Page xvii
        Page xviii
    A modern hero
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 12a
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
    Facing the world
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
    The lights of Paris
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
    A man's a man for a' that
        Page 32
        Page 33
    The weaver of Bruges
        Page 34
    Longfellow in Westminster
        Page 35
    The Washingtons' English home
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
    Songs of praises - The Troubadours
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
    The carlisle school for Indian pupils
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
    "Won't take a baff"
        Page 61
    Mr. Any-time the Spaniard
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 64a
    A maple sugar camp
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
    The mystery of Spring
        Page 71
    A little witch
        Page 72
    Two hunters
        Page 73
    Bingen on the Rhine
        Page 74
        Page 75
    Two Persian schoolboys
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 80a
    Intimations of immortality
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
    The brook
        Page 92
        Page 93
    How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix
        Page 94
        Page 95
    Ring out, wild bells
        Page 96
        Page 97
    O may I join the choir invisible!
        Page 98
        Page 99
    He couldn't say no
        Page 100
    Old-time cookery
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
    Our royal neighbors at Sandringham
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
    A hero
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
    Jenny of swan's
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
    The critic
        Page 126
    The boy bishop
        Page 127
    Heroines of the poets
        Page 128
        Page 129
    Mother and poet
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
    Autumn gold
        Page 133
    A wind-mill pilgrimage
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
    Heroines of the poets
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 144a
    Camp Hamperford
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
    Little brown thrushes - Little Christel
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
    Heroines of the poets
        Page 156
        Page 157
    To a skylark
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 160a
    A day with rags, tatters & co.
        Page 161
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
    The little gold miners of the Sierras
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
    The queen of Toloo
        Page 173
    Our Eversley dogs - Dandy, Sweep, Victor
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
    The baby's revery - The bravest boy in town
        Page 181
    Benny's wigwam
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
    My Arizona class
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
    Little Justine
        Page 195
        Page 196
    Ellie's holocaust
        Page 197
        Page 198
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
        Page 203
    Caryl's plum
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
        Page 209
        Page 210
    Early to school
        Page 211
        Page 212
    The lost chord
        Page 213
    Paul Revere's ride
        Page 214
        Page 215
        Page 216
        Page 217
        Page 218
        Page 219
        Page 220
        Page 221
        Page 222
    Heroines of the poets
        Page 223
        Page 224
    A little painter
        Page 225
    Evan Cogswell's ice fort
        Page 226
        Page 227
    Naming the kitten
        Page 228
        Page 229
        Page 230
        Page 231
        Page 232
        Page 233
        Page 234
    Robin Hood's ghost
        Page 235
        Page 236
        Page 237
    The man in the tub
        Page 238
    A winter garden
        Page 239
        Page 240
        Page 240a
        Page 241
        Page 242
        Page 243
        Page 244
    Joe Lambert's ferry
        Page 245
        Page 246
        Page 247
        Page 248
    The Christmas gift
        Page 249
    General Grant
        Page 250
        Page 251
        Page 252
        Page 253
    Her angel
        Page 254
        Page 255
    The ballad of a sad, bad girl
        Page 256
        Page 256a
    Our business boys
        Page 257
        Page 258
        Page 259
        Page 260
        Page 261
        Page 262
        Page 263
        Page 264
        Page 265
        Page 266
        Page 267
    Little biographies - How success is won
        Page 268
        Page 269
        Page 270
        Page 271
        Page 272
        Page 273
        Page 274
        Page 275
        Page 276
        Page 277
        Page 278
        Page 279
        Page 280
        Page 281
        Page 282
        Page 283
        Page 284
        Page 285
        Page 286
        Page 287
        Page 288
        Page 288a
        Page 289
        Page 290
        Page 291
        Page 292
        Page 293
        Page 294
        Page 295
        Page 296
        Page 297
        Page 298
        Page 299
        Page 300
        Page 301
        Page 302
        Page 303
        Page 304
        Page 304a
        Page 305
        Page 306
        Page 307
        Page 308
        Page 309
        Page 310
        Page 311
        Page 312
    The American crystal palace - The centennial exhibition - The world's Columbian exposition
        Page 313
        Page 314
        Page 315
        Page 316
        Page 317
        Page 318
        Page 319
        Page 320
        Page 321
        Page 322
        Page 323
        Page 324
        Page 325
        Page 326
        Page 327
        Page 328
        Page 329
        Page 330
        Page 331
        Page 332
        Page 333
        Page 334
        Page 335
        Page 336
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text



W 11.



... .. ......

..... ............. .

Sii .1,1111 1 I I i Ii ai I I I I I f I f i i i n. ii I ii I I i I i I i I i I II I I i I 71I

1 L
':m.. F-

sy . .;


~ '4'

n~~- Ui'~

5) v 4

- --- -
-n ~ ~

elections -
S from the best : : :
Juvenile Authors


little Aen

() Women

Rev. Wittia IHenry PXMtlbtrn
Chaplain of the House of Representatives

profuselt Illtstrated by celebratedd
American Artists




To him who thinks of it truly, the wonder of a book can never cease. That lines of
letters and words, formed by types on sheets of paper, can transfer from one man to
another, indeed, to thousands, perhaps to generations of men, truth, sentiment, im-
agination, the wealth of mind and life, enriching the reader without impoverishing the
author, lifting the one to a height and breadth of vision which the other has gained
only after years of self-denying and painful toil, to make the secrets of the world and of
the s.:,ll common property,-this approaches the marvelous, not to say the miraculous.
Through the portals of the eye and ear a stranger may enter the brain and so the mind
and h:.arit, take possession of thought and love, enthrone himself as a supreme master
of life, inm.ulding and directing the will, shaping character and conduct, awakening in
us p':,'ers hitherto undreamed of, bestowing upon us treasures that shall endure to eter-
nit'y, and crowning us with the radiant and life-giving sense that we are the heirs of
Immmoirtality, and all this done though the writer himself may have been in the dust a
thousand \ears. Cold type may become a sceptre of power such as Alexander, Caesar
or Napo;.le'on never wielded, its authority entering the inmost recesses of the soul, ruling
with a swa\ that is not questioned, and maintaining its sovereignty over millions from
age to age. Nearly five hundred years ago the most powerful man on earth, at whose
tread the world seemed to tremble, was Tamerlane. His empire stretched from the
Mediterranean to the Ganges. He stood one day, clad in complete steel, battle-axe on
shoulder, near the site of Damascus, which he had destroyed, and reviewed his troops
after they had erected a pyramid composed of seventy thousand skulls. Well did he
merit his title "The Scourge of God." Not far from that time a poor German lad was
playing in the streets of Mentz, and his cheek must have turned pale as the report of the
Tartar's bloody triumphs floated through Europe. Who could have imagined that the
boy, John Gutenberg, "when he was come to years," by his invention of metal types
and their use, would wield a weapon more mighty than the sword of the Mogul, and
found an empire of printed books whose reign shall last as long as sun and moon en-
dure, while thirty years ago the last descendant of the "Great Mogul" perished inglo-
riously at Delhi, and his name and fame would have been lost from among men but for


the printing press first set up on the banks of the Rhine. An egg is laid, and the barn-
yard resounds with cackle; an acorn drops silently into the earth, and a thousand years
after a monarch oak, sprung from it, spreads its branches to the heavens, in which the
fowls of the air make their nests, while generations of men find shelter in their shade.
The children of Europe and America to-day glow, thrill or tremble at the stories told
by Scheherezade, in the "Arabian Nights," ages ago, to save her life, and all agree
that she was entitled to it, as through many centuries she has been a nursing mother of
the imagination, in the west as well as in the east.
A blind man sang his verses in city after city, and for five hundred years his scholars
continued the chant, when the pen took them from the memory, and the eye received
them as well as the ear. Those verses, called the Iliad and Odyssey, wrought with a
silent, irresistible force in the lives of men, made Attica, Sparta, lonia what they became,
and crowned the Macedonian Alexander with the diadem of the world. Other books
have come and dispossessed these of their regal power over life and character, but even
at this late day and in this new world they hold sway over the imagination, and all cul-
tured men and women owe an immeasurable debt to Homer.
Nearly three thousand years ago a shepherd boy, ruddy of cheek and fair to look upon,
tuned his harp and voice while watching his flocks. He became a hero, then an outlaw
and afterwards a victorious king, founder of a mighty empire. His land has been des-
olate for centuries and his kingdom remains only as a mournful memory; but the songs
which he sang by the sheepfold at the cave of Adullam, among the rocky wastes of En-
geddi, and in his royal City of the Four Hills, move the souls and tongues of men to-day,
with even a deeper and grander power than when they fell fresh from his lips, and as long
as the heavy-laden and sorrowful need pity and consolation, as long as the soul, struggling
against darkness, sin and terror, asks for cheer, guidance and light, as long as the re-
deemed and exultant heart pours itself in thankfulness and praise, the Psalms of David
can never die.
The adopted son of a princess, bred in the palace, learned in all the wisdom of his
time, for a patriotic deed became a fugitive and a herdsman, and through forty years,
for the most part spent in solitary communion with nature's sternest and sublimest forms
and in life's humblest duties, was in the end not only the heroic deliverer of his people,
but the author of five short books, making one, which moulded his people into rock-like
solidity against which the stormy billows of time have beaten in vain, and which the
changes and chances of the world could not destroy. The Pentateuch-the five books
of Moses-is to-day translated into all languages, and is as priceless and sacred to the
Christian as to the Jew, and not only carries the mind back to the fore-world, but up to
Him who made it, and is a School-master in the Halls of Science, in the Courts of Law
and History, in the Groves of Poetry, by the Fountains of Health, an exhaustless mine


of truth, where millions have worked to their profit, and where millions will continue to
work with yet greater profit till time shall be no more. There is a simple, unpretend-
ning little book which tells the story of a man whose hands grew hard in making tents of
;goats' hair, whose arms and legs bore marks of prison chains, and his body of stones
*which had been thrown to kill him, and of cruel rods and scourges with which he was
lashed over and over again. With this book there have come down to us a number of
his letters, and from the Acts of the Apostles and the Epistles of St. Paul the best and
noblest men and women have gained instruction, inspiration, life.
Four plain, unlettered men composed short biographies of One whom they knew and
loved, telling of his birth, works, deeds, sufferings and death, and those brief records
combined into one have changed the face of the world, telling, as they do, "of the
holiest among the mighty, the mightiest among the holy, who lifted with his pierced
hand empires off their hinges, and turned the stream of centuries out of its channel, and
still governs the ages."
Napoleon, when at St. Helena, once said, "The Gospel is no mere book, but a living
creature, with a vigor, a power, which conquers all that opposes it. The soul, charmed
with the beauty of the Gospel, is no longer its own; God possesses it entirely. He di-
rects its thoughts and faculties, it is His." Well might Milton say: "Books are not ab-
solutely dead things, but do contain a progeny of life in them as active as that soul whose
progeny they are; nay, they do preserve, as in a vial, the purest efficacy and extraction
of that intellect that bred them. Almost as well kill a man as kill a good book; who
kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image, but he who destroys a good book
kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye." The imperishable
wealth of the world is housed in books, and every man or boy of our race may take
as much of the treasure as he can carry, without the charge of burglary.
The Indian chiefs who visit Washington see many things in the beautiful city which
awaken in them astonishment and delight; but there is one place which they cannot under-
stand-the Congressional Library. Rising story upon story, their alcoves, with their count-
less shelves of books, are an inscrutable mystery to them; they gape with hollow-eyed won-
der and turn away from the volumes and their readers with ill-concealed disdain. The
savage cannot conceive that those bound pages, on which are inscribed the mystic charac-
ters of print, contain the secrets and the forces which have made the white man's life what
it is; have built the White House, the Departments, the Capitol, the Navy-Yard and
Arsenal; that these books which he spurns have taught the pale-face to make a ferry of the
ocean, to bridle the lightning and employ it as a newsboy, to rear these stately piles in
which the civil affairs of sixty millions of people are cared for. Still less can he con-
ceive that books enable men to turn the stony leaves of nature's volume, and read thereon
the history of the planet, to explore the heavens and learn from star and sun what they


are made of and how they move. If you were to tell the red man that books lay bare
the secrets of the human heart, arm it with courage in adversity, hope in the ambush of
despair, and faith that looks through death and sees beyond a city which hath founda-
tions whose builder and maker is God, and that through them we can have even here
the earnest and foretaste of eternal peace and blessedness, his stolid indifference would
express itself in the grin of disbelief and denial. One must have something within him
to which books can speak, or they are of little worth. What they teach and do for us is
the measure of our capacity, the gauge of our development.
Emerson says, "If we encounter a man of rare intellect we should ask him what
books he read." The unread man is a stranger to himself and to the world in which
he lives, "not half its riches known and yet despised." "He hath never fed of the
dainties that are bred in a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk
ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller
"Sure, He that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and God-like reason
To fust in us unus'd."

The child finds the mastery of the alphabet a mountain-steep, and shrinks from climb-
ing; but as stage after stage of the hard ascent is gained and higher levels are reached,
what delights flow in through the eye to the memory, to fancy, the imagination and the
heart. The pain of the toil is forgotten; the mechanical becomes spiritual, the sense of
drudgery ceases; and although immeasurable heights still lift themselves before him at
every stage, the adventurous and industrious youth may behold fairer landscapes, a
widening horizon and brighter stars, to reward him for his labor. "And all the secret of
the Spring moves in the chambers of the blood." The patient toil of the young man is
rewarded by broader outlooks from higher slopes; not only has he achieved mental
health and vigor, clearer vision, the keen pleasure that comes from the sense of awak-
ened faculties and creative power, but-
"Many an old philosophy
On Argive heights divinely sang,
And round him all the thicket rang
To many a flute of Arcady."
I happened once in New Orleans to see, through the eyes of a friend, a boy lying
prone upon a gallery not far off, his head resting upon one hand, in the other hand a
book. A fierce thunder storm was raging, the rain fell in torrents, the vivid flashes of
lightning and deafening roar of the thunder were almost continuous, but the boy heard
and heeded not; he was in another world, whose enthralling interest and beauty made
him blind and deaf to the terrors of the tempest. Withdrawn from the world around



him, the book had introduced him into another, where everything was bright and fair,
and fur the time it was his home. To lift us out of the rut of custom, to arouse our
facultiv-s and implement them with new powers, to make us forget ourselves, our infirm-
ities and hard lot of poverty, toil and pain, to purge our eyes that we may behold "the
like that never was on land or sea," to open our ears that we may listen to the harmony
of h:arp as they pour forth their seven-fold hallelujahs and hosannas, and make us feel
that we are not of the earth, earthy, but that our true home is in "an ampler ether, a
divin-r, air," this is, in part at least,what books may do for us. My dwelling place may
be rude, my fare hard and comforts scant; I may be denied access to the society, picture-
galleries. concerts, theatres, ball-rooms, halls of high debate, for which I crave, but a
fe,.v w\-ll-chosen books and-the habit of reading them aright, will make amends for all
privation-s. Gibbon said, "My early invincible love of reading I would not exchange
for the treasures of India." Addison said: "Reading is to the mind what exercise is to
the b'cldy. As by the one, health is preserved, strengthened and invigorated; by the
other, \vitue (which is the health of the mind) is kept alive, cherished and confirmed."
A goLd reader not only grows familiar with the secrets of land, sea and sky; with the
pa't and the present, but the best heads and hearts the planet has yet produced grow in
time Ito. be his friends, his intimates, and to him unburden themselves of their confidence.
Not only is his brain enlarged, stored with knowledge, and furnished with power for
higher %work on easier terms, but his sympathies are widened and quickened, so that he
can mn.Le his own the thoughts, deeds, temper and spirit of the wisest and noblest men
that have appeared in the theatre of time. He drops the narrow and provincial that
were in him, puts off petty prejudices and hatreds, rises to higher planes of judgment so
that he cani estimate things at their true value, reversing many a former opinion, learn
that humility is the only way to true exaltation, and that to exchange pride for lowliness
is great. -ain.
-Bo:.ks used to be so costly that only princes, nobles and others very rich people could own
thr-m. ;i nd to read them was the privilege of a few; now scarcely any are so poor as to be
dcr:ic-d their royal luxury. I well remember the time, in what was then the far West,
where I was a growing boy, when books were hard to be had, and the reader's longing
for them was like the hunger and thirst of the traveler in the desert. At the age of
eight or nine years, and after many months of careful hoarding and painful earning, I
m; -Ai:lg.ed to get money enough to buy twelve volumes of the "Boys and Girls Library,"
published more than fifty years ago, and I doubt if any prince in the world felt as rich
as I did then. The contents of those volumes, read over and over again, gave me such
delight that I cannot put it into words, and that delight abode with me for years.
The volume herewith presented to the young people of this country is one which ought
,to do for them what those books did for me. The publishers have spared neither pains


nor expense in their effort to make it as nearly perfect as a book of the kind can be
made. The selection of pieces from many distinguished writers, embracing subjects in
History, Biography, Travel and Adventure, and added to these, sketches of many men
who have been eminent in business, and of the means by which their success was
achieved, and besides not a few of the choice poems of our language, reflects great credit
upon the judgment and taste of the compilers; and the beautiful illustrations with which
the book so richly abounds give to it increased charm and value. While these hand-
some pages, by their pictures and literary matter, will engage the eye, improve the
taste, quicken the intellect, arouse the fancy and imagination, amusing and entertaining,
and at the same time stirring and inspiring the noblest aspirations of youthful readers,
the utmost care has been taken that not a blush should be brought to the cheek of the most
modest, nor a stain left in the memory of the most pure. It is hoped that this book will
be a God-send to hosts of young people throughout this wide country, not only in the
populous sections of our great country, but where books are scarce and libraries cannot
be reached-on the plains of Texas and Dakota, and on the slopes of the Rocky Moun-
tains and the Sierra Nevada-among the mining camps, and on broad ranches-as well
as in new towns and villages springing up as by magic in our new West. Between its
covers are garnered truths, sentiments, imaginings, happy turns of expression, brilliant
word-pictures and inspiring suggestions, that well read and pondered by those for whom
it is especially intended, will bring abundant recompense, and the recollection of them
will "Flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude." Although the vol-
ume has been prepared for young people, those of riper years will find much in it to
attract and benefit them, much that will delight and reward. Coleridge once stopped
at a wayside inn, and picked up in the sitting-room a well-worn copy of the Vicar of
Wakefield, and as he looked over its oft-turned pages, exclaimed, "This is fame." In
the trust that the "Stories for Little Men and Women will gain fame like that, find a
hearty welcome in many homes, and win its way to the admiration and love of
thousands, both old and young, awakening a taste for reading, fixing the habit and
remunerating all who turn its leaves, it is now sent forth upon its errand.





T was a very humble house.
Only a flat of three rooms
on the third floor of a tall
tenement-house in a back
street near the river. A
bedroom, a tiny parlor
and a kitchen, which was
also an eating-room, made
up the suite. The Briggses
lid all their daylight living in the last-named apart-
nent. The floor was painted yellow; the walls
vere whitewashed; the furniture was homely, sub-
;tantial and well-kept.
Everything was shining .clean, and both win-
lows were full of plants, many of them in flower.
VIrs. Briggs was fully persuaded in her own mind
hat no other woman in the city had such a tale of
laily mercies as herself. Among them were the
southernn exposure of those windows and the circum-
;tance that a gap in the buildings back of them let
n the sunshine freely. Her nasturtiums blossomed
here all winter; from a pot she had suspended by
thingss from the top of the casing, sweet alysseum
lowed downward like a fountain of soft green
waters tipped with white ; scarlet geraniums shot
Ip rank shoots that had to be pruned into rea-
;onableness, and' as to Christmas roses- "But
here !" the worthy soul would assure her ac-
luaintances, they do beat everything!'
This winter the calla was about to bloom. A
dind lady had given the bulb to Mrs. Briggs's son
-Top, Junior-last year, and there was no telling
he store he set by it.
Topliffe Briggs alias, Top, Senior- was an
mgineer on the great North, East, West and South
Railway. He sat at the tea-table with his wife
~d son at five-thirty one cloudy February after-
ioon. His next train went out at six-forty-five.
de had run "Her" into the station at four, and
Uis Ilc;Lis was but two blocks away. Mrs. Briggs
wouldd sec from those unparalleled kitchen-windows
he bi.:ide by which the track crossed the river
;eparat,-:g the town from the marshes, and could

calculate to a minute when the familiar step would
be heard on the stairs.
"You see we live by railroad time," was her
modest boast. And my husband always comes
straight home." She did not emphasize the" my,"
knowing in her compassionate heart what other
husbands were prone to lag by the way until they
came home late and crookedly.
Top, Senior, was on time to-day. "I ken trust
Her with Bartlett, you see," he remarked to his
wife. He won't leave tel she's all trig an' tidy
for the next trip. I wisht I could be as sure o'
Stokes! "
Mrs. Briggs looked up inquiringly.
"Stokes is a clever fellow," pursued Top Senior
regretfully, slicing vigorously into the cold corned
beef, for he was hungry. "Smart as a steel trap,
and onderstan's his business. I never see a fire
man what hed a better chance o' risin' to an in-
gineer. He knows Her pretty nigh's well ez I do
I've took real comfort in learning him all I could
But I'm afeerd, sometimes, he's on a down-grad-
and the brakes don't work."
"You mean that he drinks, don't you, father ?'
asked the sharp-eyed boy at his elbow.
There, father !" interjected the mother. "You
might 'a' known he'd onderstan', no matter how
you put it!"
"I ain't afeered o' my boy blabbin'!" The
brawny hand stroked the thin light hair of his only
child. "An' I want he should learn to hate thn
stuff. It's the devil's best driving' wheel liquor is.
I'd ruther lay you with my own han's 'cross the
rails this very night, an' drive Her right over you,
than to know that you'd grow up a drunkard.
Never do you forget them words what your father's
a-sayin' to you, now, Junior I mean every one o'
them !"
The boy started at the earnestness of the ex-
hortation, winked hard to keep his eyes dry, and
changed the subject. Hev you noticed my lily
to-day, mother ? I guess it'll be wide open by the
time you get in to-night, father."


They all turned to look at the tall stem, crowned
by the unfolding calyx. "Junior's goin' to be a
master-hand with flowers," observed the mother.
"He saves me pretty nigh all the trouble-o' takin'
keer of 'em. I've been thinking' that might be a
good business for him when he grows up."
She was always forecasting his future with more
anxiety than generally enters into maternal hopes
and fears. When but a year old, he had fallen from
the arms of a neighbor who had caught him up from
the floor in a fit of tipsy fondness. The child's
back and hip were severely injured. He had not
walked a step until he was five years of age, and
would be lame always. He was now twelve- a
'dwarf in statue, hump-backed, weazen-faced and
-shrill-voiced, unsightly in all eyes but those of his
parents. To them he was a miracle of precocity
;and beauty. His mother took in fine ironing to
pay for his private-tuition from a public school-
teacher who lived in the neighborhood. He learned
fast and eagerly. His father, at the teacher's sug-
gestion, subscribed to a circulating library and the
same kind friend selected books for the cripple's
reading. There was a hundred dollars in the sav-
ings bank, against the name of Topliffe Briggs,
Junior," deposited, dollar by dollar, and represent-
ing countless acts of self-denial on the part of the
industrious couple, and his possible profession was
-a favorite theme of family converse.
For that matter, there's lot o' things a scholard
like him ken do," rejoined Top, Senior, with affec-
tionate confidence in his heir's talents and acquire-
ments. "'Tain't like wouldd be with a feller like
me whose arms an' legs is his hull stock in trade.
Why, I min' seeing' a leetle rat of a man come on
board one time scoredd by a dozen 'o the biggest
bugs in the city, an' people a-stretchin' their necks
out o' j'int to ketch a look of him. Sech a mealy-
faced, weak-lookin' atomy he was But millions o'
people was a-readin' that very day a big speech
he'd made in Washin'ton, an' he'd saved the coun-
try from trouble more 'n oncet. He mought 'a'
been President ef he had chose to run. That's the
good o' hevin' a tiptop head-piece."
"I've made up my mind!" said Top, Junior,
with an air. "I'm goin' to be a Hero! Like Julius
Caesar an' Alexander an' William Tell an' Captain
John Smith, an' other men'I've read about. I wish
jou would be a Hero, father It's ever so much
nicer than running' an engine. Won't you please!

You are strong enough and good enough for any.
thing, an' I'm sure you know a great deal about
The blue eyes were bright and wistful, his hand
stole up to the bushy whiskers, ginger-colored from
exposure to the air and boiler-heat.
Me, a hero! Haw haw !" roared the engineer,
letting fall his knife and fork in his merriment.
"I'dcut a bigger at the head of an.army, or speaking'
in Congress, or a-setten' on a gold throne, wouldn't
I? No! no! my man! "sobering down suddenly,
into a sort of sad dignity. "Yer father ain't got
the brains nor the eddication for nothing' of that
kind All he ken do is to live clean an' honest
in the sight o' the Lord, an' to run his ingine 'cor-
din' to the best o' his lights."
"The Lord's too reasonable to expect more of
you 'n to do your duty in the place where's He's put
you," said the wife gently.
." I hope he is, Mother Ef he looked for more -
or for any big thing 's fur as that goes, the chances
are He'd be disappointed. I hev plenty o' time fur
thinking' while we're scootin' 'cross the level coun-
try an' creepin' up steep grades, an' I've worked it
out to my own satisfaction that something' else I've
got to be thankful fur, is that my way in life's been
marked down so plain. 'Seems if I hed been sot
onto rails pretty much's She is, an' 's long ez I do
my level best on that 'ar line, why, it's all I ken do.
That's the hull of it! I ain't no speechifier, you
see, Junior -with an embarrassed laugh at the
boy's evident discontent- "I'll hev to depen' on
you fur to say it- or maybe, write done ship-shape,
some o' these notions o' mine, some day. I'd git
better holt o' them myself ef I was to hear some-
body what knowed how to put things go over 'em.
Mother! eddication wouldn't learn no woman how
to make better bread'n yourn. Fact is, there's
nothing' ekal to home, an home-vittles an' home-
folks With such a livin' ez I've took in, I sha'n't
need a bite at the Agapolis deepo. We're half an
hour there, but I hate the very smell o' them eatin'
houses I An' please God! I'll bring Her in at
He pulled on his overcoat and felt in the pocket
for his gloves. "I'm main proud o' them fellers!"
he said, fitting one to a hand half the size of a leg
of mutton and not unlike it in shape.
He had said the same thing every time he put them
on since Christmas. They were a holiday gift from

p. 4*. *

~~~ *:-

* *7..*

\.. >
fc~r' ?





-- -



the conductors on the line between the two cities
which was his semi-daily beat.
"I take a world o' comfort in them, this freezin'
weather. Fact is, Mother, this world's been pretty
full o' comfort, all the way through, for us a nice
easy grade ef yer father ain't a Hero, Junior!
Six-twenty! I mus' be off! I like to be there in
time to see thet Stokes is on han' an' all right. Ef
you don't min', Mother, we'll hev him to dinner nex'
Sunday. I want to do something' t'wards savin'
Stokes. 'Specially ez he's on my line !"
At six-fifty, Top, Junior, from his post at the
calla-window, saw the long line of cars, spaced by
dots of murkey red, the luminous plume of smoke
trailing, comet-wise, above them, slowly pass over
the bridge. It was a cloudy evening and the
marsh-mists swallowed up the blinking windows as
soon as the train gained the other shore. Junior
loved his mother, but his father seemed to take
most of the life and cheer out of the room when he
went. Existence stagnated for the boy who had
no mates of his own age.
I wish he didn't hev to run in bad weather and
nights! he said, fretfully.
"It's his business, child, an' your father ain't
one to dodge his duty."
I hate the word retorted the petted cripple.
"When I'm a man I'll be my own master, and
switch Duty off the track."
The obnoxious word came up again in the course
of the evening. In reading aloud to his teacher
they happened upon this definition of "a hero,"
given by one of the characters in the story under
his eyes: One who,.in a noble work or enterprise,
does more than his duty."
Junior looked up disappointed. "Is that the
meaning of hero ?" he said, intensely chagrined.
"That is one way of stating it. I doubt, myself,
if we can do more than our duty. What do you
'hink, Mrs. Briggs?" asked the young woman.
She esteemed the honest couple for their sterling
North and sense, and liked to draw them out.
"A person ken ondertake more, I 'spose. Ef
:hey don't carry it through, it's a sign 'twas meant
'ur them to go jest that fur, an' no further. 'Twon't
lo fur us to be skeery 'bout layin' holt of the
handle the good Lord puts nighest to us, fur fear
t's too big a thing fur us to manage. That's what
ny husband says. An' if ever a man lived up to
t, he does."

Top, Junior, looked sober and mortified. The
heroism of common life does not commend itself
to the youthful imagination. When his lesson was
finished it was time for him to go to bed. Wake
me when father comes in !" was the formula with-
out which he never closed his eyes.
His mother never failed to do it, but he wanted
to make sure of it. She put on a lump of coal,
just enough to keep the fire "in," and sat down to
the weekly mending. At eleven-forty, she would
open the draughts and cook the sausages ready-
laid in the pan on the table. Top, Senior, liked
"something hot and hearty," after his midnight
run, and this dispatched, smoked the nightcap pipe
of peace, Junior, rolled in a shawl, on his knee.
The wife's face and heart were calm with thankful
content as the hours moved on. She was rosy and
plump, with pleasant blue eyes and brown hair, a
wholesome presence at the hearthstone, in her
gown of clean chocolate calico with her linen collar
and scarlet cravat. Top, Senior, had noticed and
praised the new red ribbon. He comprehended
that it was put on to please him and Junior, both
of whom liked to see "Mother fixed up." In this
life, they were her all, and she accounted that life
full and rich.
As she sewed, she heard the slow patter of Feb-
ruary rain on the shelf outside of the window, where
her flowers stood in summer. The great city was
sinking into such half-sleep as it took between
midnight and dawn; the shriek and rush of incom-
ing and outgoing trains grew less frequent. She
did not fret over the disagreeable weather. Top,
Senior, had often said that such made home and
fire and supper more welcome.
At Junior's bed-time, he was eighty miles away,
walking up and down the muddy platform of the
principal station of Agapolis, stamping his feet at
each turn in his promenade to restore the circula-
tion. His was a fast Express train, and he stood
during most of the run, on the alert to guard against
accident. There was no more careful engineer on
the road. Fireman and brakeman were off for
supper in or near the station. He slouched as he
walked, his hands thrust deep into his pockets ; his
overcoat was heavy and too loose even for his bulky
figure. He had "taken it off the hands" of an
engineer's widow whose husband was dragged from
under a wrecked train one night last summer.
"Mother" used to look grave when Top, Senior


began to wear it, but she was not a mite notional
--Mother wasn't, and she was glad now that poor
Mrs. Wilson had the money and he had the beaver-
,cloth coat. His face was begrimed with smoke,
his beard clogged with cinders and vapor. A lady,
travelling alone, hesitated visibly before she asked
a question, looked surprised when he touched his
hat and turned to go half the length of the platform

hevin' thet boy disappointed every day I live. Come
summer, he shell hev a-run or two on Her every
week. Mother 'n me hes got to make tip to him
for what he loses in not bein' strong an' like other
children. Mother she's disposed to spile him
jest a leetle. But dear me! what a fustrate fault
that is in a woman She did look good in that ere
red neck-tie, to-night, an' she was always pretty."


that he might point out the parlor-car. He observed
;and interpreted hesitation and surprise, and was
good-humoredly amused.
"I s'pose I don't look much like what Junior
calls a hero,' he meditated with a broader gleam.
"What a cuteyoung one he is! Please God! he'll
make a better figure in the world 'n his father hes
done. I hope that lily-flower o' hisn will be open in
the morning 'Seems if I got softer-hearted 'bout

The rain was fine and close, like a slanting mist
that pierced the pores, when the Express drew out
of the station, and as it fell, it froze. Stokes
growled that the track- would be one glare of ice
before they got Her in." He was inclined to be
surly to-night, an uncommon circumstance with the
young fellow, and after several attempts to enliven
him, Top, Senior, let him alone. He was not in a
talkative mood himself. The tea-table chat ran in


his head and set him to dreaming and calculating.
In five years Junior would be seventeen--old
enough, even for a lad who was "not strong," to
earn his living. If all went well, there ought to be
a hundred and fifty dollars in the bank by then.
There might be something in Mother's idea of
setting him up as a florist. And Mother could
help with the flowers.
"Hello! ole feller! look out! "
Stokes had stumbled over the fuel in the tender,
in replenishing the boiler-fires. He recovered him-
self with an oath at the "slippery rubbish." Some-
thing had upset his temper, but he neither spoke
nor looked like a man who had been drinking.
The teazing, chilling drizzle continued. The head-
light of the locomotive glanced sharply from glazed
rails and embankments; the long barrel-back of the
engine shone as with fresh varnish.
"D'ye know that on a night like this She beats
out the tune o' Home, Sweet Home, 's plain as
ever you heerd a band play it ? said Top, Senior,
cheerily out of the thickening damps. "It makes
me see Mother 'n the boy clear 's ken be. It's a
great thing fur a man to hev a comfortable home,
'n a good woman in it! "
Stokes burst out vehemently at that: "This is
worse-than a dog's life! We -you 'n me- are
no more to them selfish creturs in theee "-nodding
'backwards at the passenger cars then the ingine
That draws 'em. I'm sick o' freezin' an' slavin'
an' bein' despised by men no better 'n I be How
a man of any sperrit 'n' ambition ken stan' it fur
twenty years as you fev, beats my onderstandin'."
He will always remember the pause that pre-
faced the reply, and how Top, Senior, patted the
polished lever under his hand as he spoke: "She's
Sa pretty respectable cretur, take Her all in all.
'When you 'n I run into the las' dark deepo that's
waidin' fur us at the end, I hope we'll be able to
Show's good stiffikits as hern. Here's the bridge!
\ 'ill be soon home, now."
It was a long bridge, built far out to be above
high tides. As they touched it the furnace-door
flew open. Some said, afterwards, that the door
_was not properly secured, others spoke of a back-
I draught," others suspected that the fire was over-
Sfed. The volume of flame that leaped out licked
Sthe very faces of the two men. They recoiled with
a bound and made a simultaneous rush for the air-
brake in the forward passenger-car to stop the

train and check the backward sweep of the blaze.
The passengers, seeing the flash and hearing the
whistle and shouts of "Down brakes!" pressed
against the front windows and a dense living mass
blocked the door against which Topliffe Briggs
flung all his weight.
"Git in ef you ken," he said to the fireman.
"I'll try Her!" He fastened the shaggy great-
coat up to his chin as he faced the pursuing fires,
walked forward to the stand where lapped and
curled the fiercest flames, laid hold of steam-brake
and the lever by which he "drove" the engine.
His fur-lined gauntlets scorched and shrivelled as
he grasped the bar; the fire seized upon his hair
and garments with an exultant roar. He held fast.
He must get the passengers off the floorless bridge
that might ignite at any moment. He must check
the-engine as soon as he cleared the last pier, or the
cars would take fire before they could be uncoupled.
He shut his eyes from the maddening heat and
glare, and drove straight on. Not so fast as to
hurry the greedy flames that were doing their worst
upon him, but at a rate that ran them over the
river and upon solid earth as the fuel in the tender
burst into a blaze and the forward car began to
crackle and smoke in the hot draught. At that
point steam and air-brakes did their work in effect-
ing a safe halt.
"The fireman was badly scorched," reported
the press next day, "but train and passengers were
saved by the heroism of the engineer."
The words flashed along the wires over land and
ocean; were set up in startling type in hundreds of
newspaper offices while he who did not know hero-
ism by name was breathing his last on a mattress
laid on the yellow-painted floor of the room he had
seen so "clear when the engine-throb and piston-
beat played Home, Sweet Home. The sunshine that
had followed the rain touched the white cheek of
the opened lily before falling on his sightless eyes
and charred right hand.
When they brought him in he knew whose silent
tears dropped so fast upon his face, and the poor
burned lips moved in a husky whisper. The wife
put her ear close to his mouth not to lose his dying
Iwas afraid you'dsee that we was a-fire. From
the winder. I hope you didn't- wake Junior !"
The boy who had begged his father to be a

(A Story for Boys.)


LAD I am, mother, the hol-
idays are over. It's quite
different going back to
school again when one
goes to be captain -as
I'm sure to be. Isn't it
Mrs. Boyd's face as she
smiled back at Donald,
was not exactly "jolly."
Still, she did smile; and then there came out the
strong likeness often seen between mother and
son, even when, as in this case, the features were
very dissimilar. Mrs. Boyd was a pretty, delicate
little English woman: and Donald took after his
father, a big, brawny Scotsman, certainly not
pretty, and not always sweet. Poor man! he
had of late years had only too much to make him
Though she tried to smile and succeeded, the
tears were in Mrs. Boyd's eyes, and her mouth was
quivering. But she set it tightly together, and
then she looked more than ever like her son, or
rather, her son looked like her.
He was too eager in his delight to notice her
much. "It is jolly, isn't it, mother? I never
thought I'd get to the top of the school at all, for
I'm not near so clever as some of the fellows. But
now I've got my place; and I like it, and I mean
to keep it; you'll be pleased at that, mother? "
".I should have been if if Mrs. Boyd tried
to get the words out and failed, closed her eyes as
tight as her mouth for a minute, then opened them
and looked her boy in the face gravely and sadly.
It goes to my heart to tell you- I have been
waiting to say it all morning, but Donald, my dear,
you will never go back to school at all."
"Not go back; when I'm captain why, you and
father both said that if I got to be that, I should
stop till I was seventeen and now I'm only fif-
teen and a half. 0, mother, you don't mean it!

Father couldn't break his word! I may go back !
Mrs. Boyd shook her head sadly, and then ex-
plained as briefly and calmly as she could, the
heavy blow which had fallen upon the father, and,
indeed, upon the whole family. Mr. Boyd had
long been troubled with his eyes, about as serious
a trouble as could have befallen a man in his pro-
fession an accountant as they call it in Scot-
land. Lately he had made some serious blunders
in his arithmetic, and his eyesight was so weak that
his wife persuaded him to consult a first-rate Edin-
burgh oculist, whose opinion, given only yester-
day, after many days of anxious suspense, was that
in a few months he would become incurably blind.
Blind, poor father blind !" Donald put his hand
before his own eyes. He was too big a boy to cry,
or at any rate, to be seen crying, but it was with a
choking voice that he spoke next: "I'll be his
eyes ; I'm old enough."
Yes; in many ways you are, my son," said Mrs.
Boyd, who had had a day and a night to face her
sorrow, and knew she must do so calmly. "But
you are not old enough to manage the business;
your father will require to take a partner immedi-
ately, which will reduce our income one half.
Therefore we cannot possibly afford to send you to
school again. The little ones must go, they are
not nearly educated yet, but you are. You will
have to face the world and earn your own living,
as soon as ever you can. My poor boy !"
Don't call me poor, mother. I've got you and
father and the rest. And, as you say, I've had a
good education so far. And I'm fifteen and a half,
no, fifteen and three quarters almost a man.
I'm not afraid."
Nor I," said his mother, who had waited a full
minute before Donald could find voice to say all
this, and it was at last stammered out awkwardly
and at random. No; I am not afraid because
my boy has to earn his bread; I had earned mine
for years as a governess when father married me.


I began work before I was sixteen. My son
will have to do the same, that is all."
Ili dlay the mother and son spoke no more to-
gIli':I. It was as much as they could do to bear
tln;r r.- uble, without talking about it, and besides,
[i.:.ii.Ih was not a boy to make a fuss" over
tilni. He could meet sorrow when it came, that
i-, L. iirtle of it he had ever known, but he disliked
.it I. -' of it, and perhaps he was right.
!... i, just made himself scarce till bedtime,
a nI ,c. er said a word to anybody until his mother
,:.-.: ,,..o the boys' room to bid them good night.
T1iri-e ,were three of them, but all were asleep ex-
c_ -'t I)-.: lald. As his mother bent down to kiss him,
li- '.i both arms round her neck.
l.:.thier, I'm going to begin to-morrow."
"' B ,in what, my son ? "
F :;ing the world, as you said I must. I can't
go t.. -chool again, so I mean to try and earn my
o, n I-. lng."
SH.i-:.w ? "
"I d.l.n't quite know, but I'll try. There are
sec'.ral things I could be, a clerk- or even a mes-
sa. e- -V-.. I shouldn't like it, but I'd do anything
rather than do nothing."
Mrs. Boyd sat down on the side of the bed. If
she felt inclined to cry she had too much sense to
show it. She only took firm hold of her boy's
hand, and waited for him to speak on.
"I've been thinking, mother, I was to have a new
suit at Christmas, will you give it now ? And let
it be a coat, not a jacket. I'm tall enough five
feet seven last month, and-growing still; I should
look almost a man. Then I would go round to
every office in Edinburgh and ask if they wanted a
clerk. I wouldn't mind taking anything to begin
ith. And I can write a decent hand, and I'm not
Sbad at figures; as for my Latin and Greek "-
I l re Donald gulped down a sigh, for he was a
capi' ,I classic, and it had been suggested that he
shoul.l go to Glasgow University and try for "the
Si l!' which has sent so many clever young Scots-
mei 1. Balliol College, Oxford, and thence on to
fame .nd prosperity. But alas no college career
was i-ow possible to Donald Boyd. The best he
could hope for was to earn a few shillings a week
as a common clerk. He knew this, and so did his
mother. But they never complained. It was no
fault of theirs, nor of anybody's. It was just as
they devoutly called it, "The will of God."

"Your Latin and Greek may come in some
day, my boy, said Mrs. Boyd cheerfully. Good
work is never lost. In the meantime, your plan is
a good one, and you shall have your new clothes at
once. Then, do as you think best."
"All right; good-night, mother," said Donald,
and in five minutes more was fast asleep.
But, though he was much given to sleeping of
nights indeed, he never remembered lying awake
for a single hour in his life-during daytime
there never was a more "wide awake" boy than
Donald Boyd. He kept his eyes open to every-
thing, and never let the "golden minute slip by
him. He never idled about -play he didn't con-
sider idling (nor do i). And I am bound to confess
that every day until the new clothes came home
was scrupulously spent in cricket, football, and all
the other amusements which he was as good at as
he was at his lessons. He wanted "to make the
best of his holidays," he said, knowing well that
for him holiday time as well as school time was now
done, and the work of the world had begun in
The clothes came home on Saturday night, and
he went to church in them on Sunday, to his little
sister's great admiration. Still greater was their
wonder when, on Monday morning, he appeared in
the same suit, looking "quite a man," as they
unanimously agreed, and almost before breakfast
was done, started off, not saying a word of where
he was going,
He did not come back till the younger ones were
all away to bed, so there was no one to question
him, which was fortu- e z
nate, for they might -'
not have got very
smooth answers. His
mother saw this, and -
she also forbore. She '

of the morning looked
dull and tired, and
that evidently Donald ONL D.
had no good news of the day to tell her.
"I think I'll go to bed," was all he said.
"Mother, will you give me a 'piece' in my pocket
to-morrow? One can walk better when one isn't
so desperately hungry.
Yes, my boy." She kissed him, saw that he


was warmed and fed he had evidently been on his
legs the whole day-then sent him off to his bed,
where she soon heard him delightfully snoring,
oblivious of all his cares.
The same thing went on day after day, for seven
days. Sometimes he told his mother what had
happened to him and
where he had been,
sometimes not; what
Swas the good of tell-
ing ? it was always the
same story. Nobody
:'... wanted a boy or a
/ man, for Donald, trust-
ing to his inches and
his coat, had applied
MRS. BOYD. for man's work also,
but in vain. Mrs. Boydwas not astonished. She
knew how hard it is to get one's foot into ever so
small a corner in this busy world, where ten are
always struggling for the place of one. Still, she
also knew that it never does to give in; that one
must leave no stone unturned if one wishes to get
work at all. Also she believed firmly ini an axiom
of her youth -" Nothing is denied to well-directed
labor." But it must be real hard "labor," and it
must also be "well'directed." So, though her
heart ached sorely, as only a mother's can, she
never betrayed it, but each morning sent her boy
away with a cheerful face, and each evening
received him with one, which, if less cheerful, was
not less sympathetic, but she never said a word.
At the week's end, in fact, on Sunday morning,
as they were walking to church, Donald said to her:
Mother, my new clothes haven't been of the
slightest good. I've been all over Edinburgh, to
every place I could think of writers' offices, mer-
chants' offices, wharves, railway-stations -but it's
no use. Everybody wants to know where I've
been before, and I've been nowhere except to
school. I said I was willing to learn, but nobody
will teach me; they say they can't afford it. It is
like keeping a dog, and barking yourself. Which
is only too true," added Donald, with a heavy
"May be," said Mrs. Boyd. Yet as she looked
up at her son -she really did look up at him, he
was so tall she felt that if his honest, intelligent
face and manly bearing did not win something at
last, what was the world coming to? "My boy,"

she said, "things are very hard for you, but not
harder than for others. I remember once, when I
was only a few years older than you, finding my-
self with only half a crown in my pocket. To be
sure it was a whole half-crown, for I had paid
every half-penny I owed that morning, but I had
no idea where the next half-crown would come
from. However, it did come. I earned two pounds
ten, the very day after that day."
"Did you really, mother?" said Donald, his
eyes brightening. "Then I'll go on. I'll not
'gang awa back to my mither,' as that old gentle-
man advised me, who objected to bark himself; a
queer, crabbed old fellow he was too, but he was
the only one who asked my name and address,
The rest of them well, mother, I've stood a good
deal these seven days," Donald added, gulping
down something between a fuff of wrath and a
I am sure you have, my boy."
"But I'll hold on; only you'll have to get my
boots mended, and meantime, I should like to try
a new dodge. My bicycle, it lies in the washing-
house; you remember I broke it and you didn't
wish it mended, lest I should break something
worse than a wheel, perhaps. It wasn't worth
while risking my life for mere pleasure, but I want
my bicycle now for use. If you let me have it
mended, I can go up and down the country for
fifty miles in search of work to Falkirk, Linlith-
gow, or even Glasgow, and I'll cost you nothing
for travelling expenses. Isn't that a bright idea,
mother ?"
She had not the heart to say no, or to suggest that
a boy on a bicycle applying for work, was a thing
too novel to be eminently successful. But to get
work was at once so essential and so hopeless, that
she would not throw any cold water on Donald's
eagerness and pluck. She hoped too, that, spite
of the eccentricity of the notion, some shreu'd,
kind-hearted gentleman might have sense enough,
to see the honest purpose of the poor lad who bad
only himself to depend upon. For his father had
now fallen into a state of depression which made
all application to him for either advice or help
worse than useless. And as both he and Mrs. Boyd
had been solitary orphans when they were married,
there were no near relatives of any kind to come
to the rescue. Donald knew, and his mother knew,
too, that he must shift for himself, to sink or swim;


So, after two days' rest which he much needed,
;.the boy went off again "on his own hook," and
Shis bicycle, which was a degree better than his
legs, he said, as it saves shoe-leather. Also, he
was able to come home pretty regularly at the same
hour, which was a great relief to his mother. But
he came home nearly as tired as ever, and with a
despondent look which deepened every day. Evi-
dently it was just the same story; no work to be
had; or if there was work, it was struggled for by
a score of fellows, with age, character, and experi-
ence to back them, and Donald had none of the
three. But he had one quality, the root of all suc-
cess in the end, dogged perseverance.
SThere is a saying, that we British gain our vic-
tories, not because we are never beaten, but be-
,cause we never will see that we are beaten, and so
go on fighting till we win. "Never say die," was
Donald's word to his mother night after night.
But she knew that those who never say die, some-
times do die, quite quietly, and she watched with a
sore heart, her boy growing thinner and more worn,
-even though brown as a berry with constant ex-
posure all day long to wind and weather, for it was
now less autumn than winter.
After a fortnight, Mrs. Boyd made up her mind
That this could not go on any longer, and said so.
"Very well," Donald answered, accepting her
decision as he had been in the habit of doing all
his life.-Mrs. Boyd's children knew very well
that whatever her will was, it was sure to be a just
Umd wise will, herself being the last person she
ever thought of. "Yes, I'll give in, if you think
I ought, for it's only wearing out myself and my
clothes to no good. Only let me have one day
more and I'll go as far as ever I can, perhaps to
Dunfermline, or even Glasgow."
She would not forbid, and once more she started
him off with a cheerful face in the twilight of the
wet October morning, and sat all day long in the
empty house -for the younger ones were now all
going to school again-thinking sorrowfully of
her eldest, whose merry school days were done for-
In the dusk of the afternoon a card was brought
up to her, with the message that an old gentleman
was waiting below, wishing to see her.
S A shudder ran through the poor mother, who,
like many another mother, hated bicycles, and
never had an easy mind when Donald was away

on his. The stranger's first word was anything
but reassuring.
Beg pardon, ma'am, but is your name Boyd,
and have you a son called Donald, who went out
on a bicycle this morning ? "
"Yes, yes! Has anything happened? Tell me
quick !"
I'm not aware, ma'am, that anything has hap-
pened," said the old gentleman. "I saw the lad
at light this morning. He seemed to be managing
his machine uncommonly well. I met him at the
foot of a hill near Edinburgh Castle. He had got
off and was walking; so he saw me, and took off
his cap. I like respect, especially in a young fel-
low towards an old one."
"Did he know you, for I have not that pleasure?"
said Mrs. Boyd, polite, though puzzled. For the
old man did not look quite like a gentleman, and
spoke with the strong accent of an uneducated
person, yet he had a kindly expression, and
seemed honest and well-meaning, though decidedly
I cannot say he knew me, but he remembered
me, which was civil of him. And then I minded
the lad as the one that had come to me for work
a week or two ago, and I took his name and
address. That's your son's writing ?" he jumbled



out and showed a scrap of paper. It's bonafide,
isn't it ?
"And he really is in search of work? He hasn't
run away from home, or been turned out by his
father for misconduct, or anything of that sort ? He
isn't a scamp, or a ne'er-do-weel ?"
"I hope he doesn't look like it," said Mrs.
Boyd, proudly.



No, ma'am; you're right, he doesn't. He car-
ries his character in his face which, maybe, is bet-
ter than in his pocket. It was that which made
me ask his name and address, though I could do
nothing for him."
"Then you were the gentleman who told him
you couldn't keep a
dog and bark your-
self?" said Mrs.
S\ Boyd, amused, and
S just a shade hopeful.
S" Precisely. Nor
can I. It would have
k been cool impudence
in a lad to come and
ask to be taught his
Work first and then
paid for it, if he
hadn't been so very much in earnest that I was
rather sorry for him. I'm inclined to believe, from
the talk I had with him at the foot of the brae to-day,
that he is a young dog that would bark with uncom-
mon little teaching. Material, ma'am, is what we
want. I don't care for its being raw material, if it's
only of the right sort. I've made up my mind to
try your boy."
"Thank God "
"What did you say, ma'am ? But I beg your
For he saw Mrs. Boyd had quite broken down.
In truth, the strain had been so long and so great
that this sudden relief was quite too much for her.
She sobbed heartily.
I ought to beg your pardon," she said at last,
"for being so foolish, but we have had hard times
of late."
And then, in a few simple words, she told Don-
ald's whole story.
The old man listened to it in silence. Some-
times he nodded his head, or beat his chin on his
stout stick as he sat; but he made no comment
whatever, except a brief Thank you, ma'am."
Now to business," continued he, taking out
his watch; "for I'm due at dinner; and I always
keep my appointments, even with myself. I hope
your Donald is a punctual lad ? "
"Yes. He promised to be back by dark, and I
am sure he will be. Could you not wait ?"
No. I never wait for anybody; but I keep no-
body waiting for me. I'm Bethune & Co., Leith

Merchants practically, old John Bethune, who
began life as a message-boy, and has done pretty
well, considering."
He had, as Mrs. Boyd was well aware. Bethune
& Co. was a name so well known that she could
hardly believe in her boy's good luck in getting
into that house in any capacity whatever.
So all is settled," said Mr. Bethune, rising.
" Let him come to me on Monday morning, and
I'll see what he is fit for. He'll have to start at
the very bottom sweep the office, perhaps I
did it myself once and I'll give him let me
see- ten shillings a week to begin with."
To begin with,' repeated Mrs. Boyd, gently
but firmly; but he will soon be worth more. I
am sure of that."
"Very well. When I see what stuff he is made
of, he shall have a rise. But I never do things at
haphazard; and it's easier going up than coming
down. I'm not a benevolent man, Mrs. Boyd, and
you need not think it. But I've fought the world
pretty hard myself, and I like to help those that
are fighting it. Good evening. Isn't that your
son coming round the corner ? Well, he's back ex-
act to his time, at any rate. Tell him I hope he
will be as punctual on Monday morning. Good
evening, ma'am."

Now, if this were an imaginary story, I might
wind it up by a delightful denoument of Mr.
Bethune's turning out an old friend of the family,
or developing into a new one, and taking such a
fancy to Donald that he immediately gave him a
clerkship with a large salary, and the promise of a
partnership on coming of age, or this worthy gen-
tleman should be an eccentric old bachelor who
immediately adopted that wonderful boy and be-
friended the whole Boyd family.
But neither of these things, nor anything else re-
markable, happened in the real story, which, as it
is literally true, though told with certain necessary
disguises, I prefer to keep to as closely as I can.
Such astonishing bits of luck" do not happen in
real life, or happen so rarely that one inclines, at
last, to believe very little in either good or ill for-
tune, as a matter of chance. There is always
something at the back of it which furnishes a key
to the whole. Practically, a man's lot is of his
own making. He may fail, for a while undeserv-
edly, or he may succeed undeservedly, but, in the


long run, time brings its revenges and its rewards.
As-it did to Donald Boyd. He has not been
taken into the house of Bethune & Co., as a part-
ner; and it was long before he became even a
clerk at least with anything like a high salary.
For Mr. Bethune, so far from being an old bach-
elor, had a large family to provide for, and was
bringing up several of his sons to his own busi-
ness, so there was little room for a stranger. But
a young man who deserves to find room generally
does find it, or make it. And though Donald
started at the lowest rung of the ladder, he may
climb to the top yet.
He had "a fair field, and no favor." Indeed,
he neither wished nor asked favor. He determined
to stand on his own feet from the first. He had
hard work and few holidays, made mistakes, found
them out and corrected them, got sharp words and
bore them, learnt his own weak points and not
so easily his strong ones. Still he did learn
them ; for, unless you can trust yourself, be sure
nobody else will trust you.
This was Donald's great point. He was trusted.

People soon found out that they might trust him;
that he always told the truth, and never pretended
to do more than he could do; but that what he could
do, they might depend upon his doing, punctually,
accurately, carefully, and never leaving off till it
was done. Therefore, though others might be
quicker, sharper, more "up to things than he,
there was no one so reliable, and it soon got to be
a proverb in the office of Bethune & Co. -and
other offices, too If you wish a thing done, go
to Boyd."
I am bound to say this, for I am painting no im-
aginary portrait, but describing an individual who
really exists, and who may be met any day walking
about Edinburgh, though his name is not Donald
Boyd, and there is no such firm as Bethune & Co.
But the house he does belong to values the young
fellow so highly that there is little doubt he will
rise in it, and rise in every way, probably to the
very top of the tree, and tell his children and
grandchildren the story which, in its main features,
I have recorded here, of how he first began facing
the world.







, "^ \ HREE hundred and sixty years
ago there were no lights in the
streets of Paris. People who
wanted to go out in the evening
were obliged to have servants
walking before them with
S torches.' Those who could not afford
this carried their own lights, while the
very poor people groped along, feeling
their way by the walls and fences.
In times,of war, however, it was the
law for every citizen to put a lighted
candle in his window, and a pail of
water on his doorstep; the light, to keep
away robbers, and the water to be used
in case of fire. What
should we think nowadays,
of a large city with neither
police nor firemen !
The people of Paris did
not obey this law very
strictly; and there is still
kept among the state
papers an old, old letter,
dated 1525, from Louisa,
the Queen-mother, in
which she announced to
Parliament that her son,

King Francis the First, had been taken prisoner, and
had lost eight thousand of his soldiers. This news
filled all France with grief and confusion, and Parlia-
ment, fearing riots in the capital, gave strict orders
that all the people should light their window candles
and keep in readiness their pails of water.
Thirty-three years afterwards, at about the time of
Sir Walter Raleigh's first coming to America, a law
was passed in Paris that on account of the increasing
numbers of thieves, robbers and forces of doors,"
a good light should be kept burning at the corner of
every street, from ten o'clock at night until four in
the morning, "and where the street is so long
that the said light can not be seen from one end to
the other, there shall be another light placed in the
middle of the said street." This law was proclaimed
throughout the city with a flourish of trumpets, but
we should have thought the lamp-posts very strange
affairs; for they were merely wooden poles with a
horizontal bar on the top of each, from which hung
an iron pot containing resin and burning tow. It was
much like the light that fishermen carry on theii
masts. Of course this made a great deal of smoke
and a strong smell of tar; but the people did not
mind that, for now they could at least see their way
about the streets at night.
In 1576, when Henry the Third was king, civil
war snuffed out the hanging lights of Paris; for in


the confusion of political
quarrels, the street lan- ..
terns were entirely neg- .. '
elected, and History tells r'
us what sort of place
Paris was at that time_
and what horrible deeds
were committed at night -- 'I
under cover of the dark-
ness of the streets. In
the reign of the next _
king, Henry the Fourth,
and during the civil war
of the Fronde, when the i
people refused to obey $- ..
their young king, it was -
no better. The city was
totally unlighted, and at
night the streets were
thronged with robbers t
who hid in the dark cor- -
ners watching their -.' ..
chance to rush out and
rob the passers; and what THE PAIL OF WATER
made things worse, the
streets were almost entirely without pavements, so
that while a person was busy picking his way through
the mud, he was very apt to be pounced on by one of


. .' these freebooters, robbed
i-'I'' ;of his money and jewels,
and perhaps even murdered.
L-2. --- ,-;'" named Landati Caraffa
S"' thought of a plan for help-
ing the Parisians out of
their troubles, and at the
EQUIRED BY LAW. same time making himself
rich. He organized a com-
pany of light-bearers to guide people through the
streets at night, for which they charged five sous
(cents) for a quarter of an hour. Each carried an

I r ip"


S' .> : -

If -



oil lamp which gave as much light as six large candles,
and wore in his belt a sand-glass of a quarter of an
hour. When one of these light-bearers was engaged
he would, after receiving his money,
light his lamp, turn down his glass
and set off, and the only drawback
to the usefulness of these walking -''
lamp-posts was the fact that no one -
could answer for their honesty, more
than one of them having been known '... J
to overpower and rob his employer
on reaching a lonely street. Still, i ji
for want of a better, this plan con- I
tinued to be carried out, even until i l
the beginning of the present cen- t
The person who succeeded best
in lighting Paris was also the founder
of the French police force, Nicholas
de la Reynid. In 1667, he was
made Lieutenant-General of police,
and Louis the Fourteenth gave

t -

.- "

him for his watchword these three nouns: Cleanli-

ness, Light, Safety a very difficult programme to

him for his watchword these three nouns: Cheanli-
hess, Lzgt, Safety; a very difficult programme to

carry out in a city which had no street lamps, which
had never been swept, and which was, besides,
swarming with thieves. But La Reynid set to work

"2t .~L .'


vigorously; had the mud and dirt carted away,
formed a large body of night watchmen, and ordered
that candles protected by glass should be hung by
cords from the first story of the houses. It was not
thought necessary, however, to have these lights used
during the summer months, and it was soon discov-
ered that thieves and pickpockets began their work
again as soon as the warm weather returned, so that
scarcely a night passed without the dismal, desperate
cry, Help hep !" being heard in the streets.
Then the people clamored to have the lights kept
burning the whole year round; and after a great deal
of delay it was decided that the city should be lighted
from the twentieth of October to the thirty-first of
March, which was a gain of forty days, or rather of
forty nights.
The people were very much pleased with this
arrangement, and Madame de Sdvignd, who lived in
Paris at that time, said in a letter to her daughter:
"We supped yesterday at Mme. Contange's, where
we met Mine. Scarron, and about midnight we came
home very gayly without being the least afraid of rob-
bers thanks to the lights in the streets."
At the end of the seventeenth century, there were

,.nrr rnn nf fl nAnDTO

S 26 t..-e L,1.Ut 1-

in Paris six thousand five hundred of these street
lights, consuming more than a thousand pounds of
candles every night. Each lantern was ornamented
with the figure of a cock, the emblem of watchful-
ness; and just at nightfall a man went through the
streets ringing a bell; at this signal the people were
obliged to untie the lantern cords that were fastened
to their houses, let down the lanterns, and light the
S candles, which were left burning till two in the morning.
During the terrible winter of i709, when France
was afflicted with famine as well as war, there were .

Paris to the death-bed of his royal great-grandfather.
The glaziers, therefore,-were set to work at once
to get the lanterns ready. 'Unfortunately, four years
after this a violent hurricane passed over Paris,
breaking all the panes of glass, in the lanterns, and
even bending and twisting the iron rods.
In 1766 the first street lamps appeared.- A cotton
wick steeped in oil was used instead of a candle, and
a reflector was added to increase the light. All the
candle-lanterns were taken away, and these oil lamps
put in. their places, and the light was so much more


no lights in Paris, for the starved cattle died in such
numbers that there was not enough tallow to make
Six years later, however, on the night of the twenty-
seventh of August, King Louis the Fourteenth was
taken so ill that every one knew he would soon die, and
his son-in-law, the Duke of Orleans, sent an order that
-the street lights should be put in their places at once,
to be in readiness in case the little Dauphin (after-
wards Louis the Fifteenth) should have to go through

bright and steady that the people thought the highest
point in street lighting had been reached, and every
one laughed at the old lanterns, as we of to-day laugh
at their oil-lamps, and as our children will, no doubt,
make fun of our gas-lights.
These oil lamps were used the entire year except
at the time of the full moon, when they were always
left unlighted, even though the moon were entirely
clouded over! This foolish custom, however, was
soon done away with.

) UP X. i.., l .


nrv;rgIT Ari, I To m...v But neither lanterns nor lamps
could interfere with the Abbot
Caraffa's torch-bearers; they still
-, waited at the doors of houses
where balls were taking place,
stood at the entrance of theatres,
Sor went about the streets carrying
.their torches and crying out:
,, Who wants a light? They were
always on hand in time to call the
watchman in case of alarm df fire
J. '. or thieves; they would run for a

kv 3 Jsometimes would even go up-stairs
with belated persons and light the
-Q" "--": candles in their rooms 1 An old
picture shows us some torch-bearers
--_-- walking in front of two young peo-
-. _- ple who look as if they were not
giving much thought to robbers.
During the French Revolution,
-_ -- no attention whatever was paid to
__ ""- the lighting of the city, but yet the
Sstreet-lamp played its part a hor-
rible one- in the fearful tragedy
of that time. The fatal cry "A la


A French writer tells us
that Queen Marie Antoinette 7.
and her brother-in-law, the TF
Count d'Artois, used often
to go at night from Versail-
les to Paris to attend balls
and theatres, and so the road
between the palaces was al-
ways kept lighted until the
royal coach had passed. '
Five leagues and a half- --
more than thirteen miles of
street-lights 1 The illumina-
tion of the royal progress ,
was thought by the people k


lanerne/" (To the lantern !) w h laeard nightly in
the dark streets of Paris, and thex a savage, howling
mob would come tearing along, dragging some terri-
fied creature who a few minutes later would be swing-
ing lifeless from the iron bar of the street lantern.
Foulon, who was a friend to the king, was the first
one of hundreds who perished in this way during the
Rei n of Terror.
In 1787 the Argand burner was invented by Aimd
Argand, a native of Switzerland. He made a lamp

because they got entangled in the catafalque.
Twice were royal funerals interrupted on this way;
on the twenty-first of January, 1815, the bodies of the
unfortunate Louis the Sixteenth,, and Marie Antoi-
nette, his wife, were taken from the cemetery of La
Madeleine, to the church of St. Denis, and as no
one had thought to remove the street lamps, the top
of the funeral-car caught-in the cords of a lantern,
and it took a long time to disentangle them.
In December, 1840, when the body of Napoleon


in which a flat wick of twisted cotton was placed
between two tubes, and in the centre the air was able
to circulate freely, while a glass chimney aided the
draught and prevented the wick from smoking.
This invention was made perfect in 1821, by a
lamp-manufacturer named Vivien, and these burners
were used all over Paris until tht introduction of gas,
eight years afterwards. The lamps were hung over
the gutters, which in those days ran down the middle
of the street, and the lamps had to be taken down
when a funeral procession passed underneath,

the Great was carried to the Church of the Invalides,
great care had been taken to remove the lamps in
those streets where the procession was to pass; but
after the'grand ceremony was over and the empty
funeral car was returning by a shorter way to the
undertaker's, it was stopped by a lamp, and had to
be left in the street till the next day.
Some years before this, the discovery of gaslight
was made by a Frenchman named Phillippe Le Bon,
a very clever engineer.
It was already known that hydrogen-gas would



burn easily, but Le Bon was the first one to show
how it could be used for lighting.
When he was thirty-one years old, he tried the
experiment of burning some wood, and causing the
smoke to pass through water, -and he found that this
would produce a pure gas which when lighted made
a bright flame and an intense heat. He called his
gas-machine a Thermo-lampeo, and invited the people
to come and witness his experiment.
The new gas was considered very wonderful, but
was not put to use until long after the death of its
A German named Winsor, took up Le Bon's idea,

and on the last day of the year, 1829, the first gas-
light appeared in Paris. This was in the Rue de la
Paix; six months later, the Rue Vivienne was lighted,
and then one by one the old oil lamps were taken
down, and before very long Paris contained eight
thousand gas-lights.
In the French capital, however, electricity is, of
course, fast taking the place of gas. It is so much
brighter and so much cheaper that of course in
time, perhaps when the children of to-day are men
and women, all streets and theatres, possibly even
private dwellings, will be brilliantly illuminated by
the silvery moon-like radiance of electric light.




O H it was a sight fearsome, fit to curdle the blood of the stoutest-
That little craft caught in the teeth of the hungry, mad-foaming breakers
That craunched it, and tore it, and broke it, now on the jagged rocks flinging,
Then catching it back, as tigers sport'with their prey then devour it;
And the six men up in the rigging, clinging, and praying, and shuddering,
As one would shudder that looked down into his own grave open !
All the fisher-folk were away, six leagues away, to the northward,
Where the night before they had sailed, fast locked by the south gale in harbor;
Only on the sands there were three old men, peering and moaning:
"Ah! if we were young as we once were, who knows but that we might save them?"
And the women were wringing their hands, with quavering, shrill cries, pitiful.
Among them, poised on her bare feet, like a bird pluming for flying
Over the foam, her brown hair out on the wind streaming and tossing,
Her cheeks flushing and paling, but her eyes clear, stood lass Dorothy.
Straight, strong-limbed and sunbrowned was she, modest, withal, and winsome.
Will the vessel break up in an hour? If I thowt so lang she would hing there,
I'd awa' for the lifeboat," cried she. Nay, nay, lass," answered old Donald,
"Could you gang the four miles, you could na cross the burn swollen to bursting."
I'll awa'," spake Dorothy, nothing more; and swiftly she darted


Off to the moor, as from the strained bow the arrow goes leaping.
For a mile the fierce gale she battled; then down to the sands forced to scramble
Where the huge waves were rolling, and through the hollow rocks booming their thunder,
Sped on, through the foam plashing knee-deep, ever fighting for footing,
Till she came to the burn white with wrath, as if with the mad sea leaguing
In vengeance against the foe who, for its prey, with it would wrestle.
What though her heart sank ? in she plunged for, 0, the men that were drowning!
Waist-deep, then overhead sinking, seized by a swirling eddy,
Struggling up to her feet, on pressing again, till once more on the moorland,
She breasted the gale, flinging to it the wet garments that hindered.
So reached she at last the house where lived the coxswain of the lifeboat,
And sank at the threshold, swooning, but gasping with wan lips: The schooner-

On the letch norrad!" Well knew the coxswain the need that had sent her.
" Look after the lass, gude wife I "he shouted, and ran for the lifeboat.
The blessed lifeboat! how it shot out into the surges, bounding
Away and away -around the Point close up to the wreck, undaunted !
And lo! the six men dropped into it, saved, as solemnly joyful
As if into heaven they had come, out of death, with its chrism on their foreheads.

Only a simple lass still is Dorothy, never dreaming
That she has done aught heroic. Yet, sometimes, o' nights, when the stormwind
Is out, she smiles as she lays her head on its rude straw pillow,
To thinkof the six men, somewhere safe, living and loving,
Because she dared through the gale and the foam to run for the lifeboat.




IS there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea-stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
His rib and star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted kinght,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that;
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

- From Burns' Poem&.





THE strange old streets of Bruges town
Lay white with dust and summer sun,
The tinkling goat bells slowly passed
At milking-time, ere day was done.

An ancient weaver, at his loom,
With trembling hands his shuttle plied,
While roses grew beneath his touch,
And lovely hues were multiplied.

The slant sun, through the open door,
Fell bright, and reddened warp and woof,
When with a cry of pain a little bird,
A nestling stork, from off the roof,

Sore wounded, fluttered in and sat
Upon the old man's outstretched hand;
Dear Lord," he murmured, under breath,
"Hast thou sent me this little friend ?"

And to his lonely heart he pressed
The little one, and vowed no harm
Should reach it there; so, day by day,
Caressed and sheltered by his arm,

The young stork grew apace, and from
The loom's high beams looked down with eyes
Of silent love upon his ancient friend,
As two lone ones might sympathize.

At last the loom was hushed: no more
The deftly handled shuttle flew;
No more the westering sunlight fell
Where blushing silken roses grew.

And through the streets of Bruges town
By strange hands cared for, to his last
THE YOUNG STORK GREW APACE, AND FRO-M And lonely rest, neathh darkening skies,
THE LOOM'S HIGH E3EA.MS LOOKED DOWN The ancient weaver slowly passed;


Then strange sight met the gaze of all: And ere the trampling feet had left
A great white stork, with wing-beats slow, The new-made mound, dropt slowly down,
Too sad to leave the friend he loved, And clasped the grave in his white wings
With drooping head, flew circling low, His pure breast on the earth so brown.

Nor food, nor drink, could lure him thence,
Sunrise nor fading sunsets red.;
When little children came to see,
The great white stork was dead.


C HILD when you pace with hushed delight
The cloistral aisles across the sea,
Whose ashes old of monk and knight
Renew the legends heavenly-bright
That charmed you from your mother's knee;

And steal along the Abbey's nave,
With war's superbest trophies set,
To some lorn minstrel's narrow grave,
Who more unto his century gave
Than Tudor or Plantagenet;

Scorn not the carven names august,
Where England strews memorial flowers,
But circled by her precious dust,
Salute, a-thrill with pride and trust,
Your own dear poet, child of ours!

He stands among her mightiest;
We craved it not, yet be it so.
If his sweet art were least, or best,
Is judged hereafter. For the rest
Speak fondly, that the world may know:-

Not any with God's gift of song
Served men with purer ministries;
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.-From Photograph of the bust, by Not one of all this laurelled throng
Thomas Brock, A. R. A., now in Westminster Abbey. Held half the light he shed so long
From that high, sunny heart of his I




AWAY in the centre of Northamptonshire,
among great solemn woods and heavy clay
pastures, lies a stately park round a noble house.
On the hill above sits an ancient brown sandstone
church, brooding like an old hen over her chick-
ens-the yellow-brown sandstone cottages of the
village. And a mile beyond the. church, in a smal-
ler village, a low sandstone house stands by the
roadside, with thatched roof, and high gable-ends,
and stone mullioned windows, and an inscription
carved over the door.

The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Constructa. 1606.
The Park is-Althorp Park. Lord Spencer's splen-

did home. The church is Brington Church: and
it contains monuments which should siir ,cei'
American heart. For in the sandstone hoL.-': 11
Little Brington lived the ancestor of George \\'ri'
ington ; and he lies buried in Brington Chu ch 01lli
his wife and several of his children and kin-t.:!l.
Yes In that low sandstone house-now i
cottage Mr. Lawrence Washington, son and lir
of Robert Washington of Sulgrave in Northamp-
tonshire, lived and died. And it was his second
son, John, who emigrated in 1657 to Virginia, there
to found the family.of the illustrious first Presi-
dent of the United States.
The Washingtons who were originally a Lanca-
shire family, had been settled in Northampton-
shire for several generations; first in the town of


Northampton; then at Sulgrave; and when their
fortunes declined-in consequence, some say, of
the ill luck which always came to. those who held
church property, and the manor of Sulgrave had
belonged to St. Andrew's Monastery at North-
ampton -and they were obliged to leave Sul-
grave, Lawrence Washington settled at Little
Brington, near his friend and kinsman Sir Robert
Spencer. Some suppose that Lawrence Wash-
ington built the house at Little Brington, and
placed the inscription over the door in token of
his many sorrows and trials the loss of fortune
and home, for he was forced to sell Sulgrave in
x61o, and the deaths of his wife and several
children. Be that as it may, he lived at Little
Brington for some years before his death in 1616.
He was honorably buried in the church at Great
Brington. And his sons William, John, and Law-
rence, were constant guests at Althorp Park, hard
by. In the curious steward's books which were


found some few years ago in an iron-bound chest
at Althorp, and give every item of expenditure in
the household from 1623- to 1645, the names of the
Washingtons occur-continually, among the quaint-

est entries which give one a very clear idea of the
way a great house was managed in those days.
Here are a few examples from the yellow old
housekeeping pages:

June 21. Lump sugar into the nursery, 3 li. 0o-o2-09
Sir John Washington and Sir William
Washington, staying in the house,
lobsters given to Mr. Curtis. 4. oo-o6-oo
Dec. 6. To Legg for the carriage of a doe to
my Lord Archbishop. oo-o5-oo
Collar of Brawne sent to Mr. Wash-

July 3. Sent to my Ladie Washington, Puetts
6. (Peewits). Quailes 3. Hearne I.
Sturgeon. I rand.
Oct. 30. For 12 li. of currants for a great cake.
For butter for a cake, 6 li.


This was the christening cake for "Mistress Katherine
Spencer," who was baptized Nov. 14. Sir John Washington
and Mr. Curtis being among the guests.

These are only a few out of many mentions of
the brothers whose horses are noted constantly as
being provided with "oates and so forth. The
friendship between the two families of Washing-
tons and Spencers was maintained until the out-
break of the Civil War. Young Mordaunt, Sir
John Washington's eldest son, frequently came
with his father to the house that seems to have
been ever open to them, and where Mistress Lucy
Washington, Sir John's younger sister was house-
keeper, a post which in those days was often filled
by gentlewomen of good family. It was only in
1641 that these friendly visits ceased brought to
an end some suppose by political differences, which
at that time were only too apt to sever all ties of
friendship and even of family. Sir John is lost
sight of during the Civil War, though there is no
doubt that he espoused the King's side against
Oliver Cromwell; and, according to Washington
Irving and other authorities, he and his brother
Lawrence were mixed up in the royalist conspi-
racy of 1656, and found it more safe and conven-
ient to seek a home in the New World the next
year, with very many others of their defeated
For some years before his. emigration, Sir John
Washington, a widower, with three sons Mordaunt,
John, and Philip, had lived at his manor of South


Cave, near Hull in Yorkshire. And this explains
why we are usually told that the great Washing-
ton's ancestors came from the north of England.
So they did-just at last. But their true home
for more than a hundred years had been the noble
county of Northampton. Lawrence Washington
was born and died in the county, his children
were born there too, and Sir John the emigrant
married a Northamptonshire lady, Dame Mary
Curtis, of Islip, and her tomb is in Islip Church
to this day. So that the midlands may justly
claim the honor of having sent forth a son of their
soil, to help in the making of the great American
A few years ago circumstances took me to Bring-
ton Rectory; and day after day I wandered across
to the grand old. church and sat for several hours
at a time, sketching the beautiful tombs of the
many noble Spencers who since 1599 have been
buried there.
(Before that date they were buried at Worm-
leighton, their great house in Warwickshire.)
There lies Sir Robert, whose friendship in-
duced Lawrence Washington to settle at Bring-
ton, and there, too, lies William his son, Baron
Spencer of Wormleighton, John Washington's
There too is the heart of his son and suc-
cessor the gallant Henry Spencer, who was
made Earl of Sunderland by King Charles on the
blood-stained battlefield of Edgehill, within sight
of his house of Wormleighton, and who fell at
Newbury by Falkland's side. And there is his
uncle, Edward Spencer, the Puritan -Cromwell's
friend; whose influence with the Protector saved
Brington Church and. those splendid tombs from
destruction at the hands of the Roundhead sol-
diers, How often have I blessed Edward Spen-
cer's memory when I looked at those exquisite
monuments all fresh and whole, with their grand
recumbent figures, and their carved and painted
and gilded canopies-and thought of the broken
fingers, the mutilated noses, the disfigured armour
and inscriptions in too many of our English
But unique and magnificent though the monu-
ments be in the Spencer Chapel, what riveted my
attention was a great slab of stone in the pave-
ment of the aisle. It is cracked right across the
middle, but is otherwise uninjured. It bears a

coat of arms, on one half of which are two stripes
with three stars above them; on the other half
three chalices; and beneath runs an inscription
setting forth that

,i'1'WASf 1'NGTQNO -SoNNk 9 HEIR OD0Fl

flYKE,;8-sT0NN9 &'5 DAVGNiTEfS
OF DECEMB ER- A; rDr'i j161 6

0 r-THIS- AST'Sl cli7
BWT AZ T1HE-,3VV11Z- RE7-0vRplEgi


This was the father of the emigrant Sir John,
and those three stars, those two stripes, that were
carried over the ocean to the new home in Vir-
ginia, must have had some connection I think, with
a certain flag that floats very proudly as it has
reason to do on thousands of ships that sail that
very ocean -on thousands of flagstaffs through-
out the length and breadth of the American con-
tinent. There are several other Washington tombs
at Brington all with their stars and stripes in
some form or other. But I think you will agree
with me that Lawrence, the last English ances.


tor of the maker of a mighty nation, is by far the
most interesting member of the family to us nowa-
days. I wonder what he would have thought as
he sat in the "house-place of his newly built
home at Little Brington, had any one prophesied
to him that his son John's descendant was destined
to rule the greatest republic of the modern world.
The old Washington house-- till recently a farm-
house, and now a well-to-do labourer's cottage--
with flowers peeping out of the stone-mullioned
windows, and sparrows building and chattering in
the thatched eaves, and children filling their pitch-
ers at the village pump under the great yew tree
across the road, looks curiously settled and unad-

Northamptonshire is a country of big parks, big
woods, big fields, big fences, big trees. The great,
long-fleeced sheep, that fatten by hundreds in the
rank grass pastures, look like mammoths after the
neat, black-faced "south-downs" of Hampshire
and Sussex. The huge white-faced Hereford cat-
tle stare over the hedges like "Bulls of Bashan,"
or walk in a long line after us across a field, while
our fox-terrier who they are following, takes refuge
under our feet much to our discomfort. There
are few rivers : but wide brooks run through the
bottom-lands, cutting deep channels through the
heavy clay. The land swells up every liile or so
into bleak, rolling ridges like vast green waves

_IN SIR_ ... ...N.ASIGTON--. .

i N S-- JOH -.HI.TN ..A-. _

that foam here and there into a crest of
woodland; and it sinks again into damp
valleys, where wreaths of white mist hang
even on summer days. So that one is
for ever going up or down-hill, though
there is not a hill to be called a hill in
the whole county. Sandstone villages,
with some of the finest churches in Eng-
land are built along the crest of the
ridges in one long straggling street:
and the high pitch of the thatched roofs
with their tall chimneys at each end, and
the soft olive-green and yellow brown of
the stone they are built of, give them
a most picturesque appearance. But
though the woods are carpeted in spring
with primroses -and the pastures are
alive with sweet yellow cowslips, and
scores of nightingales sing in the spin-
neys, yet the country is sad to my mind.
It is all grave and solemn. It never
laughs and smiles in the sunshine, like
the southern and western counties -
like some parts even of our beautiful
Warwickshire. The people too have
less of the kindliness and courtesy of
manner that one finds in the South:
but often carry their love of inde-
pendence as they call it, to the verge
of rudeness. Yet, after all, it is a fine

venturous, and unaware of the great destinies of and stately land; and oh! what a hunting county.
its children. What gallops with the famous Pytchley Pack
And now that we have waded through this old across those wide grass fields-what splendid
bit of history, let us see what sort of a land the riding over those deep brooks, and great "Bul-
Washingtons lived in. finches" as the hawthorn edges are called- a


wall of thorns six feet through and fifteen fe
- that only the finest, heaviest horses ca
Then what splendid homes there are great
whose owners have been settled there for hi
of years, each with its separate bit of histc
has helped in the making of
England. And chief among
them all is Althorp. Come
with me and let me tell you
of my first walk from Bring-
ton to Althorp Park, where
John Washington was so often
a welcome guest; and let me
show you the very same trees
that he may have climbed
birds'-nesting with young Wil-
liam Spencer, his contempo-
rary and playfellow; and let
us walk through the same
glades where Philip Curtis,
another of the Althorp guests,
may have wandered with fair
Mistress Amy Washington,
John's sister, whom he mar-
ried in 1620, a year or two
after the marriage of his sis-
ter Mary to John Washing-
Outside the rectory garden
gates the sun was casting long shadows acr
" Gravel Walk," a noble avenue of elms, sad
tered by the October hurricane of the year
but still grand enough to satisfy any one who
known their former glory. Far away to
across the Valley, Holmby* House of
memory, gleamed golden-white on a ridge
tense purple. Everything was bathed in
brilliant sunshine, and the air was fresh
and invigorating, as we neared the high pa
of olive-green sandstone. A little poste
let us into the park, and turning to the le]
the avenue of gigantic elms which runs th,
way round it inside the wall, we soon reach
heronry, cut off from the park by tall iro
The scene was strangely familiar to me.-

*Now spelt Holdenby. It was here that King Charles tht
kept in a kind of honourable confinement in t647, by the Pai

I must have seen it all before.- But no that was
impossible as I had never set foot in Northampton-
shire in my life until now. I stood staring and
puzzled. Then it all rushed across me. The
giant stems of the oaks and Spanish chestnut,


- ---~~~l"~


glistening pale against a dark background of fir
and spruce, were for all the world like the end of
a clearing in Canada, or Western New York. I
had seen the same thing hundreds of times: but
here there were no huge stumps left in the clear-
ing-no lumberer's log hut-but smooth green
turf and trim gravel walks, and long settled peace
and plenty all about.
But now the silence was broken by strange
sounds overhead -clanking and rattling as of
chains smitten together, with wild hoarse cries.
The trees above us were bare and broken. Some
blight seemed to have fallen on them, and stripped
the bark, and torn the small branches. I looked
again, and in the blasted trees I saw huge birds
moving to and fro, and piling broken twigs into
rough untidy heaps. We were in the midst of the
heronry; and the herons were building their
nests; while the noise of clanking chains was made
by their long bills clappering together with a strange


I~ T~


~~5~i~i~ ~s~

c,. 1
~af~' "

-- -_



metallic sound, as they flapped backwards and
forwards quarrelling over the possession of some

V ...

favorite fork
in the trees
that they
are gradu-
S ally destroy-
ing. John
must have
often seen
the ancestors of those great gray birds; for in
the Althorp Steward's Books that I have al-
ready quoted mention is constantly made of the
" hearnes."

One day "Creaton" gets three shillings, for
climbing nine herons' nests. A. day after "four-
teen hearnes"
are sent to
\ i young ones I
I[ suppose that
Creaton took out of the nests.
In one week some years later,
twenty-five herons' nests are
climbed. "Hearnes" are sent
as presents to Lady Washington and the neigh-
bors, and so forth. But I shall have more to tell
you about the herons before I let you go, so let us
leave them screaming and quarrelling and push
on into the park.
At length another avenue, with one fallen
giant elm lying across it measuring eighty feet
from where it split off some thirty feet from the
ground -led us down towards the house. And
then a gate in the deer-fence let us into the garden
_and arboretum, with rows of ancient
trees marking its confines. The
emerald turf was studded with thou-
sands of gay little winter aconites
lifting their yellow heads to the sun
out of their petticoats of close green
leaves, and countless snowdrops
ringing their dainty white bells,
looking like downy patches of new-
fallen snow on the grass. Among
the beautiful groups of rare and
curious trees we wandered on till
Swe came to the "Oval"--an oval
pond, some three hundred yards
long- covered with tiny dabchicks,
and busy coots and moor hens
who perpetually chased each other through the
water on to the island in the middle, and disap-
peared among the scarlet fringe of dogwood, to
emerge on the other side ready for a fresh chase
and frolic. Stately swans basked in the sunshine
on the water, or stretched their long necks and
shook their white wings on shore. Up from the
water sloped banks of smooth-shaven turf; and
some fifty feet back from the pond rose an encir-
cling line of huge single trees, any one of which was
a study in itself, and in whose tall tops jackdaws
kept up an incessant chatter over their housebuild-
ing and love-making.


Althorp House lay away to our right the great
,white house with its priceless books the finest
private library in Europe it is said and its price-
less pictures portraits by every famous painter
for four hundred years besides Italian and
Flemish paintings, some of which, thanks to their
owner's generosity, maybe seen every winter in the
Loan Exhibitions at South Kensington or Burling-
ton House. But we had no time to explore the
treasures of Althorp House on that early spring
afternoon ; so we turned up past the dairy filled
throughout with pots and pans of Dresden china-
and reached the limits of the garden.
The gate in the deer-fence was locked : but vwe

look and one ear cocked up and the other down.
and a couple of Teckels-long-backed, bandy-
legged, satin-coated, black-and-tan German turn-
spits, with delicate heads like miniature blood-
hounds, and sad pathetic eyes poured out upon
us an avalanche of heads, tails, legs and barks.
But their bark is worse than their bite; and they
are soon begging to share the delicious tea and bread
and butter with which we are regaled. The head
keeper Mr. C-, is past ninety ; and his father,
who was head keeper before him, died when he
was past ninety; and his son who will be head
keeper when the dear old man is gone to his rest,
has every right to live to the same ripe old age;


made for another which brought us out close to the
head keeper's house. It is a beautiful old sand-
stone building of the sixteenth century; and as we
knocked at the massive oak door, studded with
nails and clamped with iron, an inscription on the
stone lintel, rudely carved with a knife, caught my


A chorus of dogs answered our knock; and as the
door opened, a splendid Skye terrier with knowing

for his mother also came of a long-lived family,
Her brother, who died quite recently, served in the
American War of Independence.
But what a picture the old man is, in his well-
made shooting coat with innumerable pockets, and
his tight snuff-colored breeches, and top boots-
and what a perfect gentleman he is, with courtly,
highbred manners that this schoolboard-taught
generation may strive and struggle after, but never
attain, in spite of all their boasted civilization.
He has lived among the great of the world; but
he knows his place, and keeps it too. And though
his grandchildren are barristers and clergymen he




is "My Lord's head keeper," and proud he is of
his position.
The hounds came past on Saturday, his grand-
;daughter said; and though he had been ailing for
a day or two, the old man ordered his horse, and
escorted the Empress of Austria across the Park.
Yes," he said, I saw them all. There was
Lord --, he came and spoke to me, and I asked
how his son was nice boy he was -used to be
'often at Althorp. He said he was in Ireland.
And Squire B- come and spoke to me-Ah
yes! they all know me. Last time the Prince of
'Wales was here, he came up to see me but I was
And the fine cheery old face lights up at the
remembrance of all these little attentions. I told
'him I had never seen a heronry before, and he
,beamed again.
Ah! now," he said, I am pleased they've
-gone back there At one time I was afraid as
they'd all go away. They took to building in a
little spinney close down here in Holdenby fields:
but I wasn't going to stand that-so I took a man
,or two, and pulled every one of their nests right
down ; and then they went back to the old place.
I was glad, for they've built there for between two
,hundred and three hundred years."
He told us that the herons go out at night in
long lines, two and two, and rob the fish ponds and
the shallows for miles round standing motionless
under the hedges waiting for the favorable hour to
begin, like a regiment of soldiers : and before
morning they came home with their pouches
,crammed with fish and
eels. One he said
brought home an eel '. ''
hook and well besides
the eel, and got himself
hooked up in the trees
by it, and would have
'starved to death had not
the keepers climbed up
-and released him.
But now the sun is
getting low, and we turn -
homewards across the
Park, past the herds of END OF A LAN

deer under the great trees feeding up to the sunset;
and overhead stream up countless thousands of
rooks and their attendant jackdaws. Away to
the west, from out of the eye of the setting sun,

they come, seemingly an interminable line ever
growing and increasing; and then when they
settle down in the trees on the knolls above the
house, what a sea of sound their voices make, till
-night falls and quiets
Up the avenue the
S church tower over the
2 Washington graves
Sglows against the bright
evening sky : and as we
near home children's
Voices playing round the
old Market Cross by
the Rectory gates, rise
shrill and clear, and we
are once more in the
IN BRINGTON. work-a-day world.




IN a dried old mow, that was once, alas I
A living glory of waving grass,
A cricket made merry one winter's day,
And answered me this, in a wondrous way,
When I cried, half sharply, "Thou poor old thing!
How canst thou sit in the dark and sing,
While for all thy pleasure of youth thou starv-
S"I'm the voice of praise that came in with the
harvest !"

I went away to the silent wood,
And down in the deep, brown solitude,
Where nothing blossomed, and nothing stirred,

Up rose the note of a little bird.
"Why carollest thou in the death of the year,
Where nobody travelleth by to hear?"
- I sing to God, though there be no comer,
Praise for the past, and the promise of summer I

I stopped by the brook that, overglassed
With icy sheathing, seemed prisoned fast;
Yet there whispered up a continual song,
From the life underneath that urged along.
" 0 blind little brook, that canst not know
Whither thou runnest, why chantest so ?"
- I don't know what I may find or be,
But I'm praising for this : I am going to see I"



LACED in the broad
light of our practical
times, the history of
those old days when
t h e Troubadours
flourished seems like
a story, or, as Na-
poleon would have
said, "a fable agreed
The Troubadours
were men who made
the composition and
recitation of poetry
a profession. Many
of them were actors,
and mimics, and jug-
glers, and the pro-
fession was at one time a very lucrative one, its
members frequently retiring from business loaded

with gold and valuable goods given them by the
weakhy people whom they had amused. An old
song relates how one of them was paid from the
king's own long purse with much gold and "white
To be a Troubadour then, was to be a juggler,
a poet, a musician, a master of dancing, a conjurer,
a wrestler, a performer of sleight-of-hand, a boxer,
and a trainer of animals. Their variety of accom-
plishments is indicated by the figures on the front
of a chapel in France, erected by their united
contributions. It was consecrated in September,
1335. One of the figures represented a Trouba-
dour, one a minstrel, and one a juggler, "each
with his various instruments." Like others occu-
pied in a trade or profession at that time and
since, they bound themselves.into one great soci-
ety, or "trade union ;" and we are told that they
had a king. It is certain that they often travelled
in companies from place to place in search of



employment, and often in midwinter they ap-
peared before the castle gates at nightfall, a group
of crimson, and violet, and velvet-black, relieved
against the shadowed snow.
The richer class of Troubadours did not travel
at this season. They remained at home during

well pounded. It is related of one that while
returning from a visit to a certain lord, having
reached a deep and dangerous forest, he was sud-
denly set upon by thieves who haunted these gloomy
shades. They took from him his horse, his
money, and even his clothing, and were about to


the winter and composed, or learned new verses,
and thus prepared themselves for a fresh cam-
paign; and with the first upspringing of the grass
they came forth like song birds, flocking joyously
from city to -city, from castle to castle, with their
flutes and rebecs, their wonderful stories of Ar-
thur's Round Table, of wild horses of the forest
bearing fair maidens lashed to their backs forever,
of towers dragon-guarded.
The life of the wandering Troubadour must
needs have been one of romance and adventure.
Not infrequently did he picture to the life in his
lyric some well-known character of the day and
the neighborhood; and it followed that if the hero
of the song or recital was of a revengeful nature,
the Troubadour was frequently waylaid and

kill him, when the captive Troubadour begged to
be allowed to sing one more song before he died.
Obtaining consent, he began to sing most melodi-
ously in praise of thievery and of these particular
thieves, whom he so delighted with his sweet
compliments and admiration that they "returned
him his horse, his money, and everything they
had taken from him "
But there were often pleasanter scenes "under
the greenwood tree." Picture to yourself a com-
pany of the merry singers, in fantastic array,
halted beneath the broad and protecting boughs.
Can you not hear the jest go round, the free
laugh ring out, and echoing in the old woodland, as
these Troubadours, those human songsters, revel in
the joy of their out-of-door life, and breathing the

__ __


healthful airs of the forest? What is the world
of war and loss, burning castles and tumbling
thrones, to them? What but so much material for
moving, thrilling song ?
These roving minstrels were often of great
secret service to armies in time of war, for they
could travel where others could not, and many
were the momentous missions they undertook. The
Troubadour was always free to go and come,
a welcome guest, a jolly good fellow. The camp
fires might be burning, armies moving from base
to base, but amid the tramp of marching men
and the shifting of military posts he was secure
in his privilege as a neutral person. As a
song, the turning of three somersaults, or a new %
jest was sufficient password to hostile camps,
it naturally followed that he should often be
employed as a spy or messenger, penetrating
outer lines, and into castles whose gates were
closed by armed men. Imagine him spirit-
edly reciting some heroic tale to a group of
rough and iron-clad warriors -restless soldiers
of fortune, who listen to him with savage in-
terest, clinking their swords as an accompani-
ment to his song. While they make jokes at
his expense they house and feed him. They
reward him with curious trinkets taken in bat-
tle, a quaint ring, or ancient bracelet, a gem-
crusted drinking-cup, which serves to swell
his possessions. But the cunningTrouba-
dour takes the number of their spears. He
spies the secret gates
where the men go in
and out at night bear-
ing supplies of pro-
visions and arms. He
learns the plans for to-
morrow's foraging. In
short, a song, a simple
story, a few amusing
tricks, secretly turns |
the tide of battle, set-
tles the fate of kings
and queens.
Among the many
unhappy queens of u
merry England, Elea-
nora of. Aquitaine stands in her place. Her
reign was full of trouble and misfortune, although
Henry the Second was a most peace-loving king of

his time. Referring to her ambitious and captive
son, Richard Coeur de Lion, who, by the way, was
a Troubadour, she describes herself in one of her
letters to the Pope: Eleanora, by the wrath of
God, Queen of England."
Well, the turbulence of her reign was often due
to the war songs of Troubadours; for if ever
it occurred that her impetuous sons were inclined
to a season of peace, the Troubadours always
broke into their retirement with passionate and
boastful tensions which urged them to revolt and

battle. As the Marseillaise has resounded in the
streets of Paris in our time, inspiring men and
women with feelings of enthusiasm and reckless


valor, so certain subtle recitations of the minstrels
roused the insurgent sons of Eleanora to rebellion
and deeds of blood. The peace of a kingdom, the
ties of kindred, the affairs of state, were over-
turned by a mere song. Chief of these political

France, and Spain, exciting passion, distrust, and
hatred among high and low. So skilful was
he in creating discord and manipulating intrigue,
that Dante fittingly assigned him a place in the
Inferno. Eleanora herself was the granddaughter


Troubadours, and a personal friend of these war-
like sons of Eleanora, was the Baron Bertrand
de Bosn. This French nobleman was a born
revolutionist, impetuous, violent, and his verses
on the lips of Troubadours, penetrated England,

of one of the earliest Troubadours, whose works
have reached down to our day; and many of the
songs of that day are addressed to her. One
of her Troubadouftrain, after a life of devotion to
poetry and romance, became a monk and ended


his days amid the sober scenes and subduing
influences of an abbey in the Limousin.
Retiring from the world into the bosom of the
Church, seems to have been a favorite closing act
among the Troubadours. Many of them did so from
ignoble or selfish motives, but some were actuated
by religious convictions, no doubt. Great ladies,
also, whose beauty had been made famous by the
Troubadours, frequently sought in the end, peace-
ful nunneries from which they never came forth
Many of the productions of the Troubadours con-
tained from fifteen to twenty thousand verses, and
therefore required much time in the delivery, es-
pecially as they were accompanied by music.
When one performer became weary another
took his place, and thus continued the linked
sweetness to an almost
endless length. The
Troubadour was a reformer
of manners and the creator
of many pleasing offices,
some of which exist to
this day. For instance:
In the reign of Eleanor
of Provence, queen of
England, we have our first
glimpse of a poet-laureate;
and the office since be-.
come so glorious with
song, undoubtedly sprung
out of the literary tastes
of the Provengal queen,
who was herself a singer,
and had been surrounded
in her youth by Trouba-
dours and minstrels. But
this kindly harboring of
Troubadours came near
being the death of the king,
her husband; for one night a gentleman known
as "a mad poet" was so well used in the hall
that he got into high spirits and amused the royal
household by "joculating for their entertainment,
and singing some choice minstrelsy." But he
seems all the while to have had another end in
view, for at a convenient moment he crept into
the king's bedchamber armed with a very sharp
knife which he plunged into the royal couch. For-
tunately the king was not there, and although the

mad poet called loudly for Henry, demanding that
he show himself and be killed, the search was in
vain. The poor poet had to pay for this attempt,
being executed at Coventry.
For many years the Troubadours continued
to sing at ancient windows and in lordly halls.
But their numbers gradually grew less, until few
were left of all that happy profession. As times
grew more peaceful, and please 'ter occupations
increased, the romance of chivalry, the wild leg-
endry of feudal courts and fields waned in inter-
est for the people, until only an occasional stroller
was seen no more in princely dress, slowly travel-
ling along some lonely road in quest of such
warmth or comfort as a charitable or inquisitive
person might give him by listening to his worn-out
songs. Instead of receiving a cloak of cloth of sil-


ver inwoven with gold as a reward, he was content
with a bed of straw. There is much pathos in
those lines of Walter Scott which describe the last
minstrel as forsaken by all except an orphan boy:

The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.




ENTRIES of wrong
often right themselves
by the refusal of scales
to longer blind the 'eyes
of the powers that be."
And poetic justice is sat-
isfied when retribution
is meted out from the
long garnering of silent
abuses. Sometimes we
can afford to wait for these slow processes in
the which Justice comes tardily to herself. In our
backward glance over our dealings as new-comers
with our Indian brethren, the owners of our boasted
possession this goodly land, we exclaim: "Why
was Justice so slow to take the sword herself ? "
That will do for the past. Having awaked and
turned our faces toward the light, we only ask
now, "What can we do for the Indian to requite
It is some comfort to know that much has been
done for him. That into the seething turmoil of
many political problems, and the almost over-
whelming mass of matter, great and small, that

clogs the Congressional wheels, has penetrated the
thin blade of a "This do; for the Lord requireth
it at thy hand."
So now the Indian stands at our right hand,
not so much as a suppliant, but a brother demand-
ing his rights; and having awaked to our duty, we
gladly, yet with considerable perplexity as to the
how, cast about in our minds what and how to re-
Brave men have worked at the problem long.
Women as brave, have struggled on and prayed.
Their work stands before us all as monuments of
wonder in the face of everything but despair.
The Carlisle School for the education of Indian
youth" is one of these huge endeavors success-
fully wrought out. For the young people and
the family, this volume gives space to a de-
scription, with authentic pictures, of its inception,
its working force, its methods and plans, that
by this study of what has been done, what is still
being achieved, and what the future is to bring,
we may all come somewhat more understandingly
to a clearer idea of the claims of the Indian upon
us. ,


How did the school begin ? In 1875, some
India prisoners were sent for various misdemean-


ors from the Indian Territory as prisoners to
Florida. By order of General Sheridan, the War
D3 pa -:;-r t placed R. H. Pratt,
ist Lieutenant Tenth U. S.
Cavalry over them as superin-
tendent They located in the
sleepy Sn an7sh town St. Augus-
tine. Lieutenant Pratt, with
the Christian energy that all
of us who know him recognize
as one grand element of his
success in this chosen life-work,
:......U::.ily set to work with
a zeal unparalleled, on this
most difficult problem, "How
furnish mental kInowledge and
industrial training at one and
the same time, to these down-
trodden creatures ?"
A record of this part of the
work would be intensely inter-
esting; how he enlisted the sympathy and aid
of several ladies wintering in St. Augustine,


who volunteered to help teach the Indians;
how he seized the meagre opportunities afforded
to train them industrially, by setting them to
pick oranges, grub the land, to boat pine logs
and construct out of them log huts, that they
might learn how to replace their skin tepes; how
every chance to teach them practical methods of
self-support was most eagerly grasped. But the
space is short, and Carlisle beckons us on. Suffice
it to say that a marked success was his, resulting
in the sending to General Armstrong, at Hampton
Institute, first seventeen pupils, then fifty-two more,
including girls. Then Lieutenant Pratt proposed
to the Interior and War Departments to undertake
the education of two hundred and fifty to three
hundred children at the old military Barracks at
Carlisle, Pa., which was accepted.
This was the beginning of the Carlisle School
which opened on the first of November, 1879, with
one hundred and forty-seven students.
Now, then, what and where were the Old Bar-
racks? "
The Old Barracks were first erected and occupied
as a prison for. the Hessian troops captured by
Washington at Trenton in 1776. The old Guard
House built at the time by these Hessian prison-
ers still remains. Other buildings, in the shape
of those now standing, were erected during the.
Florida War, 1835-36, remaining until 1863, when



they were burnt by Fitz Hugh Lee, who then
shelled the town of Carlisle. In 1864-65 they


were rebuilt by the Government, and occupied
till 1872 as a training school for cavalry, when
they were left unoccupied until the opening of
the Indian school in 1879. For many years
before the war they were occupied as a training
school and depot for instructing soldiers in the art
of war, whose principal duty was to fight Indians !
(Poetic Justice takes grim satisfaction in this over-
turning of the Old Barracks.) The buildings stand
to the west of the town of Carlisle, occupying the
sides of a square used for parade ground, etc.,
one being occupied by the superintendent and his

ness the workings of the Carlisle School. The
the day was raw and chill, but our reception was of
sunniest and most cheering description. As our
party of fifty-four drew up in carriages, barges,
stages, and various kinds of vehicles pressed into
duty for the occasion, before the door, the whole
atmosphere, eloquent with its old historic mem-
ories, seemed to ring with new life, and we forgot
cold, and snow, and sleet, and stepped in, glad as
birds at harbinger of spring. Truly springtime of
hope and promise is budding for the poor Indian,
thought we. After paying our greeting to the


staff, another by teachers and female pupils' dor-
mitories, a third as dormitory for the boys.
Other buildings have been either converted from
old ones or newly built to meet the needs for
chapel, infirmary, refectory, schoolhouse, gymna-
sium, trade-schools, etc. So much for the buildings.
One portion of one of the large number only can
be given here, with an interesting group of girls
seated on the lawn.
It was on a cold, snowy day in March, 1883,
that, responsive to an invitation from Secretary
Teller, my husband and I joined the Congressional
party of Senators and Members going with their
wives, daughters and a few invited guests, to wit-

superintendent and his wife, and those of the in.
structors who were at leisure, everything was
delightfully informal, and we were allowed free
range to observe, criticise, and admire. Bright-
faced, earnest-eyed young creatures met us on
every hand; girls with a sweet, ladylike demeanor,
boys respectful, quiet and manly. I scanned them
closely, to catch the stolidity and habitual dulness
of the down-trodden Indian, but except in very
rare cases, found only a hopefulness, and a look-
ing forth of soul, to meet my gaze. It seemed to
say to me, "Wait! we will yet awake and repay all
that is being done for us."
There was a most delightful lunch served by


the deft hands of a corps of Indian girls. Then
we began the much more delightful tour of inspec-
The dining-room looked very bright and cheer-
ful as we passed in, with its neat table appoint-
ments, and tidy, white-aproned young girls as
waitresses. What a revelation to all womanly
instincts is this one room with its duties apper-
taining, to a mind running wild on the plains, and
knowing nothing of the sweet home-y-ness of
daily life.
As the children come from the plains into the

: ^^^^^^^^8J^^3^TOI^K~

the knowledge they long for can never be theirs.
The presence of their loved leader is with them,
sustaining and reassuring. How can they be
afraid ?
No child comes unwillingly to Carlisle. The
only difficulty to contend with in the whole matter
is the inadequate means to bring the large num-
ber, ready and waiting, into the civilization that
instruction by competent teachers alone can supply.
When the appropriation is what it should be, so
that an education lies within the reach of every
Indian child, our consciences will be somewhat


new atmosphere of school and family life, the
world seems suddenly to assume limitless possibil-
ities of terror. They huddle on the lawns in their
blankets, bone necklaces, skin moccasons and other
toggery of their native life, going to Mother Nature
for comfort in, and explanation of, this new extrem-
ity. A house to their eyes seems to beckon into
such a region of confinement, that for the first few
wild moments, life on the boundless plain, chasing
animals about as civilized as themselves, appears
the only delightful thing on earth.
The group here represented, is a quiet, self-con-
trolled one, evidently realizing that by each one
must be sturdy acceptance of offered good, else

freer of burdens concerning them. For only by
an education in the best sense of the word, meaning
that introduction into knowledge of practical influ-
ence in home training, practical experience in all
manual trades, tilling of the land, etc, and practi-
cal rooting and grounding in at least rudimentary
mental acquirements, till they are like edged tools,
simple it may be, but ready for action, can the
Indian be converted from his low savage condi-
tion, and we be released from the care of him.
To become self-supporting is the first advance
that nation or individual makes toward civilization.
Hence any working at the problem of the Indian
question of to-day, in any other way than the first


simple proposition, that man, as a reasonable being
must work if he would live, is both sentimental
and useless. Methods of work must then be laid
before the subject for civilization; and avenues
toward trades of all sorts,freely opened as to any
other specimen of humanity in our land, with a right
to practice such wherever he please, and the most of
our part in the matter will have been accomplished.
The Indian will take care of himself. We shall
hear very little of the terrible atmosphere now
clinging to him. To thoughtful minds who have
most broadly and conscientiously grasped the
situation, the "terrible classes now swarming in
communistic secret stroiggholds throughout our
great city-centres, are infinitely more to be dreaded
than the educated Indian.
Here are some of the faces of "our boys and
girls," as they lovingly call them at Carlisle. Most
of them have probably been but a few months
surrounded by the atmosphere of happy home and
school life; many probably first entering in the
abject state of terror before described; now in
greater terror at the prospect of being recalled
to their reservations when school-life ends. They
do not look very dangerous, do they ? Ah could
you see and talk with them, and watch the bright
expression, the earnest purpose, the pathetic grati-
tude, it might enlighten you a bit, and thereby
cause a wholesome revolution in your pet theory
on the subject.
The bakery at Carlisle affords a most interest-



ing practical refutation of the statement that the
Indian is incapable of using knowledge to any

benefit to his fellows. Whoever can turn out such
good bread as we saw with our own eyes, and

4 -N

tasted and enjoyed with our own mouths, is a
real benefactor to the human race. It shamed
much that we put on our family
tables as the best result of Dinah's
or Norah's kitchen administration.
It was so pure and white and
sweet -well-baked and conscien-
tiously kneaded; truly a most im-
-' portant proof of the Indian's
adaptability to domestic duties.
Does it not make you want some
to see it in the picture ?
An Arapahoe boy has charge
of the bakery; and assisted by a
Sioux and a Pawnee, bakes nearly
two barrels of flour into the loaves,
as you see in accompanying cut,
every forenoon of the week, with
the exception of Sunday. After-
noons these boys spend in the schoolroom.
Mental discipline and manual labor are given


their proper places at Carlisle. No encroachments
on the other's rights is allowed either, by the wise ad-
ministration at the head of affairs there. The chil-


dren are taught what they will use when going out
from the school. In all cases, the training is done
patiently, systematically, sensibly and thoroughly.
It is a happy, busy place, where the individuality
of each child is brought out healthfully; his or her
bent of mind carefully studied, and its wants pro-
vided for. If a boy shows a taste for wagon-
making, he is allowed to follow it, and not thrust
into the tin shop, where, like many another boy
obliged to pursue a given calling against his will,
he might turn out stupid and spoil a very genius
for producing wagons.
The wagon shop at Carlisle has twelve appren-
tices constantly employed making wagons for the
Indian service; sending them into nearly every
Territory, even to Washington Territory and Ore-
gon. Captain Pratt writes me : During my recent
trip to the West, I saw quite a number of our
wagons in use by the Government and the Indians,
and rode nearly two hundred miles in one." [We
know the good Captain enjoyed that ride more than
the pleasure afforded by the most luxuriously
appointed car on the whole Pacific route !]
Speaking of the thoroughness of the training
given at Carlisle, one little incident which deeply
interested us all, will serve as fitting illustration;
also giving some faint idea of the kind, delicate

tact that brings out the best in the Indian charac.
ter, constantly used by the man who is working
out the daily problem of their elevation. Edgar
Fire Thunder, a bright, in-
teresting boy, was making us
a speech of welcome, and also
describing his entrance into,
and life at the school. All
was going on well; guests were
pleased with his sturdy, self-
possessed manner, and inter-
ested in his manly words. Sud-
denly poor Edgar, like many
another in similar position,
found that the graceful wind-
Sing-up of his speech had treach-
erously forsaken him. All his
pleasing unconsciousness was
gone, leaving a mild kind of
stage fright. How we sym-
pathized with the poor fellow,
and hung on his forlorn
efforts to recover the cue.
Captain Pratt stood patiently waiting at the side
of the room for the lad to recover himself ; and as
Edgar became at last still and hopeless, like a
stranded thing on the tide of endeavor, there broke
out such a kind, cheery voice, that it touched
every heart.
"Edgar works in
the blacksmith's
shop," the voice
said; "now if he
will go to the
shop, and put on
his working suit,
the Secretary,
Senators and par-
ty will meet him
there to see him
weld an axle in
one heat."
The boy's face
fairly glowed. ii I
Chagrin and
hopeless depres- TOM NAVAJO.
sion forsook him,
and he lifted up his head with restored manliness,
and strode out, again his sturdy little self. I
never saw such a kindly thing more delicately


done, and I know I express the feelings of the
company, when I say, that to us all it was a spon-
taneous proof of the
spirit of Carlisle
School. It is only
proper to add that the
party did respond to
the invitation, Senator
Logan saying after-
ward that he was sure
the boy could do that,
b for he had seen him.
The tin shop gives
work to fourteen ap-
prentices. It is a
most interesting de-
partment. The arti-
cles are strong and
well-made, a n d of
v a varied description.
My tiny coffee-pot will
MANUELITO CHOW. often, as I make the
"fireside cup o' coffee
for two," take us back to the day at Carlisle, and
brighten the evening talk in the firelight.
Last year, from the tin shop, were sent out over
fifteen thousand articles, also seven tons of stove-
pipe; all despatched to the agencies for the use of
the Indians. No finer buckets, coffee-boilers
and pans, I presume, are made than those turned
out by some of the Indian boys.
The carpenter shop has twelve apprentices,
and has charge of the general repairs and con-
struction of new buildings at the school. Under
supervision of the carpenter, the large hospital
building was built by Indian boys.
The hospital and care of the sick is under the
charge of Doctor O. G. Given, of Washington,
Iowa, an intelligent, Christian man, with genial,
large-hearted benevolence expressed in every fea-
ture. When pupils are taken sick, they are at
once separated from their fellows and placed in
the hospital.
The shoe shop is constantly kept busy in manu-
facturing and repairing boots and shoes for the
four hundred and thirty-three pupils of the school.
The harness shop turns out a very large propor-
tion of the harness required by the Indian depart-
ment for the use of agencies and Indians.
The sewing department was a most interesting

feature, particularly to us matrons, who walked
around among the girls, inspecting the neatly
mended clothing, and the piles of new garments.
All of the girls' clothing, and the boys' underwear,
are manufactured mostly by the Indian girls, under
the instruction of Mrs. Worthington.
The laundry, with its methodical appliances and
nice arrangement, also detained us some time, to
examine closely the various sorts of work executed
by the strong, tidy Indian girls, who take hold of
this kind of work with an alacrity that shows
they are waking up to the truth of the statement,
"Cleanliness is next to godliness."
Each mechanical branch is under the super-


intendence of a practical workman; the instruc-
tion, therefore, is not at all vague, and merely
theoretical, but thoroughly practical in every detail.
Carlisle School has also a fine farm of one hun-
dred and fifty-seven acres, worked by the Dupils


under the training of Mr. Amos Miller, an experi-
enced farmer. The crops raised here compare

gle to get the best of the English language. But
not even one of the letters may be crowded in,
for magazine limits must be banded with the stern
fiat of necessity, and this article already is swell-
ing toward its uttermost bound.
The exercise, drilling and mental discipline of
the various school departments afforded us intense
pleasure. Particularly as we noticed a marked
absence of that disagreeable feature of most school
exhibitions the "show system." It was not
with any desire to parade knowledge that pupils
exhibited on the platform and before the black-
board what they knew. It was the conscientious
wish to show their methods of study; to display
to the guests the workings of the different minds
to be disciplined. Often impromptu questions and


favorably with those of the best neighboring farms.
About one half of the pupils are placed out dur-
ing the summer vacation in the families of farmers,
where they learn, by practical experience, the details
of agriculture and civilized life. This feature of
the school life has been productive of the best
I wish that space would allow me to quote from
the,letters in the Morning Star, the paper pub-
lished by the Indian boys at Carlisle. These letters
are written by pupils living in different families
through the long summer vacation, that they may
learn to put their knowledge in domestic and farm
matters to the proof, while they are in positions to
acquire, through association with practical teach-
ers, many valuable additions to their store of
knowledge. They are graphic, ambitious, and of
excellent spirit, often funny, from the marked
individuality of the writer, and the violent strug-


diversions to the train of reasoning would be pre-
sented to the pupil, to disclose the trend of his or


her mind, and to ascertain if the knowledge were
real or only superficial. The first thing with these
teachers seemed to be to make the pupil grasp the
idea, and work at it until it was understood. In
all cases this appeared to be thoroughly striven
for before the second step should be taken. I
attribute to this sensible, conscientious care, the
well-grounding in the rudiments of knowledge that
the Carlisle children are receiving. And the Insti-
tution is to be congratulated in the possession of
such a competent, painstaking and devoted instruc-
tor as Miss Carrie M. Semple. She was educated
at the Western Female College, Cincinnati; for
years connected with the work of instructing the
Freedmen of the South at Fiske University, also
superintendent of the public schools at St. Augus-
tine, Florida.
I wish I could give space to mention individu-
ally the different teachers of this department of
the school life -the intellectual training. I en-
joyed conversation with many of them, and caught
never-to-be-forgotten glimpses of their devotion and
adaptation to the cause. But the length of list
There are at present at Carlisle School four
hundred and thirty-three pupils, one hundred and
sixty of whom are girls, representing thirty-six
We will glance at some of these pupils in their
native dress. Here is White Buffalo, a youth of
eighteen years of age, with naturally gray hair,
Tom Navajo, Iron, Northern Arapahoe, and Man-
uelito Chow, son of the former great chief of the
Navajos, Manuelito.
The group of boys given represents six Osage
Indians. All of them have good, clear faces, while
the little fellow down in lower left corner might be
"our boy" in some cultivated home-circle, as far
as bright, lovable appearance goes.
Susie is the sole representative of her tribe, the
Delawares or Leni, who were parties to the cele-
brated treaty with William Penn. They have
been bought out, fought out, and driven out, from
one point to another as the Anglo-Saxon forced
his way across the country, until at present there
remains a mere handful in the southern part of
the Indian Territory. Susie is an exceptionally
bright child, with a sweet voice, and is a member
of the school choir. The doll (which certainly
seems possessed with ambition to be a model of

deportment) was a gift through that good friend to
the school, Miss Susan Longstreth, of Philadel-
Some two weeks after my return to Boston, I
was very much touched by the reception of a pack-
age of sketches which some of the Carlisle pupils
had executed for me. Out of a generous number,
I am compelled to select but three. So I give
Otto Zotom's idea of a battle with United States
troops. Otto, of course, had his patriotic duty to
his own tribe to perform, yet he is very generous


: -
,- "


to his white brethren. The hills seem to trouble
him somewhat, his rules on perspective not being
so thoroughly acquired during his few months' so-
journ at the school as to be wholly at his com-
mand. Yet he gets over it very well, and shows an
original dash and force, born of his extremity.
It is a singular fact that the Indian children un-
der education and the influence of family life are
very averse to fighting. In their reaching after
civilization, there is a recoil from the revenge,
brutality and love of conquest attendant upon war.
In their letters, in their talk, in their spirit, more


than all, is exhibited a desire to live and learn in
peace with all. Their thirst is for knowledge.


This Otto Zotom, a
young Kiowa, is a very
bright, promising boy.
He was sent to Carlisle
by his brother, now a
deacon in the Episcopal
Church, and a missionary
in the Indian country,
but formerly a prisoner
under the care of Captain
Pratt, at Fort Marion "
(San Marco), Florida.
A study of horses, by
Otto, is interesting as
showing the development of ideas as regards pose
and proportions of equine anatomy, as they arise
naturally to the self-tutored mind of an Indian
boy, while his portrayal of an engagement with
a buffalo enlists our sympathies for the poor King
of the Plains." Otto in his extreme generosity
wishes every one engaged in the encounter to en-
joy a shot that tells; so that the glory of the whole
thing is most satisfying. The young artist has a
true love for his pencil, and such a painstaking in-
dustry that the world may yet hear from the
Indian boy at Carlisle. All success to him-
young Otto Zotom !
In closing this meagre account of Carlisle School
and its workings, so different from what I long to
give, I can only express the earnest wish that
every reader of this volume could visit and

see the institution for themselves. If ever your
wanderings call you in the vicinity of the quiet
town, grasp the opportunity, I beg of you. You
will never regret it. You may be sure of a cordial
welcome, a capital chance to inspect and criticise,
and you will come away enlightened on many
points. Such visits are worth hundreds of maga-
zine articles and countless letters from enthusiastic
friends. Seeing is believing," now as it has ever
I am glad to announce that the Fair under the
auspices of Mrs. J. Huntington Wolcott and her
corps of young ladies in Boston has netted for
Carlisle the grand sum of two thousand dollars.
On the strength of it, Captain Pratt writes me that
he expects to undertake the care of five boys and
five girls from the Pueblo village of Isleta, N. M.
Think of it! Ten chil-
dren rescued by these
noble, womanly efforts,
from savage degradation
to grow up into good
How many other fairs
can be held? If we can-
not raise two thousand
dollars to educate ten, we
may gather in two hun-
dred dollars; and who
can estimate the influence
S of one Indan child at

Carlisle ? The hearts of his tribe go with him, and
are awakened to gratitude, and the cementing of


friendly ties with our Government. Wars will be
avoided; peace and good-will toward those who
recognize in their children faculties capable of
cultivation toward the best and truest things, will
be the inevitable result.

if, -
--... ..

.<-:- el.; 3;;:**,-f '. a-K
fi^^ "i*^ ';'"*^


E A BAFF." 6

The years speed us on, taking many opportunities
for good in their relentless grasp. Shall we resign
this idly ?-the effort to aid in the bringing up of
the Indian children and youth toward the light a
loving Creator designed for all?



..T T" the brook in the green meadow dancing,
-" :' I. The tree-shaded, grass-bordered brook,
-'- '^ ^ i2 For a bath in its cool, limpid water,
-*-.'.'-- : Old Dinah the baby boy took.

She drew off his cunning wee stockings,
._ ..Unbuttoned each dainty pink shoe,
Untied the white slip and small apron,
-- And loosened the petticoats, too.

And while Master Blue Eyes undressing,
She told him in quaintest of words
Of the showers that came to the flowers,
Of the rills that were baths for the birds.

And she said, "Dis yere sweetest of babies,
W'en he's washed, jess as hansum '11 be
As any red, yaller or blue bird
Dat ebber singed up in a tree.

S "An' sweeter den rosies an' lilies,
S' Or wiolets eder, I guess-"
'.' ,1,'." When away flew the mischievous darling,
In the scantiest kind of a dress.
o "Don't care if the birdies an' flowers "
..' He shouted, with clear, ringing laugh,
S"Wash 'eir hands an' 'eir faces forebber
P. An' ebber, me won't take a baff."



BY H. H.

I HAVE a friend whose reply generally is, when
you ask him to do a thing: "Oh, yes, that can
be done any time."
He is not in the least unwilling to do things. He
is not obstinate about admitting that the things ought
to be done, but his first instinctive impulse in regard
to almost everything in life is to put it off a little.
If you remonstrate with him, he has a most exas-
perating proverb on his tongue's end, and he is
never tired of quoting it: "There is luck in leisure."
Do what you will, you can't make him see that this
proverb is aimed at people who hurry unwisely; not
in the least at people who are simply prompt. As if
headlong haste and quiet, energetic promptitude were
in the least like each other.
We call Mr. Any-Time the Spaniard, because it is
well known that the Spaniard's rule of life is, Never
do to-day that which can be put off till to-morrow."
Even into the form of a historical proverb, the record
of this national trait of the Spanish people had crys-
tallized many years ago. Even the Spanish people
themselves say sarcastically, "Succors of Spain: late
or never."
But says Mr. Any-Time, What is the use of being
in such a hurry? Oh, do be quiet, can't you Let's
take a little comfort;" and then he settles back in
his chair and looks at you with such a twinkle in his
eyes that you half forgive him for his laziness. That
is one thing to be said for lazy people. They are al-
most always good-natured.
Then we preach a little sermon to him, and the
sermon has four heads; four good reasons why we
ought to do things promptly.
Firstly, we say to him, "How dost thou know, 0
lazy Spaniard, that thou canst do this thing at any
other time than the present? Many things may pre-
vent sickness, thine own or thy friends'- business,
forgetfulness, weather, climate; there is no counting
up all the things which happen, and which hinder our
doing the things we have planned to do, but have put
off doing."
Secondly, "There is another truth, 0 lazy Mr.
Any-Time, each day, each hour, each minute, has its

own thing to be done its own duty. If one single
thing is put off, that thing will have to be crowded
into the day, or the hour, or the minute which be-
longed to something else; and then neither thing will
be well done.
Thirdly, "If it can be done now; that alone is
reason enough for doing it now; that alone is
enough to prove that now is the natural time,
the proper time for it. Everything has its own natu-
ral time to be done, just as flowers have their natural
time to blossom, and fruits have their natural time to
ripe and fall.
Just suppose for a minute that such things should
get into the way of saying, Any time!" That the
grains should say, Oh, we can get ripe any day,"
and should go on, putting it off and putting it off all
through July and August, and September, and Ooto-
ber; for when people once begin to put off, there
is no knowing what will stop them -until, all of a
sudden, some day a sharp frost should come and
kill every grass-blade throughout the country. What
would we do for hay, then, I wonder! Why, half
the poor horses and cows would starve, and all because
the lazy grains said they could get ripe any time."
Suppose strawberries or apples should take it into
their heads to say the same thing. Wouldn't we get
out of patience going, day after day, looking for some
ripe enough to eat ? And wouldn't the summer be
gone before they knew it ? and all the time be wasted
that the vines and the trees had spent putting out
their leaves and blossoms, which had not come to
fruit ? And wouldn't the whole world and every-
body's plan of living be thrown into confusion if
such things were to happen ?
Luckily no such thing is possible in this orderly
earth, which God has made with a fixed time for
everything; even for the blossoming of the tiniest little
flower, and for the ripening of the smallest berry that
was ever seen. Nobody ever heard the words "any
time" from anything in this world except human
Fourthly, we say to our dear Spaniard, "Things
which are put off are very likely never to be done at


all. The chances are that they will be at last for-
gotten, overlooked, crowded out.
"Any time is no time; just as "anybody's work"
is nobody's work, and never gets attended to, or if it
is done at all, isn't half done.
And after we have preached through our little ser-
mon with its four heads, then we sum it all up, and
add that the best of all reasons for never saying a
thing can be done any time" is that, besides being
a shiftless and lazy phrase, it is a disgraceful one.
It is the badge of a thief; the name and badge of the
worst thief that there is in the world; a thief that
never has been caught yet, and never will be; a thief
that is older than the Wandering Jew, and has been
robbing everybody ever since the world began; a
thief that scorns to steal money or goods which
money could buy; a thief that steals only one thing,
but that the most precious thing that was ever made.
It is the custom to have photographs taken of all
the notorious thiefs that are caught; these photographs
are kept in books at the headquarters of the police,
in the great cities, and when any suspicious character
is arrested the police officers look in this book to
see if his face is among the photographs there. Many
a thief has been caught in this way when he supposed
that he was safe.

Now most of you have had a sort of photograph
of this dangerous and dreadful thief I have been
describing. But you will never guess till I tell you
where it is. It is in your writing-book, under the
letter P.
You had to write out the description of him so
many times that you all know it by heart.
Procrastination is the thief of time." When you
wrote that sentence over and over, you did not think
very much about it, did you ? When we are young it
always seems to us as if there were so much time in
the world, it couldn't be a very great matter if a thief
did steal some of it. But I wish I could find any
words strong enough to make you believe that long
before you are old you will feel quite differently. You
will see that there isn't going to be half time enough
to do what you want to do; not half time enough to
learn what you want to learn; to see what you
want to see. No, not if you live to be a hundred,
not half time enough; most of all, not half time
enough to love all the dear people you love. Long
before you are old, you will feel this; and then, if
you are wise, you will come to have so great a hatred
of this master thief that you will never use or, if
you can help it, let anybody you know use, that
favorite by-word of his, "any time,"







S there not a fascination about that word
camp ?" The very mention of it is enough
to set one wild to be off somewhere. It suggests
the freedom of all out-of-doors, which so many of
us grown folks, and all children who have the real
child nature, so often long for and delight in.
To go, as Charles Kingsley says, and "be a
savage for a while! To go as the trappers and
hunters go, only there should be no traps and no
guns among our belongings! To do as the explor-
ers and surveyors and naturalists do; sleep o'nights
out under the sky, and
live on food not cooked
over civilized fires, or *
according to the rou-
tine in civilized homes
under roofs in houses
over kitchen stoves I
Would not it be rapture
now and then to try the
way of Daniel Boone
and of Frdmont among
the Rocky Mountains,
of Wilson, the ornith-
ologist, and Audubon l-
and his wife? Or the
modern pastoral life of
the young men who
tend the cattle and
sheep on the mountain
pastures of Montana and the Texan
plains? I cannot remember the time
when I did not envy the boys who used
to go off sugaring to a certain camp
under the maples a mile and a half off
oh the hill. It was a privilege exclus-
ively belonging to boys; and it always appeared as
if boots had something to do with it- those stiff,
tall, thick-soled boots of theirs which came about
up to their knees, made to order by the shoemaker,
out of calf-skin or cow-hide, and by him warranted
water-tight, provided they were kept well greased,
which matter was faithfully attended to by the

wearers, who used semi-weekly to smear them with
melted tallow and rub it in till the leather would
shed water like a duck's back. What advantages
in wearing such boots! Boys could go through
the slush and slumping drifts; but the travelling
was too bad for girls. Boys could go across lots
and climb over walls, and wade. "Besides," it
was no place for girls--they could eat maple
sugar at home. "Besides," it was too far. "Be-
sides," they would get "all tanned up." "Be-
sides," the boys were going to stay all night. That
ended it. Now, as for staying
all night, why that was the thing
we greatly desired to do. Oh,
just to sit in the fire-lit camp and
S see the shadows come and go,
Sand the blaze waver and fail and

then roll up in a great wave of brightness; and to
know that we were off in the night; to forget every-
thing we were used to, and live in the new strange
world; and look off and see the phantoms of trees,
and the cold, glistening, frosty mist down in the val-
ley, and the solemn mountains standing back against
the sky; to hear the voices of the night, not like

I -r


summer ones, for katy-did and grasshopper and
cricket were all gone to the Land of Light, if there
is one for insects, or were swathed in their shrouds,
or hidden away, or had returned to the dust from
which they came; but there were birds, and pen-
sive small voices
would come out of
the dark, a startled
squirrel would rustle
the dead leaves, and
rabbits are known
to walk abroad be-
tween midnight and
: I cock-crowing; the
river rumbled like
SIdistant thunder
away off somewhere
where echo pro-
longed the sound;
brooks under the
crust tinkled and
gurgled, and whiles,
THE SAP-BUCKETS. as the Scotch say,
the ice would crack.
Voices of the night, lonesome and mystic-the
air was full of them to one who had ears to hear.
We imagined it all, like Annie Keary, who begun
her stories with Let us suppose," and how, before
it was dark we would gather dry sticks and cones
and the kind of fallen pine-boughs that will snap
when you step on them-and then the people who
owned the camp would let us tend the fire, and it
would roar and send out sparks- and no doubt
smoke some, right into our eyes, and drop white
ashes on us, and burn our faces and holes in our
garments. Perhaps, too, they would let us have a
kettle or an old dinner-pot of our own -unques-
tionably they could hunt one out from some of
those dark corners overhead where there were
boards laid across for a storage place; and we
would have some partly boiled syrup put in, and
it would come to candy-'flavored a little bit with
smoke and the burning on, and mixed a little with
hemlock leaflets and the crumbling relics of
scorched pine needles.
We should probably find out all about sugar-
making, too, about maple-trees, and wood-craft;
and we would make our host tell us stories, Indian
stories just scary enough to thrill us and make us
afraid to look behind us if a stick crackled outside,

and about the early settlers, and then those neigh-
borhood stories which the shrewd country people
can tell so well, real character delineations full of
genuine human nature about some odd geniuses
such as Mrs. Stowe delights to "write up."
That struck us as a charming idea of sugar camp
life. We ought to have been born back three or
four generations ago, when the sugar-makers did
things in a way more primitive, as the Indians
taught them; for it was from the Indians that our
ancestors learned to tap the maple-trees in spring
and boil the sap down. There were not such
limitations to the knowledge of the red men as
many persons think. It is doubtful if there was
much concerning the qualities of trees and plants
that they did not know. To be sure they had
plenty of time, the forest all around them, and
nothing else to do except fight.
Very soon after the Pilgrims landed, some of
Massassoit's people entertained the white strangers
with sweet bread," made of Indian corn, perhaps
first parched, and then ground whether the sweet-
ness was that of corn meal alone, or from some other
source, we are left to conjecture. Lately we have
been told by a popular author that the Indians
used to cook little doughnuts of meal by drop-
ping them into maple syrup," which is a hint for
modern cooks to work out to more esthetic results.
The aborigines had no iron utensils, so they used.
earthen pots of a rude shape, which they set over
the fire, and boiled the sap out in the open air.
For collecting it theyhad wooden troughs, fash-
ioned from a log by being burnt out or gouged
out with a hard shell. Other wooden vessels were
hollowed in the same way; and they had, besides
these, pails, or buckets, made from great sheets
of birch bark.
It is to be hoped that the Indians who were
friendly, taught the newcomers the secret of the
maple-trees very soon; for in that olden time
when broths and bean-porridge and messes con-
coted from pumpkins made so much of the fare,
when there was no coffee used, and tea only as the
rarest luxury, what a treat it must have been to
have had maple syrup! A writer who knows,
says that "the sap of all the New England maples
and birches, and lindens, and hickories, and wal-
nuts, is watery and sweet and contains crystal-
lized sugar." It seems also that under modern
improvements there can be sugar made from


eight different kinds of common field corn; but
they did not know that it could be extracted from
even the one kind they raised in the clearings, and
they could not have spared the corn if they had
They made the most, however, of what they
had. About ten years after the Pilgrims came,
somebody composed what was called a Forefath-
er's Song;" wretched rhymes, telling of wretched
fare, but supposed to show us how they lived:

Instead of pottage and puddings and custards and pies,
Our pumpkins and parsnips are common supplies;
We have pumpkins at morning and pumpkins at noon,
If it was not for pumpkins we should be undone.

l tlf 1 -,


If barley be wanting to make into malt,
We must be contented and think it no fault;
For we can make liquor to sweeten our lips
From pumpkins and parsnips and walnut-tree chips.

Then'four lines are wanting, which I will trust
and hope were about something more toothsome
than parsnips and pumpkins, namely, maple syrup
-for next these two lines come in:

Now, while some are going, let others be coming,
For while liquor's a-boiling, it must have a-scumming.

Which is what the syrup needs.
Poor rhymes; and poor forefathers and fore-
mothers, if they had no better food!
The settlers tapped the trees in a way that was
no better than murder to those magnificent sugar
maples of the primeval forest. The process was
called "boxing;" that is, cutting a deep gash to
let the sap run out. A piece of sumach with a
hole bored through the pith was the spout. The
troughs to receive the sap were like a pig's trough.
The trunk of a white ash was sawed into proper
lengths, and then split in halves, and then dug out
with a gouge or a chisel, driven in by hand beetles.
An expert woodman, as an old historian says, could
make thirty or forty of these in a day. Big troughs
out of mammoth logs were hewn out for reservoirs
into which to empty the contents of the small ones.
The men and boys went around with pails attached
to a sap-yoke over their shoulders, to collect the sap.
If the snow was deep they wore rackets," or snow-
shoes, such as we see preserved as relics in muse-
ums, a sort of kite-shaped frame woven across
with leather thongs or basket stuff.
The sap was boiled out-of-doors right in the
"sugar bush"' as they called it. Two crotched
sticks were driven into the ground, perhaps eight
feet apart, and a strong pole known as the
"lug-pole," was laid across them, a big side log
placed against each stick on the inside, and be-
tween these the fire was built, usually of fallen
limbs, and green ones which were gathered
from the forest around. Great potash kettles
were used, or smaller ones when those were not
to be had; and when the sap was nearly thick-
ened to syrup a piece of fat pork, or even tallow,
was put in to keep it from boiling over. At the
last it was strained through a flannel sieve and
hung up in bags to drain. The women, and chil-
dren who were old enough, helped, working with
handkerchiefs tied over their heads; and altogether
it was a wild and picturesque scene.
Sometimes the pleasant sugar-making season had
a sudden tragic ending when Indians swooped


'down on the little frontier settlements, as hap-
pened once in the neighborhood of one called
"Number 4." A certain good Deacon Adams
started on a bright frosty April morning to make
sugar on a hill a mile from the cluster of cabins. It

Swas in the time of
I ^ "- the old French
Vi War when French
and Indians
^' ^ joined together
against the Eng-
lish; and a party
of them came down from Canada to this nook in
the wilderness. The unsuspecting man, as he was
trudging up the hill, was surrounded by seventy of
them and tied to a tree while they went off and
seized the next man they met, and the miller whose
mills they burned; then with those captives and
two hunters whom they took as they went along,
set off for Canada. It was the hapless deacon's
last sugaring, for though he was afterwards ex-
changed, he died on the way home.
There is a pathetic story in the old records of a
child lost from the sugar bush who never came
back and was never heard of after. The father
had a boiling place," at some distance from his
cabin, and his little boys, one six years old and


the other four, were fond of spending the day out.
there with him. Young as they were they could be
trusted, for those children living in the wilderness
were shrewd and sharp-witted, used to hardship
and on the lookout for danger; and, one day
when he was obliged to go to the cabin for
something, he felt safe in charging them to
stay by the fire till he came back. But the
elder one, happening to find a favorite spoon
which had been lost there, was so overjoyed
that.he set out at once to follow his father,
saying to the little one, I will go up to the
house and show the spoon to father," and
from that moment was never seen again,
though all the settlers for miles around
turned out and searched the wilderness day
and night, day and night as long as there was
a possibility of finding him.
A hundred years ago there was a growth of
grand rock maples in this part of New England,
and some of the farmers at the foot of the moun-
tain (Kearsarge) used to go up on snowshoes,
with kettles and tools on their backs, and
stay and tap the trees and make sugar. That
was camp life indeed. There were bears and
foxes in the woods and dens of the rocks,
and the solitude was awful. Far up the
lonely mountain side, with miles of wilderness
between them and the little hamlets they had left,
whose lights they could see twinkle and then go
out as they sat under the roof of pine boughs and
watched the kettles through the night; but the
sugar-making came at a season too early for any
other work, and in those hard times boughtenn "
sugar was dear and hard to get. There were trees
there then that were three feet through.
The rock maple is the beautiful tree of the
rugged New Hampshire hills, the natural growth
of rocky soil, as much as the firs and tiny white
birches upon the mountain tops, the pine on the
sandy lands, the elms on the meadows, the wil-
lows by the water. It will live two hundred years;
and it is such a wonderful thing for seeding itself
that we should find ourselves surrounded by a
wilderness in a few years if all the little maples
were let live.
Somebody fond of gathering statistics says that
in some of the little hill towns before trees were
cut down so, many families used to make half a
ton of sugar; Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont,


Western Massachusetts, Ohio and Michigan, seem
to be the favored regions, and there ought to be
rock maples enough there to supply all their peo-
ple with sugar. There would be if all farmers did
as well proportionately as some who manufactured
in one season six thousand pounds of stirred
sugar" from seventeen hundred trees, and all
this besides the molasses which drained from it.
Some makers refine it to the degree of loaf
sugar till it is as white and crystal-like as a crust
of snow. One man who described his way, said,
as they all do, that the first thing was to have
every bucket and spout and "carrier" and pan
and kettle as sweet and clean as could be. They
think it well to have covers to the sap-buckets, so
that no leaves or anything shall fall in. They boil
as soon as they can after the sap comes from the
trees, keep the boiling sap well skimmed and
clarify it with the whites of eggs or new milk

It was news to us that sap things never rust.
When the season is over, all the buckets are
scalded with water, then rinsed with sap, dried,
and put away in the sap-house; the same is done
by the iron pans used for boiling; they receive a
final washing with the sweet fluid and come out
fresh and clean the following spring. The buckets
are of pine, though people are beginning to use
tin ones holding ten and eighteen quarts, and
there is also a tin spout with a hook instead of the
wooden one.
But that immaculate whiteness is of no special
consequence unless one wishes to take a premium
at a State Fair. We can all be satisfied with the
" wax" that delicious stage when we begin to
try the hot liquid on a piece of snow crust, and
keep tasting and trying, and trying and tasting
till we pronounce it perfect; sweetness and flavor
can no farther go; the aroma of the woods con-


stirred in; this makes a curd and all the impuri-
ties of the syrup rise with it. The whiteness is
obtained by repeating the process of stirring and

It is stir, stir, and strain, strain,
Let it settle, and do it again.

densed in substance transparent as amber. When
it is ready to "sugar off," one man says the test is
to let fall a little from the point of a knife into
cold water; if done, it will settle at the bottom in
a round flat drop."
Did you know that they sometimes feed bees with
maple syrup before the flowers come ? Think of it I


Honey evolved from maple sugar by the mystic bee
agency What estheticism, what refinement, what
luxury! And do not the bees and other insects
sip at the sap bucket? The average boy does;
and the old inhabitants make sap coffee and
"sap beer." You have noticed' how the shade
trees all along a village street will suddenly, on a
bright March morning, appear decorated with tin
kettles at the end of pine spouts; and the tinkle,
tinkle of little rivulets is heard as the generous
trees yield their stored-up sweetness. It was not

complimentary to the children of a certain place
that last year all the trees had the spouts inserted
and the pails and kettles hanging at height which
could only be reached by a ladder, and the ladder
was not there.
Maple sugar time has no definite limits. Some-
times it begins in February, sometimes in March,
or not till April when the run" is a very short
one. There is a mystery about the agencies which
make the sap start. The wood-pecker who probes
the bark may listen at the hole he has made and
hear something about it; the woodchuck burrowed
at the roots may be conscious when there is a stir

within there; if there are dryads living in the trees
and gnomes under them, they are sure to know.
But the wisest woodsman cannot answer some of
your questions. He will tell you that sap is
sweeter from a tree which stands by itself; that it is
thinner near surface water, and darker as you bore
farther in; but why it is more abundant some years
than others, and just how climatic changes affect
the flow, or the time, or flavor, he cannot say.
The genuine sugar camp of old, without a roof
over your head, the fire fed by sticks gathered up,

a piece of fat pork hung above the kettle to keep
it from boiling over, and all the gypsyish sort of
life, has quite gone by, or pretty nearly.
You will find many a sugar place such as we
did on that misty twilight of last April, when the
travelling was neither wheeling nor sleighing; and
the horses worrying through drifts that came to the
wheel-hubs and then plunging into soft mud -that
is the. kind in sugar-time -took us in safety at
last to the door of a rambling farmhouse. The
sugar orchard covered the side hill away beyond.
To reach it we floundered and slipped and slumped
along the winding country road till we came where


the bars had been taken down and the worn path
showed that an ox team had passed that way many
times. It was the thing to do to follow it, now up,
now down, over hummocks and bowlders and dip-
ping into the snowy hollows, till we were within
the sylvan precincts, inhaling the woodsy smells,
and the odor of green things down in the root.
The sugar house was as cosey as Thoreau's hut
at Walden; a regular hut in the woods, with its
two windows looking into the trees, a little lean-to
for the firewood, and the door where one could
sit and see the sights and hear the voices I had
dreamed about as children dream. The rugged
tree boles showed gray as far as the eye could
reach, and the phantom look of leafless boughs
was overhead; the hills, the far valley, the moun-
tains, were all the same with a difference; snow-
banks, wet hollows, lush moss and partridge ber-
ries; it was in the woods, and of the woods; rural,
far-off, fascinating.
Just then the foreground was occupied by the
ox-sled, still holding, bound to it by chains, the
barrel which had been drawn about under the

trees to receive the sap from the buckets which
now hung by their leather loops empty and silent,
for the sap was not running.
The interior was a place for a boy to read Rob-
inson Crusoe in, or the old tales of Homer, while
he waited and watched, and sat up all night to
tend the fire, or to get one's first taste of the
Midsummer Night's Dream; a place to tell stories
in with one's comrades, or play fox-and-geese on
the rude board that hung on the wall, or to solve
problems and guess riddles, and get a firelight
education of a kind not set down in school books,
all sorts, odds and ends of wholesome learning,
with a good deal of nonsense of the right kind.
There is not a little of the work-a-day about the
experience of the sugar-makers out under the
maples, but a poetic and picnic side, too, that one
cannot afford to miss. And I mean to hold stoutly
by my statement in the beginning; and say that
that lone sugar house with its sylvan outlook and
its primitive inlook with its various properties,
and all we were made welcome to and free of, is
a delightful place to go to.



C OME, come, come, little Tiny,
Come, little doggie! We
Will interview" all the blossoms
Down-dropt from the apple-tree ;
We'll hie to the grove and question
Fresh grasses under the swing,
And learn if we can, dear Tiny,
Just what is the joy called Spring.

Come, come, come, little Tiny;
Golden it is, I know:
Gold is the air around us,
The crocus is gold below;
Red as the golden sunset
Is robin's breast, on the wing-
But, come, come, come, little Tiny,
This isn't the half of Spring.

Spring's more than beautiful, Tiny;
Fragrant it is-for, see,
We catch the breath of the violets
However hidden they be;
And buds o'erhead in the greenwood
The sweetest of spices fling-
Yet color and sweets together
Are still but a part of Spring.

Then come, come, come, little Tiny,
Let's hear what you have to tell
Learned of the years you've scampered
Over the hiil and dell-
What Only a bark for answer?
Now, Tiny, that isn't the thing
Will help unravel the riddle
Of wonderful, wonderful Spring.


Yes, Tiny, there's something better
Than form and scent and hue,
In the grass with its emerald glory;
In the air's cerulean blue;
In the glow of the sweet arbutus;
In the daisy's perfect mould:-
All these are delightful, Tiny,
But the secret's still untold.

Oh, Tiny, you'll never know it-
For the mystery lies in this:
Just the fact of such warm uprising
From winter's chill abyss,
And the joy of our heart's upspringing
Whenever the Spring is born,
Because it repeats the story
Of the blessed Easter-mom I




SOFTLY sweeps the April storm,
Floods of rain and breezes warm.
Drowsy flowers at last are waking,

Through the dark. earth gently breaking;
Though they have not blossomed yet,
Here to seek them through the wet
Merrily comes Margaret.

Nothing recks she of the flood,
Nothing finds she, flower or bud,
But she seems herself a flower'
In the tumult of the shower;
While across the field she trips,
O'er bright eyes and ruddy lips
Fast the sparkling water slips.

Gay and daring little witch!
How the color, deep and rich,
Mantles in her cheek's sweet curve I
Mark the pretty mouth's reserve:
Ah, but smiles are hidden there!
Like a torch her golden hair
Flares above her forehead fair.

Slender shape of pliant grace
Crowned with such a charming face ,
Not a single flower is out,
But that's naught to mourn about;
She the loveliest blossom is,
All a-bloom with light and bliss,
For the sun and rain to kiss.


(Anecrdol of Victor Emtmanzuel, King of Italy.)


THEY met in the heat of a Southern sun.
And how did they look? Oh, I fancy one
Was a picturesque peasant, such as you may
See in a lover's part, at the play.

So the beautiful youth went home that night
With his black eyes blacker yet from the fight.
" Now," the genial gentleman said it is mine -
And (this to himself) "by the right divine."


This hunter was nothing at all, you see,
'And the other was -everything But he
Was none too handsome, let us suppose,
Although his face out-reddened the rose.

These two Italians met, as I said,
In a lonesome place where a hare lay dead.
"It is mine I shot it," one stormily cried;
"It is mine I shot it," the other replied.

At morning a carriage was sent to bring
The wondering peasant before the king.
" Do you know me, sir? I'd the honor to fight
With your Majesty, as I fear, last night."

"And Isaw by the shot, when the hare was dressed,
That it was not mine forgive me the rest:
There's enough for us both and it was not mine;
Come in, I beg you, with me and dine."




A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Al-
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth
of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him while his life-blood
ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might
The dying soldier faltered, and he took that com-
rade's hand,
And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my
native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends
of mine,
For I was born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions when they meet
and crowd around
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day
was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the set-
ting sun;
And, 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old
in wars,
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of
many scars;
And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's
morn decline,
And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort
her old age;
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles
fierce and wild;

And when he died and left us to divide his scanty
I let them take whatever they would, but I kept my
father's sword;
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light
used to shine
On the cottage wall at Bingen, calm Bingen on the

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with
drooping head
When the troops come marching home again with
glad and gallant tread,
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and
steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,
And to hang the old sword in his place, my father's
sword and mine;
For the honor of old Bingen, dear Bingen on the

"There's another, not a sister, in the happy days
gone by
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled
in her eye;
Too innocent for coquetry, to fond for idle scorning,
O, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes
heaviest mourning.
Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon
be risen
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of
prison ),
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun-
light shine,
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, fair Bingen on the

-V.~l A



... ..~


" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, I heard, or
seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet
and clear;
And down the pleasant river and up the slanting hill,
'The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening
calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed,
with friendly tV1k
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remem-
bered walk,
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly, in mine,
-But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on
the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp
was childish weak,
His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed, and ceased
to speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life
had fled--
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead;
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she
looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field with bloody corses
Yet calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light
seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine.
From Mrs. Norton's Poems.



'fAKE, Otanes, wake,
the Magi are sing-
7iing the morning hymn
to Mithras. Quick, or
we shall be late at the
exercises, and father
promised,if we did well,
we should go to the

"And perhaps shoot a lion.

chase with him to-day."
What a feather in our

-caps that would be Is it pleasant ? "
Smerdis pulled open the shutters that closed the
-windows, and the first rays of the sun sparkled on
the trees and fountains of a beautiful garden beyond
whose lofty walls appeared the dwellings and towers
.of a mighty city. Already the low roar of its traffic
reached them while hurrying on their clothes to join
their companions in the spacious grounds where they
were trained in wrestling, throwing blocks of wood at
,each other to acquire agility in dodging the missiles,
the skilful use of the bow, and various other exercises
for the development of bodily strength and grace.
A few minutes later the two brothers, Smerdis and
Otanes, with scores of other lads, ranging in age from
seven to fourteen years, were assembled in a vast
playground, surrounded on all sides by a lofty wall.

The playground of a large boarding-school ?
It almost might be called so, but the pupils of this
boarding-school were educated free of expense to
their parents, and it received only the sons of the high-
est nobles in the land. This playground was attached
to the palace of Darius, King of Persia, who reigned
twenty-four hundred years ago, and these chosen boys
had been taken from their homes, as they reached the
age of six years, to be reared at his gate," as the
language of the country expressed it.
Otanes and Smerdis were sons of one of the highest
officers of the court, the "ear of the king," or, as he
would now be called, the Minister of Police. Hand-
some little fellows of eleven and twelve, with blue
eyes, fair complexions, and curling yellow locks, their
long training in all sorts of physical exercises had
made them stronger and hardier than most lads of
their age in our time. Though reared in a palace, at
one of the most splendid courts the world has ever
seen, the boys were expected to endure the hardships
of the poorest laborer's children. Instead of the gold
and silver bedsteads used by the nobles, they were
obliged to sleep on the floor; if the court was at
Babylon, they were forced to make long marches under
the burning sun of Asia, and if, to escape the intense
heat, the king removed to his summer palaces at


Ecbatana and Pasargadme, situated in the mountain-
ousregions of Persia,where itwas often bitterlycold,
the boys were ordered to bathe in the icy water of the
rivers flowing from the heights. In place of the
dainty dishes and sweetmeats for which Persian cooks
were famous, they were allowed nothing but bread
water, and a little meat; sometimes to accustom them
to hardship they were deprived entirely of food for a
day, or even longer.
On this morning the exercises seemed specially long
to the two brothers, full of anticipations of pleasure;
but finally the last block of wood was hurled, the last

chase, were already mounted, among them the father
of the two lads, who greeted them affectionately as
they respectfully approached and kissed his hand.
Make haste, boys, your horses are ready. Take
only bows and shields--the swords and lances
will be in your way; you must not try to deal with
larger game than you can manage with your arrows."
"May we not carry daggers in our belts too,
father?" cried Otanes eagerly. "They can't be in
our way, and if we should meet a lion "-
A laugh from the group of nobles interrupted him.
"Your son seeks large game, Intaphernes! "exclaimed


arrow shot, the last wrestling match ended, and the
boys, bearing a sealed roll of papyrus, containing a
leave of absence for one day, hurried off towards
Their father's palace stood at no great distance
from the royal residence, on the long, wide street
extending straight to the city gates, and like the houses
of all the Persian nobles, was surrounded by a beau-
tiful walled garden called a paradise, laid out with
flower-beds of roses, poppies, oleanders, ornamental
plants, adorned with fountains, and shaded by lofty
The hunting party was nearly ready to start, and
the courtyard was thronged. Servants rushed to and
fro bearing shields, swords, lances, bows and lassos,
for a hunter was always equipped with bow and.
arrows, two lances, a sword and a shield. Others
held in leash the dogs to be used in starting the game.
The enormous preserves in the neighborhood of
Babylon were well-stocked with animals, including
stags, wild boars, and a few lions. Several noblemen
clad in the plain hunting costume always worn in the

a handsome officer. He must have better weapons
than a bow and dagger, if" -
The rest of the sentence was drowned by the noise
in the courtyard, but as the party rode towards the
gate Intaphernes looked back: Yes, take the dag-
gers, it can do no harm. Keep with Candaules."
The old slave, a gray-haired, but muscular man,
with several other attendants, joined the lads, and
the long train passed out into the street and to-
ward the city gates. Otanes hastily whispered his
brother: Keep close by me, Smerdis; if only we
catch sight of a lion, we'll show what we can do with
bows and arrows.
The sun was now several hours high, and the streets,
lined with tall brick houses, were crowded with people
-artisans, slaves, soldiers, nobles and citizens, the
latter clad in white linen shirts, gay woollen tunics
and short cloaks. Two-wheeled wooden vehicles,
drawn by horses decked with bells and tassels, litters
containing veiled women borne by slaves, and now
and then, the superb gilded carriage, hung with silk
curtains, of some royal princess passed along. Here


and there a heavily laden camel moved slowly by, and
the next instant a soldier of the king's bodyguard
-dashed past in his superb uniform a gold cuirass,
purple surcoat, and high Persian cap, the gold scab-
bard of his sword and the gold apple on his lance-tip
flashing in the sun.
High above the topmost roofs of even the lofty
towers on the walls rose the great sanctuary of the
Magi, the immense Temple of Bel, visible in all
,quarters of the city, and seen for miles from every
part of the flat plain on which Babylon stood. The
huge staircase wound like a serpent round and round
the outside of the building to the highest story, which
contained the sanctuary itself and also the observatory
whence the priests studied the stars.
Otanes and Smerdis, chatting eagerly together, rode
on as fast as the crowd would permit, and soon reached
one of the gates in the huge walls that defended the
*city. These walls, seventy-five feet high, and wide
enough to allow two chariots to drive abreast, were
strengthened by two hundred and fifty towers, except
on one side, where deep marshes extended to their
base. Beyond these marshes lay the hunting-grounds,
and the party, turning to the left, rode for a time over
a smooth highway, between broad tracts of land sown
with wheat, barley and sesame. Slender palm-trees cov-
ered with clusters of golden dates were seen in every
direction, and the sunbeams shimmered on the canals
and ditches which conducted water from the Eu-
phrates to all parts of the fields.
Otanes' horse suddenly shied violently as a rider,
mounted on a fleet steed, and carrying a large pouch,
dashed by like the wind.
One of the Augari bearing letters to the next sta-
tion! exclaimed Smerdis. "See how he skims
along. Hi! If I were not to be one of the king's
bodyguard, I'd try for an Augar's place. How he
goes! He's almost out of sight already."
"How far apart are the stations ?" asked Otanes.
"Eighteen miles. And when he gets there, he'll
just toss the letter bag to the next man, who is sitting
on a fresh horse waiting for it, and away he'll go like
lightning. That's the way the news is carried to the
very end of the empire of our lord the King."
"Must be fine fun," replied Otanes. "But see,
there's the gate of the hunting-park. Now for the
lion," he added gayly.
"May Ormuzd t save you from meeting one, my
The Magi were the Persian priests.
tThe principal god of the Persians.

young master," said the old servant Candaules.
" Luckily it's broad daylight, and they are more apt
to come from their lairs after dark. Better begin
with smaller game and leave the lion and wild boars
to your father."
"Not if we catch sight of them," cried Otanes,
settling his shield more firmly on his arm, and urging
his horse to a quicker pace, for the head of the long
train of attendants had already disappeared amid the
dark cypress-trees of the hunting park. The immense
enclosure stretching from the edge of the morasses
that bordered the walls of Babylon far into the coun-
try, soon echoed with the shouts of the attendants
beating the coverts for game, the baying of the dogs,
the hiss of lances and whir of arrows. Bright-hued
birds, roused by the tumult, flew wildly hither and
thither, now and then the superb plumage of a bird
of paradise flashing like a jewel among the dense
foliage of cypress and nut-trees.
Hour after hour sped swiftly away; the party had
dispersed in different directions, following the course
of the game; the sun was sinking low, and the slaves
were bringing the slaughtered birds and beasts to the
wagons used to convey them home. A magnificent
stag was among the spoil, and a fierce wild boar, after
a long struggle, had fallen under a thrust from
Intaphernes's lance.
The shrill blast of the Median trumpet sounded
thrice, to give the first of the three signals for the
scattered hunters to meet at the appointed place, near
the entrance of the park, and the two, young brothers
who, attended by Candaules and half a dozen slaves,
had ridden far into the shady recesses of the woods,
reluctantly turned their horses' heads. No thought
of disobeying the summons entered their minds -
Persian boys were taught that next to truth and cour-
age, obedience was the highest virtue, and rarely was
a command transgressed.
They had had a good day's sport; few arrows
remained in their quivers, and the attendants carried
bunches of gay plumaged birds and several small
animals, among them a pretty little fawn. "Let's go
nearer the marshes; there are not so many trees, and
-we can ride faster," said Otanes as the trumpet-call
was repeated, and the little party turned in that direc-
tion, moving more swiftly as they passed out upon
the strip of open ground between the thicket and the
marshes. The sun was just setting. The last crimson
rays, shimmering on the pools of water standing here
and there in the morasses, cast reflections on the


tall reeds and rushes bordering their margins.
Suddenly a pretty spotted fawn darted in front of
the group, and crossing the open ground, vanished
amid a thick clump of reeds. "What a nice pet the
little creature would make for our sister Hadassah!"
cried Otanes eagerly. See! it has hidden among
the reeds; we might take it alive. Go with Candaules
and the slaves, Smerdis, and form a half-circle beyond
the clump. When you're ready, whistle, and I'll ride
straight down and drive it towards you; you can easily
catch it then. We are so near the entrance of the
park now that we shall have plenty of time ; the third
signal hasn't sounded yet."
Smerdis instantly agreed to the plan. The horses
were fastened to some trees, and the men cautiously


from his saddle, while the horse, free from its rider,
dashed, snorting with terror, towards the park entrance.
A lion! A lion shrieked the trembling slaves,
but Smerdis, drawing his dagger, ran towards the
place where his brother had fallen, passing close by
the body of the fawn which lay among the reeds with
its head crushed by a blow from the lion's paw.
Candaules followed close at the lad's heels.
Parting the thick growth of stalks, they saw, only
a few paces off, Otanes, covered with blood, lying
motionless on the ground, and beside him the dead
body of a half-grown lion, the boy's arrow buried in
one eye, while the blood still streamed from a lance-
wound in the animal's side.
Smerdis, weeping, threw himself beside his brother,


made a wide circuit, passed the bed of reeds, and
concealed themselves behind the tall rushes beyond.
A low whistle gave Otanes the signal to drive out the
Smerdis and the slaves saw the lad straighten him-
self in the saddle, and with a shout, dash at full speed
towards the spot where the fawn had vanished. He
had almost reached it when the stiff stalks shook
violently, and a loud roar made them all spring to
their feet. They saw the brave boy check his horse
and fit an arrow to the string, but as he drew the
bow, there was a stronger rustle among the reeds; a
tawny object flashed through the air, striking Otanes

and at the same moment Intaphernes, with several
nobles and attendants, attracted by the cries, dashed
up to the spot. The father, springing from the sad-
dle, bent, and laid his hand on the boy's heart.
"It is beating still, and strongly too!" he exclaimed.
"Throw water in his face! perhaps -
Without finishing the sentence, he carefully exam-
ined the motionless form. "Ormuzd be praised I
He has no wound; the blood has flowed from the lion.
See, Prexaspes, there is a lance-head sticking in its
side. I believe it's the very beast you wounded early
in the day."
The officer whose laugh had so vexed Otanes,


stooped over the dead lion and looked at the broken
Ay, it's my weapon; the beast probably made its
way to the morass for water; but, by Mithras the
lad's arrow killed the brute; the barb passed through
the eyeball into the brain."
Yes, my lord," cried old Candaules eagerly,
" and doubtless it was only the weight of the animal,
which, striking my young master as it made its spring,
The Persian god of the sun.

hurled him from the saddle and stunned him. See !
he is opening his eyes. Otanes, Otanes, you've killed
the lion "
The boy's eyelids fluttered, then slowly rose, his
eyes wandered over the group, and at last rested on
the dead lion. The old slave's words had evidently
reached his ear, for with a faint smile he glanced
archly at Prexaspes, and raising himself on one elbow,
You see, my lord even with a bow and dagger!"







The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by naturalpiety.


There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The Rainbow comes and goes,
The earth, and every common sight, And lovely is the Rose,
To me did seem The Moon doth with delight
Apparelled in celestial light, Look round her when the heavens are bare,
The glory and the freshness of a dream. Waters on a starry night
It is not now as it hath been of yore; Are beautiful and fair;
Turn wheresoe'er I may, The sunshine is a glorious birth;
By night or day, But yet I know, where'er I go,
The things which I have seen I now can see no That there hath passed away a glory from the
more, earth.
SFrom Poem b6 William Wordsorth.






Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday; -
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou
happy Shepherd-boy J







Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel- I feel it all.
0 evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling

On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:-
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
But there's a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?




Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.


Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And even with something of a Mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.


Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size !
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes,
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art I
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral,
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song,
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage,
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.




Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul's immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted forever by the eternal mind,-
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life 1


O joy that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive !
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hopes still fluttering in his breast:
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questioning
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make'
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy !
Hence in a season of calm Weather,
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.




Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound !
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May !
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forbode not any severing of our loves !
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.






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

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

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

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

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

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

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,

And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,

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

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

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

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

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
From Tennyson's Poems.





I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris and he:
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts
Speed echoed the wall to us galloping-through.
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace-
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see ;
At Diiffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-
chime -
So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time! "

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past;
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track,
And one eye's black intelligence ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her;

We'll remember at Aix -for one heard the quick
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like
Till over by Delhem a dome-spire sprung white,
And Gallop," gasped Joris, for Aix is in sight!

"How they'll greet us !" and all in a moment his
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, pitted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad
or good,
Till at length into Aix, Roland. galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sate with his head twixt my knees on the
And-no voice but was praising this Roland of mine
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which ( the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news
from Ghent.
-From Browning's Poems.





R ING out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite; -
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

-F'rom "I Af~ emokq

University of Florida Home Page
© 2004 - 2010 University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries.
All rights reserved.

Acceptable Use, Copyright, and Disclaimer Statement
Last updated October 10, 2010 - - mvs