CHAPTER VI

Und so ist der blaue Himmel grösser als jedes Gewölk darin, und dauerhafter dazu. --JEAN PAUL RICHTER

Jackanapes's death was sad news for the Goose Green, a sorrow just qualified by honorable pride in his gallantry and devotion. Only the Cobbler dissented; but that was his way. He said he saw nothing in it but foolhardiness and vainglory. They might both have been killed, as easy as not; and then where would ye have been? A man's life was a man's life, and one life was as good as another. No one would catch him throwing his away. And, for that matter, Mrs. Johnson could spare a child a great deal better than Miss Jessamine.

But the parson preached Jackanapes's funeral sermon on the text, "Whosoever will save his life shall lose it, and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it"; and all the village went and wept to hear him.

Nor did Miss Jessamine see her loss from the Cobbler's point of view. On the contrary, Mrs. Johnson said she never to her dying day should forget how, when she went to condole with her, the old lady came forward, with gentlewomanly self-control, and kissed her, and thanked God that her dear nephew's effort had been blessed with success, and that this sad war had made no gap in her friend's large and happy home-circle.

"But she's a noble, unselfish woman," sobbed Mrs. Johnson, "and she taught Jackanapes to be the same; and that's how it is that my Tony has been spared to me. And it must be sheer goodness in Miss Jessamine, for what can she know of a mother's feelings? And I'm sure most people seem to think that if you've a large family you don't know one from another any more than they do, and that a lot of children are like a lot of store apples,--if one's taken it won't be missed."

Lollo--the first Lollo, the Gypsy's Lollo--very aged, draws Miss Jessamine's bath-chair slowly up and down the Goose Green in the sunshine.

The Ex-postman walks beside him, which Lollo tolerates to the level of his shoulder. If the Postman advances any nearer to his head, Lollo quickens his pace; and were the Postman to persist in the injudicious attempt, there is, as Miss Jessamine says, no knowing what might happen.

In the opinion of the Goose Green, Miss Jessamine has borne her troubles "wonderfully." Indeed, to-day, some of the less delicate and less intimate of those who see everything from the upper windows say (well, behind her back) that "the old lady seems quite lively with her military beaux again."

The meaning of this is, that Captain Johnson is leaning over one side of her chair, while by the other bends a brother officer who is staying with him, and who has manifested an extraordinary interest in Lollo. He bends lower and lower, and Miss Jessamine calls to the Postman to request Lollo to be kind enough to stop, while she is fumbling for something which always hangs by her side, and has got entangled with her spectacles.

It is a twopenny trumpet, bought years ago in the village fair; and over it she and Captain Johnson tell, as best they can, between them, the story of Jackanapes's ride across the Goose Green; and how he won Lollo--the Gypsy's Lollo--the racer Lollo--dear Lollo--faithful Lollo--Lollo the never vanquished--Lollo the tender servant of his old mistress. And Lollo's ears twitch at every mention of his name.

Their hearer does not speak, but he never moves his eyes from the trumpet; and when the tale is told, he lifts Miss Jessamine's hand and presses his heavy black moustache in silence to her trembling fingers.

The sun, setting gently to his rest, embroiders the somber foliage of the oak tree with threads of gold. The Gray Goose is sensible of an atmosphere of repose, and puts up one leg for the night. The grass glows with a more vivid green, and, in answer to a ringing call from Tony, his sisters fluttering over the daisies in pale-hued muslins, come out of their ever-open door, like pretty pigeons from a dovecote.

And if the good gossips' eyes do not deceive them, all the Miss Johnsons and both the officers go wandering off into the lanes, where bryony wreaths still twine about the brambles.

* * * * *

A sorrowful story, and ending badly?

Nay, Jackanapes, for the End is not yet.

A life wasted that might have been useful?

Men who have died for men, in all ages, forgive the thought!

There is a heritage of heroic example and noble obligation, not reckoned in the Wealth of Nations, but essential to a nation's life; the contempt of which, in any people, may, not slowly, mean even its commercial fall.

Very sweet are the uses of prosperity, the harvests of peace and progress, the fostering sunshine of health and happiness, and length of days in the land.

But there be things--oh, sons of what has deserved the name of Great Britain, forget it not!--"the good of" which and "the use of" which are beyond all calculation of worldly goods and earthly uses: things such as Love, and Honor, and the Soul of Man, which cannot be bought with a price, and which do not die with death. And they who would fain live happily ever after should not leave these things out of the lessons of their lives.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] "The political men declare war, and generally for commercial interests; but when the nation is thus embroiled with its neighbors, the soldier . . . draws the sword at the command of his country. . . . One word as to thy comparison of military and commercial persons. What manner of men be they who have supplied the Caffres with the firearms and ammunition to maintain their savage and deplorable wars? Assuredly they are not military. . . . Cease then, if thou wouldst be counted among the just, to vilify soldiers" (W. Napier, _Lieutenant-General_, November, 1851). [Author's Note.]

[4] The Mail Coach it was that distributed over the face of the land, like the opening of apocalyptic vials, the heart-shaking news of Trafalgar, of Salamanca, of Vittoria, of Waterloo. . . . The grandest chapter of our experience, within the whole Mail-Coach service, was on those occasions when we went down from London with the news of Victory. Five years of life it was worth paying down for the privilege of an outside place.--(De Quincey.) [Author's Note.]

[5] "Brunswick's fated chieftain" fell at Quatre Bras the day before Waterloo; but this first (very imperfect) list, as it appeared in the newspapers of the day, did begin with his name and end with that of an Ensign Brown. [Author's Note.]

383

The story that follows was first published in _Harper's Round Table_, June 25, 1895, as the winner of first place in a short story contest conducted by that periodical. The author at that time was seventeen years of age. It seems quite fitting that a writer beginning his career in such fashion should finally write the most scholarly historical and critical account of the development of the short story, _The Short Story in English_ (1909). Mr. Canby was for several years assistant professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School, Yale University, and is now the editor of _The Literary Review_, the literary section of the New York _Evening Post_. ("Betty's Ride" is used here by special arrangement with the author.)

BETTY'S RIDE: A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION

HENRY S. CANBY

The sun was just rising and showering his first rays on the gambrel-roof and solid stone walls of a house surrounded by a magnificent grove of walnuts, and overlooking one of the beautiful valleys so common in southeastern Pennsylvania. Close by the house, and shaded by the same great trees, stood a low building of the most severe type, whose time-stained bricks and timbers green with moss told its age without the aid of the half-obliterated inscription over the door, which read, "Built A. D. 1720." One familiar with the country would have pronounced it without hesitation a Quaker meeting-house, dating back almost to the time of William Penn.

When Ezra Dale had become the leader of the little band of Quakers which gathered here every First Day, he had built the house under the walnut-trees, and had taken his wife Ann and his little daughter Betty to live there. That was in 1770, seven years earlier, and before war had wrought sorrow and desolation throughout the country.

The sun rose higher, and just as his beams touched the broad stone step in front of the house the door opened, and Ann Dale, a sweet-faced woman in the plain Quaker garb, came out, followed by Betty, a little blue-eyed Quakeress of twelve years, with a gleam of spirit in her face which ill became her plain dress.

"Betty," said her mother, as they walked out towards the great horse-block by the road-side, "thee must keep house to-day. Friend Robert has just sent thy father word that the redcoats have not crossed the Brandywine since Third Day last, and thy father and I will ride to Chester to-day, that there may be other than corn-cakes and bacon for the friends who come to us after monthly meeting. Mind thee keeps near the house and finishes thy sampler."

"Yes, mother," said Betty; "but will thee not come home early? I shall miss thee sadly."

Just then Ezra appeared, wearing his collarless Quaker coat, and leading a horse saddled with a great pillion, into which Ann laboriously climbed after her husband, and with a final warning and "farewell" to Betty, clasped him tightly around the waist lest she should be jolted off as they jogged down the rough and winding lane into the broad Chester highway.

Friend Ann had many reasons for fearing to leave Betty alone for a whole day, and she looked back anxiously at her waving "farewell" with her little bonnet.

It was a troublous time.

The Revolution was at its height, and the British, who had a short time before disembarked their army near Elkton, Maryland, were now encamped near White Clay Creek, while Washington occupied the country bordering on the Brandywine. His force, however, was small compared to the extent of the country to be guarded, and bands of the British sometimes crossed the Brandywine and foraged in the fertile counties of Delaware and Chester. As Betty's father, although a Quaker and a non-combatant, was known to be a patriot, he had to suffer the fortunes of war with his neighbors.

Thus it was with many forebodings that Betty's mother watched the slight figure under the spreading branches of a great chestnut, which seemed to rustle its innumerable leaves as if to promise protection to the little maid. However, the sun shone brightly, the swallows chirped as they circled overhead, and nothing seemed farther off than battle and bloodshed.

Betty skipped merrily into the house, and snatching up some broken corn-cake left from the morning meal, ran lightly out to the paddock where Daisy was kept, her own horse, which she had helped to raise from a colt.

"Come thee here, Daisy," she said, as she seated herself on the top rail of the mossy snake fence. "Come thee here, and thee shall have some of thy mistress's corn-cake. Ah! I thought thee would like it. Now go and eat all thee can of this good grass, for if the wicked redcoats come again, thee will not have another chance, I can tell thee."

Daisy whinnied and trotted off, while Betty, feeding the few chickens (sadly reduced in numbers by numerous raids), returned to the house, and getting her sampler, sat down under a walnut-tree to sew on the stint which her mother had given her.

All was quiet save the chattering of the squirrels overhead and the drowsy hum of the bees, when from around the curve in the road she heard a shot; then another nearer, and then a voice shouting commands, and the thud of hoof-beats farther down the valley. She jumped up with a startled cry: "The redcoats! The redcoats! Oh, what shall I do!"

Just then the foremost of a scattered band of soldiers, their buff and blue uniforms and ill-assorted arms showing them to be Americans, appeared in full flight around the curve in the road, and springing over the fence, dashed across the pasture straight for the meeting-house. Through the broad gateway they poured, and forcing open the door of the meeting-house, rushed within and began to barricade the windows.

Their leader paused while his men passed in, and seeing Betty, came quickly towards her.

"What do you here, child?" he said, hurriedly. "Go quickly, before the British reach us, and tell your father that, Quaker or no Quaker, he shall ride to Washington, on the Brandywine, and tell him that we, but one hundred men, are besieged by three hundred British cavalry in Chichester Meeting-house, with but little powder left. Tell him to make all haste to us."

Turning, he hastened into the meeting-house, now converted into a fort, and as the doors closed behind him Betty saw a black muzzle protruding from every window.

With trembling fingers the little maid picked up her sampler, and as the thud of horses' hoofs grew louder and louder, she ran fearfully into the house, locked and bolted the massive door, and then flying up the broad stairs, she seated herself in a little window overlooking the meeting-house yard. She had gone into the house none too soon. Up the road, with their red coats gleaming and their harness jangling, was sweeping a detachment of British cavalry, never stopping until they reached the meeting-house--and then it was too late.

A sheet of flame shot out from the wall before them, and half a dozen troopers fell lifeless to the ground, and half a dozen riderless horses galloped wildly down the road. The leader shouted a sharp command, and the whole troop retreated in confusion.

Betty drew back shuddering, and when she brought herself to look again the troopers had dismounted, had surrounded the meeting-house, and were pouring volley after volley at its doors and windows. Then for the first time Betty thought of the officer's message, and remembered that the safety of the Americans depended upon her alone, for her father was away, no neighbor within reach, and without powder she knew they could not resist long.

Could she save them? All her stern Quaker blood rose at the thought, and stealing softly to the paddock behind the barn, she saddled Daisy and led her through the bars into the wood road, which opened into the highway just around the bend. Could she but pass the pickets without discovery there would be little danger of pursuit; then there would be only the long ride of eight miles ahead of her.

Just before the narrow wood road joined the broader highway Betty mounted Daisy by means of a convenient stump, and starting off at a gallop, had just turned the corner when a voice shouted "Halt!" and a shot whistled past her head. Betty screamed with terror, and bending over, brought down her riding-whip with all her strength upon Daisy, then, turning for a moment, saw three troopers hurriedly mounting.

Her heart sank within her, but, beginning to feel the excitement of the chase, she leaned over and patting Daisy on the neck, encouraged her to do her best. Onward they sped. Betty, her curly hair streaming in the wind, the color now mounting to, now retreating from her cheeks, led by five hundred yards.

But Daisy had not been used for weeks, and already felt the unusual strain. Now they thundered over Naaman's Creek, now over Concord, with the nearest pursuer only four hundred yards behind; and now they raced beside the clear waters of Beaver Brook, and as Betty dashed through its shallow ford, the thud of horse's hoofs seemed just over her shoulder.

Betty, at first sure of success, now knew that unless in some way she could throw her pursuers off her track she was surely lost. Just then she saw ahead of her a fork in the road, the lower branch leading to the Brandywine, the upper to the Birmingham Meeting-house. Could she but get the troopers on the upper road while she took the lower, she would be safe; and, as if in answer to her wish, there flashed across her mind the remembrance of the old cross-road which, long disused, and with its entrance hidden by drooping boughs, led from a point in the upper road just out of sight of the fork down across the lower, and through the valley of the Brandywine. Could she gain this road unseen she still might reach Washington.

Urging Daisy forward, she broke just in time through the dense growth which hid the entrance, and sat trembling, hidden behind a dense growth of tangled vines, while she heard the troopers thunder by. Then, riding through the rustling woods, she came at last into the open, and saw spread out beneath her the beautiful valley of the Brandywine, dotted with the white tents of the Continental army.

Starting off at a gallop, she dashed around a bend in the road into the midst of a group of officers riding slowly up from the valley.

"Stop, little maiden, before you run us down," said one, who seemed to be in command. "Where are you going in such hot haste?"

"Oh, sir," said Betty, reining in Daisy, "can thee tell me where I can find General Washington?"

"Yes, little Quakeress," said the officer who had first spoken to her; "I am he. What do you wish?"

Betty, too exhausted to be surprised, poured forth her story in a few broken sentences, and (hearing as if in a dream the hasty commands for the rescue of the soldiers in Chichester Meeting-house) fell forward in her saddle, and, for the first time in her life, fainted, worn out by her noble ride.

A few days later, when recovering from the shock of her long and eventful ride, Betty, awaking from a deep sleep, found her mother kneeling beside her little bed, while her father talked with General Washington himself beside the fireplace; and it was the proudest and happiest moment of her life when Washington, coming forward and taking her by the hand, said, "You are the bravest little maid in America, and an honor to your country."

Still the peaceful meeting-house and the gambrel-roofed home stand unchanged, save that their time-beaten timbers and crumbling bricks have taken on a more sombre tinge, and under the broad walnut-tree another little Betty sits and sews.

If you ask it, she will take down the great key from its nail, and swinging back the new doors of the meeting-house, will show you the old worm-eaten ones inside, which, pierced through and through with bullet-holes, once served as a rampart against the enemy. And she will tell you, in the quaint Friend's language, how her great-great-grandmother carried, over a hundred years ago, the news of the danger of her countrymen to Washington, on the Brandywine, and at the risk of her own life saved theirs.

384

Some two decades ago thousands were reading about the highly romantic career of Charles Brandon in _When Knighthood Was in Flower_ (1898), and other thousands were applauding Julia Marlowe's impersonation of the beautiful and fascinating Princess Mary in the dramatic version of that book. The author was Charles Major (1856-1913), an Indiana lawyer turned novelist, who wrote, also, the equally romantic story of _Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall_ (1902). Between these two pieces of delightful romance, he wrote a series of sketches of pioneer life in Indiana under the title of _The Bears of Blue River_ (1901). It is an account of boy life in the early days, full of dramatic interest, simply written, and entirely worthy of the high place which it has already taken among stories of its type. The first adventure in that book follows by special arrangement with the publishers. (Copyright. The Macmillan Company, New York.)

THE BIG BEAR

CHARLES MAJOR

Away back in the "twenties," when Indiana was a baby state, and great forests of tall trees and tangled underbrush darkened what are now her bright plains and sunny hills, there stood upon the east bank of Big Blue River, a mile or two north of the point where that stream crosses the Michigan road, a cozy log cabin of two rooms--one front and one back.

The house faced the west, and stretching off toward the river for a distance equal to twice the width of an ordinary street, was a blue-grass lawn, upon which stood a dozen or more elm and sycamore trees, with a few honey-locusts scattered here and there. Immediately at the water's edge was a steep slope of ten or twelve feet. Back of the house, mile upon mile, stretched the deep dark forest, inhabited by deer and bears, wolves and wildcats, squirrels and birds, without number.

In the river the fish were so numerous that they seemed to entreat the boys to catch them, and to take them out of their crowded quarters. There were bass and black suckers, sunfish and catfish, to say nothing of the sweetest of all, the big-mouthed redeye.

South of the house stood a log barn, with room in it for three horses and two cows; and enclosing this barn, together with a piece of ground, five or six acres in extent, was a palisade fence, eight or ten feet high, made by driving poles into the ground close together. In this enclosure the farmer kept his stock, consisting of a few sheep and cattle, and here also the chickens, geese, and ducks were driven at nightfall to save them from "varmints," as all prowling animals were called by the settlers.

The man who had built this log hut, and who lived in it and owned the adjoining land at the time of which I write, bore the name of Balser Brent. "Balser" is probably a corruption of Baltzer, but, however that may be, Balser was his name, and Balser was the hero of the bear stories which I am about to tell you.

Mr. Brent and his young wife had moved to the Blue River settlement from North Carolina, when young Balser was a little boy five or six years of age. They had purchased the "eighty" upon which they lived, from the United States, at a sale of public land held in the town of Brookville on Whitewater, and had paid for it what was then considered a good round sum--one dollar per acre. They had received a deed for their "eighty" from no less a person than James Monroe, then President of the United States. This deed, which is called a patent, was written on sheepskin, signed by the President's own hand, and is still preserved by the descendants of Mr. Brent as one of the title-deeds to the land it conveyed. The house, as I have told you, consisted of two large rooms, or buildings, separated by a passageway six or eight feet broad which was roofed over, but open at both ends--on the north and south. The back room was the kitchen, and the front room was parlor, bedroom, sitting room and library all in one.

At the time when my story opens Little Balser, as he was called to distinguish him from his father, was thirteen or fourteen years of age, and was the happy possessor of a younger brother, Jim, aged nine, and a little sister one year old, of whom he was very proud indeed.

On the south side of the front room was a large fireplace. The chimney was built of sticks, thickly covered with clay. The fireplace was almost as large as a small room in one of our cramped modern houses, and was broad and deep enough to take in backlogs which were so large and heavy that they could not be lifted, but were drawn in at the door and rolled over the floor to the fireplace.

The prudent father usually kept two extra backlogs, one on each side of the fireplace, ready to be rolled in as the blaze died down; and on these logs the children would sit at night, with a rough slate made from a flat stone, and do their "ciphering," as the study of arithmetic was then called. The fire usually furnished all the light they had, for candles and "dips," being expensive luxuries, were used only when company was present.

The fire, however, gave sufficient light, and its blaze upon a cold night extended halfway up the chimney, sending a ruddy, cozy glow to every nook and corner of the room.

The back room was the storehouse and kitchen; and from the beams and along the walls hung rich hams and juicy sidemeat, jerked venison, dried apples, onions, and other provisions for the winter. There was a glorious fireplace in this room also, and a crane upon which to hang pots and cooking utensils.

The floor of the front room was made of logs split in halves with the flat, hewn side up; but the floor of the kitchen was of clay, packed hard and smooth.

The settlers had no stoves, but did their cooking in round pots called Dutch ovens. They roasted their meats on a spit or steel bar like the ramrod of a gun. The spit was kept turning before the fire, presenting first one side of the meat and then the other, until it was thoroughly cooked. Turning the spit was the children's work.

South of the palisade enclosing the barn was the clearing--a tract of twenty or thirty acres of land, from which Mr. Brent had cut and burned the trees. On this clearing the stumps stood thick as the hair on an angry dog's back; but the hard-working farmer ploughed between and around them, and each year raised upon the fertile soil enough wheat and corn to supply the wants of his family and his stock, and still had a little grain left to take to Brookville, sixty miles away, where he had bought his land, there to exchange for such necessities of life as could not be grown upon the farm or found in the forests.

The daily food of the family all came from the farm, the forest, or the creek. Their sugar was obtained from the sap of the sugar-trees; their meat was supplied in the greatest abundance by a few hogs, and by the inexhaustible game of which the forests were full. In the woods were found deer just for the shooting; and squirrels, rabbits, wild turkeys, pheasants, and quails, so numerous that a few hours' hunting would supply the table for days. The fish in the river, as I told you, fairly longed to be caught.

One day Mrs. Brent took down the dinner horn and blew upon it two strong blasts. This was a signal that Little Balser, who was helping his father down in the clearing, should come to the house. Balser was glad enough to drop his hoe and to run home. When he reached the house his mother said:

"Balser, go up to the drift and catch a mess of fish for dinner. Your father is tired of deer meat three times a day, and I know he would like a nice dish of fried redeyes at noon."

"All right, mother," said Balser. And he immediately took down his fishing-pole and line, and got the spade to dig bait. When he had collected a small gourdful of angle-worms, his mother called to him:

"You had better take a gun. You may meet a bear; your father loaded the gun this morning, and you must be careful in handling it."

Balser took the gun, which was a heavy rifle considerably longer than himself, and started up the river toward the drift, about a quarter of a mile away.

There had been rain during the night and the ground near the drift was soft.

Here, Little Balser noticed fresh bear tracks, and his breath began to come quickly. You may be sure he peered closely into every dark thicket, and looked behind all the large trees and logs, and had his eyes wide open lest perchance "Mr. Bear" should step out and surprise him with an affectionate hug, and thereby put an end to Little Balser forever.

So he walked on cautiously, and, if the truth must be told, somewhat tremblingly, until he reached the drift.

Balser was but a little fellow, yet the stern necessities of a settler's life had compelled his father to teach him the use of a gun; and although Balser had never killed a bear, he had shot several deer, and upon one occasion had killed a wildcat, "almost as big as a cow," he said.

I have no doubt the wildcat seemed "almost as big as a cow" to Balser when he killed it, for it must have frightened him greatly, as wildcats were sometimes dangerous animals for children to encounter. Although Balser had never met a bear face to face and alone, yet he felt, and many a time had said, that there wasn't a bear in the world big enough to frighten him, if he but had his gun.

He had often imagined and minutely detailed to his parents and little brother just what he would do if he should meet a bear. He would wait calmly and quietly until his bearship should come within a few yards of him, and then he would slowly lift his gun. Bang! and Mr. Bear would be dead with a bullet in his heart.

But when he saw the fresh bear tracks, and began to realize that he would probably have an opportunity to put his theories about bear killing into practice, he began to wonder if, after all, he would become frightened and miss his aim. Then he thought of how the bear, in that case, would be calm and deliberate, and would put _his_ theories into practice by walking very politely up to him, and making a very satisfactory dinner of a certain boy whom he could name. But as he walked on and no bear appeared, his courage grew stronger as the prospect of meeting the enemy grew less, and he again began saying to himself that no bear could frighten him, because he had his gun and he could and would kill it.

So Balser reached the drift; and having looked carefully about him, leaned his gun against a tree, unwound his fishing-line from the pole, and walked out to the end of a log which extended into the river some twenty or thirty feet.

Here he threw in his line, and soon was so busily engaged drawing out sunfish and redeyes, and now and then a bass, which was hungry enough to bite at a worm, that all thought of the bear went out of his mind.

After he had caught enough fish for a sumptuous dinner he bethought him of going home, and as he turned toward the shore, imagine, if you can, his consternation when he saw upon the bank, quietly watching him, a huge black bear.

If the wildcat had seemed as large as a cow to Balser, of what size do you suppose that bear appeared? A cow! An elephant, surely, was small compared with the huge black fellow standing upon the bank.

It is true Balser had never seen an elephant, but his father had, and so had his friend Tom Fox, who lived down the river; and they all agreed that an elephant was "purt nigh as big as all outdoors."

The bear had a peculiar, determined expression about him that seemed to say:

"That boy can't get away; he's out on the log where the water is deep, and if he jumps into the river I can easily jump in after him and catch him before he can swim a dozen strokes. He'll _have_ to come off the log in a short time, and then I'll proceed to devour him."

About the same train of thought had also been rapidly passing through Balser's mind. His gun was on the bank where he had left it, and in order to reach it he would have to pass the bear. He dared not jump into the water, for any attempt to escape on his part would bring the bear upon him instantly. He was very much frightened, but, after all, was a cool-headed little fellow for his age; so he concluded that he would not press matters, as the bear did not seem inclined to do so, but so long as the bear remained watching him on the bank would stay upon the log where he was, and allow the enemy to eye him to his heart's content.

There they stood, the boy and the bear, each eyeing the other as though they were the best of friends, and would like to eat each other, which, in fact, was literally true.

Time sped very slowly for one of them, you may be sure; and it seemed to Balser that he had been standing almost an age in the middle of Blue River on that wretched shaking log, when he heard his mother's dinner horn, reminding him that it was time to go home.

Balser quite agreed with his mother and gladly would he have gone, I need not tell you; but there stood the bear, patient, determined, and fierce; and Little Balser soon was convinced in his mind that his time had come to die.

He hoped that when his father should go home to dinner and find him still absent, he would come up the river in search of him, and frighten away the bear. Hardly had this hope sprung up in his mind, when it seemed that the same thought had also occurred to the bear, for he began to move down toward the shore end of the log upon which Balser was standing.

Slowly came the bear until he reached the end of the log, which for a moment he examined suspiciously, and then, to Balser's great alarm, cautiously stepped out upon it and began to walk toward him.

Balser thought of the folks at home, and, above all, of his baby sister; and when he felt that he should never see them again, and that they would in all probability never know of his fate, he began to grow heavy-hearted and was almost paralyzed with fear.

On came the bear, putting one great paw in front of the other, and watching Balser intently with his little black eyes. His tongue hung out, and his great red mouth was open to its widest, showing the sharp, long, glittering teeth that would soon be feasting on a first-class boy dinner.

When the bear got within a few feet of Balser--so close he could almost feel the animal's hot breath as it slowly approached--the boy grew desperate with fear, and struck at the bear with the only weapon he had--his string of fish.

Now, bears love fish and blackberries above all other food; so when Balser's string of fish struck the bear in the mouth, he grabbed at them, and in doing so lost his foothold on the slippery log and fell into the water with a great splash and plunge.

This was Balser's chance for life, so he flung the fish to the bear, and ran for the bank with a speed worthy of the cause.

When he reached the bank his self-confidence returned, and he remembered all the things he had said he would do if he should meet a bear.

The bear had caught the fish, and again had climbed upon the log, where he was deliberately devouring them.

This was Little Balser's chance for death--to the bear. Quickly snatching up the gun, he rested it in the fork of a small tree near by, took deliberate aim at the bear, which was not five yards away, and shot him through the heart. The bear dropped into the water dead, and floated downstream a little way, where he lodged at a ripple a short distance below.

Balser, after he had killed the bear, became more frightened than he had been at any time during the adventure, and ran home screaming. That afternoon his father went to the scene of battle and took the bear out of the water. It was very fat and large, and weighed, so Mr. Brent said, over six hundred pounds.

Balser was firmly of the opinion that he himself was also very fat and large, and weighed at least as much as the bear. He was certainly entitled to feel "big"; for he had got himself out of an ugly scrape in a brave, manly, and cool-headed manner, and had achieved a victory of which a man might have been proud.

The news of Balser's adventure soon spread among the neighbors and he became quite a hero; for the bear he had killed was one of the largest that had ever been seen in that neighborhood, and, besides the gallons of rich bear oil it yielded, there were three or four hundred pounds of bear meat; and no other food is more strengthening for winter diet.

There was also the soft, furry skin, which Balser's mother tanned, and with it made a coverlid for Balser's bed, under which he and his little brother lay many a cold night, cozy and "snug as a bug in a rug."

385

The selection that follows may serve as an example of an effective Christmas story in the latest fashion. It was not written especially for young people, but neither were many of the books that now stand on the shelf that holds their favorites. It is not only one of the great short stories, but one of the shortest of great-stories. It is quite worthy of use in company with Dickens' _Christmas Carol_, Henry van Dyke's _The Other Wise Man_, and Thomas Nelson Page's _Santa Claus's Partner_, at the Christmas season, and it has the advantages of extreme brevity, a fresh breeziness of style, surprise in the plot, and romantic interest. The magi brought various gifts to the Child in the manger--gold, frankincense, myrrh--but only one gift, that of love. O. Henry does not often moralize, but no reader ever finds fault with his concluding paragraph. The author's real name was William Sidney Porter. He was born in Greensboro, N. C., in 1862, and died in New York City, in 1910, the most widely read of short-story writers. "The Gift of the Magi" is taken from the volume called _The Four Million_ by special arrangement with the publishers. (Copyright, Doubleday, Page & Co. New York.)

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

O. HENRY

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8.00 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8.00 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered; "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice--what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

SECTION IX

NATURE LITERATURE

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Andrews, Jane, _The Stories Mother Nature Told Her Children_.

Atkinson, Eleanor S., _Greyfriars Bobby_.

Bertelli, Luigi, _The Prince and His Ants_.

Brown, Dr. John, _Rab and His Friends_.

Bullen, Frank, _The Cruise of the Cachelot_.

Burgess, Thornton W., _Old Mother West Wind Stories_.

Burroughs, John, _Squirrels and Other Fur Bearers_. _Wake Robin._

Chapman, William G., _Green-Timber Trails: Wild Animal Stories of the Upper Fur Country_.

Ford, Sewell, _Horses Nine_.

Hawkes, Clarence, _Shaggycoat_.

Hudson, W. H., _A Little Boy Lost_.

Jordan, David Starr, _Science Sketches_.

Kellogg, Vernon L., _Insect Stories_. _Nuova, the New Bee._

Kingsley, Charles, _Madame How and Lady Why_.

Kipling, Rudyard, _Just-So Stories_. _The Jungle Book_ (Two Series).

London, Jack, _The Call of the Wild_.

Long, William J., _Wood-Folk Comedies_. _A Little Brother to the Bear._

Miller, Joaquin, _True Bear Stories_.

Miller, Olive Thorne, _The Children's Book of Birds_.

Mills, Enos A., _Scotch_. _The Thousand Year Old Pine._

Muir, John, _Stickeen_. _Our National Parks._

Ollivant, Alfred, _Bob, Son of Battle_.

"Ouida" (Louisa de la Ramée), _Moufflou_. _The Dog of Flanders._

Paine, Albert Bigelow, _Hollow-Tree Nights and Days_. _Arkansaw Bear._

Potter, Beatrix, _Peter Rabbit_. _Benjamin Bunny._

Roberts, Charles G. D., _Kings in Exile_. _Children of the Wild._

Saunders, Marshall, _Beautiful Joe_.

Sègur, Sophie, Comtesse de, _The Story of a Donkey_.

Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Wild Animals at Home_. _The Biography of a Grizzly._

Sewell, Anna, _Black Beauty_.

Sharp, Dallas Lore, _Beyond the Pasture Bars_. _A Watcher in the Woods._

Terhune, Albert Payson, _Lad: A Dog_.

Thoreau, Henry David, _A Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers_.

Walton, Izaak, _The Compleat Angler_.

White, Gilbert, _The Natural History of Selborne_.

The three books that stand at the end of this brief list are probably not ones that any teacher would recommend indiscriminately to pupils of the grades. They are the greatest of the classic books in nature literature and, in a way, constitute the goal of nature lovers.

SECTION IX. NATURE LITERATURE

INTRODUCTORY

_What it is._ In recent years teachers have heard much talk about "nature study" in the grades. The demand for this study has led publishers to print many so-called "nature books" that have neither scientific fact nor literary worth to justify their existence. Confusion may be avoided and time may be saved if teachers will remember that nature literature, as here defined, is a form of _literature_, and that its purpose therefore is primarily to present truth (not necessarily facts) in an entertaining way.

The selections in this section are not intended to furnish material for a scientific study of nature. They are nature literature. Some of them present scientific facts that add to the literary worth by making the stories more entertaining, but the selections are given because they illustrate various types of nature literature and the work of famous writers of nature literature, not because they present scientific facts.

_Some types of nature literature._ One of the oldest forms of nature literature is the beast tale in which animals are represented as talking and acting like human beings. Stories of this type entertain while they reveal the general nature of various kinds of animals. Fables should not be called nature literature, because their chief purpose is to criticize the follies of human beings. Some of the Negro folk tales that Joel Chandler Harris collected are nature literature of this type. Beast tales, however, are not all old. Stories by such modern authors as Thornton W. Burgess and Albert Bigelow Paine, who are represented in this section, may be called beast tales. They are popular in the primary grades.

Another type of nature literature, quite different from that just discussed, has been produced during the last century by students of nature who endeavor to hold strictly to facts in their writing. This may be called realistic nature literature. Henry Thoreau, John Burroughs, Olive Thorne Miller, and Dallas Lore Sharp may be mentioned as writers of this kind of literature. As we read their books, we usually feel that they are endeavoring to relate incidents as they actually occurred. Also we recognize that they are great students of nature, for they perceive details that we might not notice and they draw or suggest conclusions that we may accept as true, although we might never think of drawing the conclusions. Nature literature of this kind may be no less entertaining than fairy tales, for it may, in a pleasing way, reveal wonders in nature. The selections by Dallas Lore Sharp and Olive Thorne Miller in this section are of this kind. Most of the writings of Henry Thoreau and John Burroughs are in a style too difficult for pupils in the grades.

A third type may be called nature romance. Its purpose is both to entertain and to awaken sympathy and love for animals. Stories of this kind, like other romances, idealize the characters and may have a strong appeal to the emotions. Of the stories in this section, we may classify as nature romance Beatrix Potter's "Peter Rabbit," Sewell Ford's "Pasha, the Son of Selim," Ouida's "Moufflou," and Rudyard Kipling's "Moti Guj--Mutineer."

A fourth kind of nature literature, sometimes called nature fiction, has been developed within the last quarter of a century and is already recognized as excellent. The plot is created by the author, although it may be based on fact, and usually is simple and rambling. One purpose of these stories is to show truly how animals live and act, just as one purpose of a novel or typical short story is to show truly how people live and act. If the author is a skillful story-teller and a good student of nature, the story may make the reader feel that he has become acquainted with a particular kind of animal and even with an individual animal. For example, the story "Last Bull," by Charles G. D. Roberts, has an effect on the reader not entirely unlike that of one of Cooper's _Leatherstocking Tales_. Prominent among the authors of this very interesting and instructive form of literature may be mentioned Charles G. D. Roberts, Ernest Thompson Seton, William J. Long, and Dallas Lore Sharp.

_Its place in the grades._ Nature literature seems to have a place of increasing importance in schools, especially in grades above the third. Many excellent books of what we have called the fiction type and the realistic type have a charming spirit of outdoor life and adventure that makes them pleasing substitutes for the objectionable dime novel. One should not assume that these nature stories would be of less interest and value to the country child than to the city child. Too often country children have not been taught to think of animals as "little brothers of the field and the air." These nature stories, without any spirit of preaching or moralizing, show children how to enjoy nature, whether it be in the country or the city. They teach the child to form habits of observation that encourage healthful recreation. A boy who has understood the spirit of Roberts, Seton, and Sharp is not likely to find the village poolroom attractive. Nature literature, however, need not be taught merely for moral and practical purposes, for it has come to be literature of artistic worth, and as such it has earned a place among other kinds of literature for children.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

A good summary article is "The Rise of the Nature Writers," by F. W. Halsey, in _Review of Reviews_, Vol. XXVI, p. 567 (November, 1902). The most valuable critical article is "The Literary Treatment of Nature" in John Burroughs, _Ways of Nature_ (also in _Atlantic Monthly_, Vol. XCIV, p. 38 [July, 1904]). In the violent controversy about "nature-faking" which raged some years ago, two articles will give clearly the positions of the contending parties: first, the attack by John Burroughs in "Real and Sham Natural History," _Atlantic Monthly_, Vol. XCI, p. 298 (March, 1903), and, second, the reply to Burroughs by William J. Long in "The School of Nature Study and Its Critics," _North American Review_, Vol. CLXXVI, p. 688 (May, 1903).

386

One of the most popular series for very young children is that known as the _Peter Rabbit Books_ after the favorite hero of the early tales. The author is Beatrix Potter, an Englishwoman. In plan these little books resemble the "toy-books" of the eighteenth century in having a bit of text on the left-hand page face a picture on the right. The entire text of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit" is given, but of course text and pictures are so completely one that much is lost by separating them. Children should meet Peter Rabbit before their school days begin.

THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT

BEATRIX POTTER

Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.

They lived with their mother in a sand bank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree.

"Now, my dears," said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, "you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden. Your father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor. Now run along, and don't get into mischief. I am going out."

Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella, and went through the wood to the baker's. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns.

Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries; but Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight to Mr. McGregor's garden, and squeezed under the gate.

First he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some radishes; and then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.

But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor!

Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, "Stop thief!"

Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate.

He lost one of his shoes amongst the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.

After losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.

Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself.

Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter; but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him, and rushed into the tool-shed, and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it.

Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the tool-shed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them over carefully, looking under each.

Presently Peter sneezed--"Kerty-schoo!" Mr. McGregor was after him in no time, and tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work.

Peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp with sitting in that can.

After a time he began to wander about, going lippity--lippity--not very fast, and looking all around.

He found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.

An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.

Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water-cans. A white cat was staring at some goldfish; she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he had heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny.

He went back towards the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a hoe,--scr-r-ritch scratch, scratch, scritch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned towards Peter, and beyond him was the gate!

Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black currant-bushes.

Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden.

Mr. McGregor hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scare-crow to frighten the blackbirds.

Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir-tree.

He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes. His mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and a pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight!

I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening.

His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a doze of it to Peter!

"One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time."

But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.

387

The next selection illustrates well the kind of stories in the _Bedtime Story_ series of twenty volumes by Thornton Waldo Burgess (1874--). The books of this series are entitled _Adventures of Johnny Chuck_, _Adventures of Buster Bear_, _Adventures of Ol' Mistah Buzzard_, etc. These books and the _Old Mother West Wind_ series of eight volumes by the same author are enjoyed by children in the second and third grades. Mr. Burgess is an American author who has been editor of several American magazines. (The following selection is from _Old Mother West Wind_, by permission of the publishers, Little, Brown & Co., Boston.)

JOHNNY CHUCK FINDS THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD

THORNTON W. BURGESS

Old Mother West Wind had stopped to talk with the Slender Fir Tree.

"I've just come across the Green Meadows," said Old Mother West Wind, "and there I saw the Best Thing in the World."

Striped Chipmunk was sitting under the Slender Fir Tree and he couldn't help hearing what Old Mother West Wind said. "The Best Thing in the World--now what can that be?" thought Striped Chipmunk. "Why, it must be heaps and heaps of nuts and acorns! I'll go and find it."

So Striped Chipmunk started down the Lone Little Path through the wood as fast as he could run. Pretty soon he met Peter Rabbit.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, Striped Chipmunk?" asked Peter Rabbit.

"Down in the Green Meadows to find the Best Thing in the World," replied Striped Chipmunk, and ran faster.

"The Best Thing in the World," said Peter Rabbit, "why, that must be a great pile of carrots and cabbage! I think I'll go and find it."

So Peter Rabbit started down the Lone Little Path through the wood as fast as he could go after Striped Chipmunk.

As they passed the great hollow tree Bobby Coon put his head out. "Where are you going in such a hurry?" asked Bobby Coon.

"Down in the Green Meadows to find the Best Thing in the World!" shouted Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit, and both began to run faster.

"The Best Thing in the World," said Bobby Coon to himself, "why, that must be a whole field of sweet milky corn! I think I'll go and find it."

So Bobby Coon climbed down out of the great hollow tree and started down the Lone Little Path through the wood as fast as he could go after Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit, for there is nothing that Bobby Coon likes to eat so well as sweet milky corn.

At the edge of the wood they met Jimmy Skunk.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" asked Jimmy Skunk.

"Down in the Green Meadows to find the Best Thing in the World!" shouted Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon. Then they all tried to run faster.

"The Best Thing in the World," said Jimmy Skunk. "Why, that must be packs and packs of beetles!" And for once in his life Jimmy Skunk began to hurry down the Lone Little Path after Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon.

They were all running so fast that they didn't see Reddy Fox until he jumped out of the long grass and asked:

"Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"To find the Best Thing in the World!" shouted Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon and Jimmy Skunk, and each did his best to run faster.

"The Best Thing in the World," said Reddy Fox to himself. "Why, that must be a whole pen full of tender young chickens, and I must have them."

So away went Reddy Fox as fast as he could run down the Lone Little Path after Striped Chipmunk, Peter Rabbit, Bobby Coon and Jimmy Skunk.

By and by they all came to the house of Johnny Chuck.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" asked Johnny Chuck.

"To find the Best Thing in the World," shouted Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon and Jimmy Skunk and Reddy Fox.

"The Best Thing in the World," said Johnny Chuck. "Why I don't know of anything better than my own little home and the warm sunshine and the beautiful blue sky."

So Johnny Chuck stayed at home and played all day among the flowers with the Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind and was as happy as could be.

But all day long Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon and Jimmy Skunk and Reddy Fox ran this way and ran that way over the Green Meadows trying to find the Best Thing in the World. The sun was very, very warm and they ran so far and they ran so fast that they were very, very hot and tired, and still they hadn't found the Best Thing in the World.

When the long day was over they started up the Lone Little Path past Johnny Chuck's house to their own homes. They didn't hurry now for they were so very, very tired! And they were cross--oh so cross! Striped Chipmunk hadn't found a single nut. Peter Rabbit hadn't found so much as the leaf of a cabbage. Bobby Coon hadn't found the tiniest bit of sweet milky corn. Jimmy Skunk hadn't seen a single beetle. Reddy Fox hadn't heard so much as the peep of a chicken. And all were as hungry as hungry could be.

Half way up the Lone Little Path they met Old Mother West Wind going to her home behind the hill. "Did you find the Best Thing in the World?" asked Old Mother West Wind.

"No!" shouted Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon and Jimmy Skunk and Reddy Fox all together.

"Johnny Chuck has it," said Old Mother West Wind. "It is being happy with the things you have and not wanting things which some one else has. And it is called Con-tent-ment."

388

Albert Bigelow Paine (1861--), an American author at one time connected with the editorial department of _St. Nicholas Magazine_, has for more than twenty years been known as the biographer of Mark Twain. He is a popular writer of stories for children. Pupils in the fifth grade like his story _The Arkansaw Bear_. Some of his books suitable for the third and fourth grades are _Hollow-Tree Nights and Days_, _The Hollow Tree_, and _The Deep Woods_. ("Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell" is from _Hollow-Tree Nights and Days_, and is used by permission of the publishers, Harper & Brothers, New York.)

MR. 'POSSUM'S SICK SPELL

ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE

Once upon a time, said the Story Teller, something very sad nearly happened in the Hollow Tree. It was Mr. 'Possum's turn, one night, to go out and borrow a chicken from Mr. Man's roost, and coming home he fell into an old well and lost his chicken. He nearly lost himself, too, for the water was icy cold and Mr. 'Possum thought he would freeze to death before he could climb out, because the rocks were slippery and he fell back several times.

As it was, he got home almost dead, and next morning was sicker than he had ever been before in his life. He had pains in his chest and other places, and was all stuffed up in his throat and very scared. The 'Coon and the Crow who lived in the Hollow Tree with him were scared, too. They put him to bed in the big room down-stairs, and said they thought they ought to send for somebody, and Mr. Crow said that Mr. Owl was a good hand with sick folks, because he looked so wise and didn't say much, which always made the patient think he knew something.

So Mr. Crow hurried over and brought Mr. Owl, who put on his glasses and looked at Mr. 'Possum's tongue, and felt of his pulse, and listened to his breathing, and said that the cold water seemed to have struck in and that the only thing to do was for Mr. 'Possum to stay in bed and drink hot herb tea and not eat anything, which was a very bad prescription for Mr. 'Possum, because he hated herb tea and was very partial to eating. He groaned when he heard it and said he didn't suppose he'd ever live to enjoy himself again, and that he might just as well have stayed in the well with the chicken, which was a great loss and doing no good to anybody. Then Mr. Owl went away, and told the Crow outside that Mr. 'Possum was a very sick man, and that at his time of life and in his state of flesh his trouble might go hard with him.

So Mr. Crow went back into the kitchen and made up a lot of herb tea and kept it hot on the stove, and Mr. 'Coon sat by Mr. 'Possum's bed and made him drink it almost constantly, which Mr. 'Possum said might cure him if he didn't die of it before the curing commenced.

He said if he just had that chicken, made up with a good platter of dumplings, he believed it would do him more good than anything, and he begged the 'Coon to go and fish it out, or to catch another one, and try it on him, and then if he did die he would at least have fewer regrets.

But the Crow and the 'Coon said they must do as Mr. Owl ordered, unless Mr. 'Possum wanted to change doctors, which was not a good plan until the case became hopeless, and that would probably not be before some time in the night. Mr. 'Coon said, though, there was no reason why that nice chicken should be wasted, and as it would still be fresh, he would rig up a hook and line and see if he couldn't save it. So he got out his fishing things and made a grab hook and left Mr. Crow to sit by Mr. 'Possum until he came back. He could follow Mr. 'Possum's track to the place, and in a little while he had the fine, fat chicken, and came home with it and showed it to the patient, who had a sinking spell when he looked at it, and turned his face to the wall and said he seemed to have lived in vain.

Mr. Crow, who always did the cooking, said he'd better put the chicken on right away, under the circumstances, and then he remembered a bottle of medicine he had once seen sitting on Mr. Man's window-sill outside, and he said while the chicken was cooking he'd just step over and get it, as it might do the patient good, and it didn't seem as if anything now could do him any harm.

So the Crow dressed the nice chicken and put it in the pot with the dumplings, and while Mr. 'Coon dosed Mr. 'Possum with the hot herb tea Mr. Crow slipped over to Mr. Man's house and watched a good chance when the folks were at dinner, and got the bottle and came back with it and found Mr. 'Possum taking a nap and the 'Coon setting the table; for the dinner was about done and there was a delicious smell of dumplings and chicken, which made Mr. 'Possum begin talking in his sleep about starving to death in the midst of plenty. Then he woke up and seemed to suffer a good deal, and the Crow gave him a dose of Mr. Man's medicine, and said that if Mr. 'Possum was still with them next morning they'd send for another doctor.

Mr. 'Possum took the medicine and choked on it, and when he could speak said he wouldn't be with them. He could tell by his feelings, he said, that he would never get through this day of torture, and he wanted to say some last words. Then he said that he wanted the 'Coon to have his Sunday suit, which was getting a little tight for him and would just about fit Mr. 'Coon, and that he wanted the Crow to have his pipe and toilet articles, to remember him by. He said he had tried to do well by them since they had all lived together in the Hollow Tree, and he supposed it would be hard for them to get along without him, but that they would have to do the best they could. Then he guessed he'd try to sleep a little, and closed his eyes. Mr. 'Coon looked at Mr. Crow and shook his head, and they didn't feel like sitting down to dinner right away, and pretty soon when they thought Mr. 'Possum was asleep they slipped softly up to his room to see how sad it would seem without him.

Well, they had only been gone a minute when Mr. 'Possum woke up, for the smell of that chicken and dumpling coming in from Mr. Crow's kitchen was too much for him. When he opened his eyes and found that Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow were not there, and that he felt a little better--perhaps because of Mr. Man's medicine--he thought he might as well step out and take one last look at chicken and dumpling, anyway.

It was quite warm, but, being all in a sweat, he put the bed-sheet around him to protect him from the draughts and went out to the stove and looked into the pot, and when he saw how good it looked he thought he might as well taste of it to see if it was done. So he did, and it tasted so good and seemed so done that he got out a little piece of dumpling on a fork, and blew on it to cool it, and ate it, and then another piece and then the whole dumpling, which he sopped around in the gravy after each bite. Then when the dumpling was gone he fished up a chicken leg and ate that and then a wing, and then the gizzard and felt better all the time, and pretty soon poured out a cup of coffee and drank that, all before he remembered that he was sick abed and not expected to recover. Then he happened to think and started back to bed, but on the way there he heard Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow talking softly in his room and he forgot again that he was so sick and went up to see about it.

Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow had been quite busy up in Mr. 'Possum's room. They had looked at all the things, and Mr. Crow remarked that there seemed to be a good many which Mr. 'Possum had not mentioned, and which they could divide afterward. Then he picked up Mr. 'Possum's pipe and tried it to see if it would draw well, as he had noticed, he said, that Mr. 'Possum sometimes had trouble with it, and the 'Coon went over to the closet and looked at Mr. 'Possum's Sunday suit, and pretty soon got it out and tried on the coat, which wouldn't need a thing done to it to make it fit exactly. He said he hoped Mr. 'Possum was resting well, after the medicine, which he supposed was something to make him sleep, as he had seemed drowsy so soon after taking it. He said it would be sad, of course, though it might seem almost a blessing, if Mr. 'Possum should pass away in his sleep, without knowing it, and he hoped Mr. 'Possum would rest in peace and not come back to distress people, as one of Mr. 'Coon's own ancestors had done, a good while ago. Mr. 'Coon said his mother used to tell them about it when she wanted to keep them at home nights, though he didn't really believe in such things much, any more, and he didn't think Mr. 'Possum would be apt to do it, anyway, because he was always quite a hand to rest well. Of course, _any one_ was likely to _think_ of such things, he said, and get a little nervous, especially at a time like this--and just then Mr. 'Coon looked toward the door that led down to the big room, and Mr. Crow he looked toward that door, too, and Mr. 'Coon gave a great jump, and said:

"Oh, my goodness!" and fell back over Mr. 'Possum's trunk.

And Mr. Crow he gave a great jump, too, and said:

"Oh, my gracious!" and fell back over Mr. 'Possum's chair.

For there in the door stood a figure shrouded all in white, all except the head, which was Mr. 'Possum's, though very solemn, its eyes looking straight at Mr. 'Coon, who still had on Mr. 'Possum's coat, though he was doing his best to get it off, and at Mr. Crow, who still had Mr. 'Possum's pipe, though he was trying every way to hide it, and both of them were scrabbling around on the floor and saying, "Oh, Mr. 'Possum, go away--please go away, Mr. 'Possum--we always loved you, Mr. 'Possum--we can prove it."

But Mr. 'Possum looked straight at Mr. 'Coon, and said in a deep voice:

"What were you doing with my Sunday coat on?"

And Mr. 'Coon tried to say something, but only made a few weak noises.

And Mr. 'Possum looked at Mr. Crow and said:

"What were you doing with my pipe?"

And a little sweat broke out on Mr. Crow's bill, and he opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, but couldn't make a sound.

Then Mr. 'Possum said, in a slow voice, so deep that it seemed to come from down in the ground:

"_Give me my things!_"

And Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow said, very shaky:

"Oh y-yes, Mr. 'Possum, w-we meant to, a-all the t-time."

And they tried to get up, but were so scared and weak they couldn't, and all at once Mr. 'Possum gave a great big laugh and threw off his sheet and sat down on a stool, and rocked and laughed, and Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow realized then that it was Mr. 'Possum himself, and not just his appearance, as they had thought. Then they sat up, and pretty soon began to laugh, too, though not very gaily at first, but feeling more cheerful every minute, because Mr. 'Possum himself seemed to enjoy it so much.

Then Mr. 'Possum told them about everything, and how Mr. Man's medicine must have made him well, for all his pains and sorrows had left him, and he invited them down to help finish up the chicken which had cost him so much suffering.

So then they all went down to the big room and the Crow brought in the big platter of dumplings, and a pan of biscuits and some molasses, and a pot of coffee, and they all sat down and celebrated Mr. 'Possum's recovery. And when they were through, and everything was put away, they smoked, and Mr. 'Possum said he was glad he was there to use his property a little more, and that probably his coat would fit him again now, as his sickness had caused him to lose flesh. He said that Mr. Man's medicine was certainly wonderful, but just then Mr. Rabbit dropped in, and when they told him about it, he said of course the medicine might have had some effect, but that the dumplings and chicken caused the real cure. He said there was an old adage to prove that--one that his thirty-fifth great-grandfather had made for just such a case of this kind. This, Mr. Rabbit said, was the adage:

"If you want to live forever Stuff a cold and starve a fever."

Mr. 'Possum's trouble had come from catching cold, he said, so the dumplings were probably just what he needed. Then Mr. Owl dropped in to see how his patient was, and when he saw him sitting up, and smoking, and well, he said it was wonderful how his treatment had worked, and the Hollow Tree people didn't tell him any different, for they didn't like to hurt Mr. Owl's feelings.

389

Prominent among writers of the new realistic nature literature is Dallas Lore Sharp (1870--), professor of English in Boston University. Mr. Sharp's stories and descriptive sketches of nature reveal charming details in out-of-door life that the ordinary observer overlooks, and they encourage the reader to seek entertainment in fields and woods. Most of his nature writings are suitable for pupils in grades from the fifth to the eighth. Some of his books are _Beyond the Pasture Bars_, _A Watcher in the Woods_, _Roof and Meadow_, and _Where Rolls the Oregon_. ("Wild Life in the Farm Yard," from _Beyond the Pasture Bars_, is used by permission of The Century Co., New York City.)

WILD LIFE IN THE FARM-YARD

DALLAS LORE SHARP

I want you to visit a farm where there are turkeys and geese and guineas. If you live in New York City or in Chicago you may not be able to do so for some time. Then take a trip to the market or to the zoölogical gardens. But most of you live close enough to the country, so that you could easily find a farmer who would invite you out to see his prize gobbler and his great hissing gander.

However, I shall not wait to _send_ you for I am going to _take_ you--now--out to an old farm that I loved as a boy where there are turkeys and geese and guineas and pigs and pigeons, cows and horses and mules, cats and dogs, chickens and bees and sheep, and a hornets' nest and a nest of flying squirrels in the same old grindstone apple-tree, and a pair of barn owls in the old wagon house, and--I don't know what else; for there was everything on the old farm when I was a boy, and I suppose we shall find everything there yet.

I want you to see the turkeys. I want you to follow an old hen turkey to her stolen nest. I want you to watch the old gobbler turkey take his family to bed--to roost, I mean. For unless you are a boy, and are living in the wild portions of Georgia and the southeastern states, you may never see a wild turkey. For that reason I want you to watch this tame turkey, because he is almost as wild as a wild turkey in everything except his fear of you. He has been tamed, we know, since the year 1526, yet not one of his wild habits has been changed.

So it is with the house cat. We have tamed the house cat, but we have not changed the wild, night-prowling hunter in him. You have to smooth a cat the right way, or the _wild_ cat in him will scratch and bite you. Have you never seen his tail twitch, his eyes blaze, his claws work as he has crouched watching at a rat's hole, or crawled stealthily upon a bird in the meadow grass?

So, if you will watch, you shall see a real wild turkey in the tamest old gobbler on the farm.

Watch him go to roost. Watch him get _ready_ to go to roost, I should say, for a turkey seems to begin to think of roosting about noon-time, especially in the winter; and it takes him from about noon till night to make up his mind that he really must go to roost.

He comes along under the apple-tree of a December afternoon and looks up at the leafless limbs where he has been roosting since summer. He stretches his long neck, lays his little brainless head over on one side, then over on the other. He takes a good _long_ look at the limb. Then bobs his head--one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-_ten_ times, or perhaps twenty-two or -three times, and takes a still _longer_ look at the limb, saying to himself--_quint, quint, quint, quint!_ which means: "I think I'll go to roost! I think _I'll_ go to roost! I think I'll go to _roost_! I think I'll _go_ to roost! I think I'll go _to_ roost! I _think_ I'll go to roost!" He _thinks_ he will, but he hasn't made up his mind quite.

Then he stretches his long neck again, lays his little witless head on the side again, bobs and bobs, looks and looks and looks, says _quint, quint, quint, quint_--"I _think_ I'll go to roost," but is just as undecided as ever.

He does the performance over and over again and would never go to roost if the darkness did not come and compel him. He would stand under that tree stretching, turning, looking, bobbing, "squinting," _thinking_, until he thought his head off, saying all the while--

One for the money; two for the show; Three to get ready; and four to--_get ready to go!_

But after a while, along toward dusk (and awfully suddenly!)--_flop! gobble! splutter! whoop!_--and there he is, up on the limb, safe! Really safe! But it was an exceedingly close call.

And this is the very way the wild turkey acts. The naturalists who had a chance to study the great flocks of wild turkeys years ago describe these same absurd actions. This lack of snap and decision is not something the tame turkey has learned in the farm-yard. The fact is he does not seem to have learned anything during his 350 years in the barn-yard, nor does he seem to have forgotten anything that he knew as a wild turkey in the woods, except his fear of man.

Late in October the wild turkeys of a given neighborhood would get together in flocks of from ten to a hundred and travel on foot through the rich bottom lands in search of food. In these journeys the males would go ahead, apart from the females, and lead the way. The hens, each conducting her family in a more or less separate group, came straggling leisurely along in the rear. As they advanced, they would meet other flocks, thus swelling their numbers.

After a time they were sure to come to a river--a dreadful thing, for, like the river of the old song, it was a river _to cross_. Up and down the banks would stalk the gobblers, stretching their necks out over the water and making believe to start, as they do when going to roost in the apple-trees.

All day long, all the next day, all the third day, if the river was wide, they would strut and cluck along the shore, making up their minds.

The ridiculous creatures have wings; they can fly; but they are afraid! After all these days, however, the whole flock has mounted the tallest trees along the bank. One of the gobblers has come forward as leader in the emergency. Suddenly, from his perch, he utters a single cluck--the signal for the start,--and every turkey sails into the air. There is a great flapping--and the terrible river is crossed.

A few weak members fall on the way over, but not to drown. Drawing their wings close in against their sides, and spreading their round fan-like tails to the breeze, they strike out as if born to swim, and come quickly to land.

The tame turkey-hen is notorious for stealing her nest. The wild hen steals hers--not to plague her owner, of course, as is the common belief about the domestic turkey, but to get away from the gobbler, who, in order to prolong the honeymoon, will break the eggs as fast as they are laid. He has just enough brains to be sentimental, jealous, and boundlessly fond of himself. His wives, too, are foolish enough to worship him, until--there is an egg in the nest. That event makes them wise. They understand this strutting coxcomb, and quietly turning their backs on him, leave him to parade alone.

There are crows, also, and buzzards from whom the wild turkey hen must hide the eggs. Nor dare she forget her own danger while sitting, for there are foxes, owls, and prowling lynxes ready enough to pounce upon her. On the farm there are still many of these enemies besides the worst of them all, the farmer himself.

For a nest the wild hen, like the tame turkey of the pasture, scratches a slight depression in the ground, usually under a thick bush, sometimes in a hollow log, and there lays from twelve to twenty eggs, which are somewhat smaller and more elongated than the tame turkey's, but of the same color: dull cream, sprinkled with reddish dots.

I have often hunted for stolen turkey nests, and hunted in vain, because the cautious mother had covered her eggs when leaving them. This is one of the wild habits that has persisted. The wild hen, as the hatching approaches, will not trust even this precaution, however, but remains without food and drink upon the nest until the chicks can be led off. She can scarcely be driven from the nest, often allowing herself to be captured first.

Mother-love burns fierce in her. Such helpless things are her chicks! She hears them peeping in the shell and breaks it to help them out. She preens and dries them and keeps them close under her for days.

Not for a week after they are hatched does she allow them out in a rain. If, after that, they get a cold wetting, the wild mother, it is said, will feed the buds of the spice-bush to her brood, as our grandmothers used to administer mint tea to us.

The tame hen does seem to have lost something of this wild-mother skill, doubtless because for many generations she has been entirely freed of the larger part of the responsibility.

I never knew a tame mother turkey to doctor her infants for vermin. But the wild hen will. The woods are full of ticks and detestable vermin as deadly as cold rains. When her brood begins to lag and pine, the wild mother knows, and leading them to some old ant-hill, she gives them a sousing dust-bath. The vermin hate the odor of the ant-scented dust, and after a series of these baths disappear.

This is wise; and if this report be true, then the wild turkey is as wise and far-seeing a mother as the woods contain. One observer even tells of three hens that stole off together and fixed up a nest between themselves. Each put in her eggs--forty-two in all--and each took turns guarding, so that the nest was never left alone.

What special enemy caused this unique partnership the naturalist does not say. The three mothers built together, brooded together, and together guarded the nest. But how did those three mothers divide the babies?

I said I wanted you to visit a farm where there are turkeys. And you will have to if you would see the turkey at home. For, though I have traveled through the South, and been in the swamps and river "bottoms" there all along the Savannah, with wild turkeys around me, I have never seen a live one.

I was in a small steamboat on the Savannah River one night. We were tied up till morning along the river bank under the trees of the deep swamp. Twilight and the swamp silence had settled about us. The moon came up. A banjo had been twanging, but the breakdown was done, the shuffling feet quiet. The little cottonboat had become a part of the moonlit silence and the river swamp.

Two or three roustabouts were lounging upon some rosin-barrels near by, under the spell of the round autumnal moon. There was frost in the air, and fragrant odors, but not a sound, not a cry or call of beast or bird, until, suddenly, breaking through the silence with a jarring eery echo, was heard the hoot of the great horned owl.

One of the roustabouts dropped quickly to the deck and held up his hand for silence. We all listened. And again came the uncanny _Whoo-hoo-hoo-whoo-you-oh-oh!_

"Dat ol' King Owl," whispered the darky. "Him's lookin' fer turkey. Ol' gobbler done gone hid, I reckon. Listen! Ol' King Owl gwine make ol' gobbler talk back."

We listened, but there was no frightened "gobble" from the tree-tops. There were wild turkeys all around me in the swamp; but, though I sat up until the big southern moon rode high overhead, I heard no answer, no challenge to the echoing hoot of the great owl. The next day a colored boy brought aboard the boat a wild turkey which he had shot in the swamp; but I am still waiting to see and hear the great bronze bird alive in its native haunts.

390

Vernon L. Kellogg (1867--) is a professor in Leland Stanford Junior University whose writings have been chiefly scientific. His _Insect Stories_, from which the next selection is taken, is an interesting and instructive group of stories suitable for pupils in the third, fourth, or fifth grade. A later book is called _Nuova, the New Bee_. ("The Vendetta" is used by permission of the publishers, Henry Holt & Co., New York City.)

THE VENDETTA

VERNON L. KELLOGG

This is the story of a fight. In the first story of this book, I said that Mary and I had seen a remarkable fight one evening at sundown on the slopes of the bare brown foothills west of the campus. It was not a battle of armies--we have seen that, too, in the little world we watch,--but a combat of gladiators, a struggle between two champions born and bred for fighting, and particularly for fighting each other. One champion was Eurypelma, the great, black, hairy, eight-legged, strong-fanged tarantula of California, and the other was Pepsis, a mighty wasp in dull-blue mail, with rusty-red wings and a poisonous javelin of a sting that might well frighten either you or me. Do you have any wasp in your neighborhood of the ferocity and strength and size of Pepsis? If not, you can hardly realize what a terrible creature she is. With her strong hard-cased body an inch and a half long, borne on powerful wings that expand fully three inches, and her long and strong needle-pointed sting that darts in and out like a flash and is always full of virulent poison, Pepsis is certainly queen of all the wasp amazons. But if that is so, no less is Eurypelma greatest, most dreadful, and fiercest, and hence king, of all the spiders in this country. In South America and perhaps elsewhere in the tropics, live the fierce bird-spiders with thick legs extending three inches or more on each side of their ugly hairy bodies. Eurypelma, the California tarantula, is not quite so large as that, nor does he stalk, pounce on and kill little birds as his South American cousin is said to do, but he is nevertheless a tremendous and fear-inspiring creature among the small beasties of field and meadow.

But not all Eurypelmas are so ferocious; or at least are not ferocious all the time. There are individual differences among them. Perhaps it is a matter of age or health. Anyway, I had a pet tarantula which I kept in an open jar in my room for several weeks, and I could handle him with impunity. He would sit gently on my hand, or walk deliberately up my arm, with his eight, fixed, shining, little reddish eyes staring hard at me, and his long seven-jointed hairy legs swinging gently and rhythmically along, without a sign of hesitation or excitement. His hair was almost gray and perhaps this hoariness and general sedateness betokened a ripe old age. But his great fangs were unblunted, his supply of poison undiminished, and his skill in striking and killing his prey still perfect, as often proved at his feeding times. He is quite the largest Eurypelma I have ever seen. He measures--for I still have his body, carefully stuffed, and fastened on a block with legs all spread out--five inches from tip to tip of opposite legs.

At the same time that I had this hoary old tarantula, I had another smaller, coal-black fellow who went into a perfect ecstasy of anger and ferocity every time any one came near him. He would stand on his hind legs and paw wildly with fore legs and palpi, and lunge forward fiercely at my inquisitive pencil. I found him originally in the middle of an entry into a classroom, holding at bay an entire excited class of art students armed with mahl-sticks and paint-brushes. The students were mostly women, and I was hailed as deliverer and greatest _dompteur_ of beasts when I scooped Eurypelma up in a bottle and walked off with him.

But this is not telling of the sundown fight that Mary and I saw together. We had been over to the sand-cut by the golf links, after mining-bees, and were coming home with a fine lot of their holes and some of the bees themselves, when Mary suddenly called to me to "see the nice tarantula."

Perhaps nice isn't the best word for him, but he certainly was an unusually imposing and fluffy-haired and fierce-looking brute of a tarantula. He had rather an owly way about him, as if he had come out from his hole too early and was dazed and half-blinded by the light. Tarantulas are night prowlers; they do all their hunting after dark, dig their holes and, indeed, carry on all the various businesses of their life in the night-time. The occasional one found walking about in daytime has made a mistake, someway, and he blunders around quite like an owl in the sunshine.

All of a sudden, while Mary and I were smiling at this too early bird of a tarantula, he went up on his hind legs in fighting attitude, and at the same instant down darted a great tarantula hawk, that is, a Pepsis wasp. Her armored body glinted cool and metallic in the red sunset light, and her great wings had a suggestive shining of dull fire about them. She checked her swoop just before reaching Eurypelma, and made a quick dart over him, and then a quick turn back, intending to catch the tarantula in the rear. But lethargic and owly as Eurypelma had been a moment before, he was now all alertness and agility. He had to be. He was defending his life. One full fair stab of the poisoned javelin, sheathed but ready at the tip of the flexible, blue-black body hovering over him, and it would be over with Eurypelma. And he knew it. Or perhaps he didn't. But he acted as if he did. He was going to do his best not to be stabbed; that was sure. And Pepsis was going to do her best to stab; that also was quickly certain.

At the same time Pepsis knew--or anyway acted as if she did--that to be struck by one or both of those terrible vertical, poison-filled fangs was sure death. It would be like a blow from a battle-axe, with the added horror of mortal poison poured into the wound.

So Eurypelma about-faced like a flash, and Pepsis was foiled in her strategy. She flew up and a yard away, then returned to the attack. She flew about in swift circles over his head, preparatory to darting in again. But Eurypelma was ready. As she swooped viciously down, he lunged up and forward with a half-leap, half-forward fall, and came within an ace of striking the trailing blue-black abdomen with his reaching fangs. Indeed it seemed to Mary and me as if they really grazed the metallic body. But evidently they had not pierced the smooth armor. Nor had Pepsis in that breathless moment of close quarters been able to plant her lance. She whirled, up high this time but immediately back, although a little more wary evidently, for she checked her downward plunge three or four inches from the dancing champion on the ground. And so for wild minute after minute it went on; Eurypelma always up and tip-toeing on those strong hind legs, with open, armed mouth always toward the point of attack, and Pepsis ever darting down, up, over, across, and in and out in dizzy dashes, but never quite closing.

Were Mary and I excited? Not a word could we utter; only now and then a swift intake of breath; a stifled "O" or "Ah" or "See." And then of a sudden came the end. Pepsis saw her chance. A lightning swoop carried her right on to the hairy champion. The quivering lance shot home. The poison coursed into the great soft body. But at the same moment the terrible fangs struck fair on the blue armor and crashed through it. Two awful wounds, and the wings of dull fire beat violently only to strike up a little cloud of dust and whirl the mangled body around and around. Fortunately Death was merciful, and the brave amazon made a quick end.

But what of Eurypelma, the killer? Was it well with him? The sting-made wound itself was of little moment; it closed as soon as the lancet withdrew. But not before the delicate poison sac at its base inside the wasp-body had contracted and squirted down the slender hollow of the sting a drop of liquid fire. And so it was not well with Eurypelma in his insides. Victor he seemed to be, but if he could think, he must have had grave doubts about the joys of victory.

For a curious drowsiness was coming over him. Perhaps, disquieting thought, it was the approaching stupor of the poison's working. His strong long legs became limp, they would not work regularly, they could not hold his heavy hairy body up from the ground. He would get into his hole and rest. But it was too late. And after a few uneven steps, victor Eurypelma settled heavily down beside his amazon victim, inert and forevermore beyond fighting. He was paralyzed.

And so Mary and I brought him home in our collecting box, together with the torn body of Pepsis with her wings of slow fire dulled by the dust of her last struggles. And though it is a whole month now since Eurypelma received his stab from the poisoned javelin of Pepsis, he has not recovered; nor will he ever. When you touch him, he draws up slowly one leg after another, or moves a palpus feebly. But it is living death; a hopeless paralytic is the king.

Dear reader, you are of course as bright as Mary, and so you have noticed, as she did right away, the close parallel between what happened to Eurypelma and what happened to the measuring-worms brought by Ammophila to her nest burrow as described in the first story in this book. And so, like Mary, you realize that the vendetta or life feud between the tarantula family and the family of Pepsis, the tarantula hawk, is based on reasons of domestic economy rather than on those of sentiment, which determine vendettas in Corsica and feuds in Kentucky.

To be quite plain, Pepsis fights Eurypelma to get his huge, juicy body for food for her young; and Eurypelma fights Pepsis to keep from becoming paralyzed provender. If Pepsis had escaped unhurt in the combat at which Mary and I "assisted," as the French say, as enthralled spectators, we should have seen her drag by mighty effort the limp, paralyzed, spider giant to her nest hole not far distant--a great hole twelve inches deep and with a side chamber at the bottom. There she would have thrust him down the throat of the burrow, and then crawled in and laid an egg on the helpless beast, from which in time would have hatched the carnivorous wasp grub. Pepsis has many close allies among the wasps, all black or steely blue with smoky or dull-bronze wings, and they all use spiders, stung and paralyzed, to store their nest holes with.

"Do the little black and blue wasps hunt the little spiders and the larger ones the big spiders?" asked Mary.

"Exactly," I respond, "and the giant wasp of them all, Pepsis, the queen of the wasp amazons, hunts only the biggest spider of them all, Eurypelma, the tarantula king, and we have seen her do it."

"Well," says Mary, "even if she wants him for her children to eat, it's a real vendetta, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is," I answer, "it's more real, and fiercer, and more relentless, and more persistent than any human vendetta that ever was. For every Pepsis mother in the world is always hunting for Eurypelmas to fight. And not _all_ Corsicans have a vendetta on hand, nor all Kentuckians a feud."

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Sewell Ford (1868-) is noted for his fine stories about horses, especially those in _Horses Nine_, from which the following story of "Pasha" is taken. (By permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.) Pasha plays a most important part in a human romance with war as a background, and the combination is very effective. Mr. Ford's _Torchy_ stories are also very popular with young people.

PASHA, THE SON OF SELIM

SEWELL FORD

Long, far too long, has the story of Pasha, son of Selim, remained untold.

The great Selim, you know, was brought from far across the seas, where he had been sold for a heavy purse by a venerable sheik, who tore his beard during the bargain and swore by Allah that without Selim there would be for him no joy in life. Also he had wept quite convincingly on Selim's neck--but he finished by taking the heavy purse. That was how Selim, the great Selim, came to end his days in Fayette County, Kentucky. Of his many sons, Pasha was one.

In almost idyllic manner were spent the years of Pasha's coltdom. They were years of pasture roaming and blue grass cropping. When the time was ripe, began the hunting lessons. Pasha came to know the feel of the saddle and the voice of the hounds. He was taught the long, easy lope. He learned how to gather himself for a sail through the air over a hurdle or a water-jump. Then when he could take five bars clean, when he could clear an eight-foot ditch, when his wind was so sound that he could lead the chase from dawn until high noon, he was sent to the stables of a Virginia tobacco-planter who had need of a new hunter and who could afford Arab blood.

In the stalls at Gray Oaks stables were many good hunters, but none better than Pasha. Cream-white he was, from the tip of his splendid, yard-long tail to his pink-lipped muzzle. His coat was as silk plush, his neck as supple as a swan's, and out of his big, bright eyes there looked such intelligence that one half expected him to speak. His lines were all long, graceful curves, and when he danced daintily on his slender legs one could see the muscles flex under the delicate skin.

Miss Lou claimed Pasha for her very own at first sight. As no one at Gray Oaks denied Miss Lou anything at all, to her he belonged from that instant. Of Miss Lou, Pasha approved thoroughly. She knew that bridle-reins were for gentle guidance, not for sawing or jerking, and that a riding-crop was of no use whatever save to unlatch a gate or to cut at an unruly hound. She knew how to rise on the stirrup when Pasha lifted himself in his stride, and how to settle close to the pig-skin when his hoofs hit the ground. In other words, she had a good seat, which means as much to the horse as it does to the rider.

Besides all this, it was Miss Lou who insisted that Pasha should have the best of grooming, and she never forgot to bring the dainties which Pasha loved, an apple or a carrot or a sugarplum. It is something, too, to have your nose patted by a soft gloved hand and to have such a person as Miss Lou put her arm around your neck and whisper in your ear. From no other than Miss Lou would Pasha permit such intimacy.

No paragon, however, was Pasha. He had a temper, and his whims were as many as those of a school-girl. He was particular as to who put on his bridle. He had notions concerning the manner in which a currycomb should be used. A red ribbon or a bandanna handkerchief put him in a rage, while green, the holy color of the Mohammedan, soothed his nerves. A lively pair of heels he had, and he knew how to use his teeth. The black stable-boys found that out, and so did the stern-faced man who was known as "Mars" Clayton. This "Mars" Clayton had ridden Pasha once, had ridden him as he rode his big, ugly, hard-bitted roan hunter, and Pasha had not enjoyed the ride. Still, Miss Lou and Pasha often rode out with "Mars" Clayton and the parrot-nosed roan. That is, they did until the coming of Mr. Dave.

In Mr. Dave, Pasha found a new friend. From a far Northern State was Mr. Dave. He had come in a ship to buy tobacco, but after he had bought his cargo he still stayed at Gray Oaks, "to complete Pasha's education," so he said.

Many ways had Mr. Dave which Pasha liked. He had a gentle manner of talking to you, of smoothing your flanks and rubbing your ears, which gained your confidence and made you sure that he understood. He was firm and sure in giving command, yet so patient in teaching one tricks, that it was a pleasure to learn.

So, almost before Pasha knew it, he could stand on his hind legs, could step around in a circle in time to a tune which Mr. Dave whistled, and could do other things which few horses ever learn to do. His chief accomplishment, however, was to kneel on his forelegs in the attitude of prayer. A long time it took Pasha to learn this, but Mr. Dave told him over and over again, by word and sign, until at last the son of the great Selim could strike a pose such as would have done credit to a Mecca pilgrim.

"It's simply wonderful!" declared Miss Lou.

But it was nothing of the sort. Mr. Dave had been teaching tricks to horses ever since he was a small boy, and never had he found such an apt pupil as Pasha.

Many a glorious gallop did Pasha and Miss Lou have while Mr. Dave stayed at Gray Oaks, Dave riding the big bay gelding that Miss Lou, with all her daring, had never ventured to mount. It was not all galloping though, for Pasha and the big bay often walked for miles through the wood lanes, side by side and very close together, while Miss Lou and Mr. Dave talked, talked, talked. How they could ever find so much to say to each other Pasha wondered.

But at last Mr. Dave went away, and with his going ended good times for Pasha, at least for many months. There followed strange doings. There was much excitement among the stable-boys, much riding about, day and night, by the men of Gray Oaks, and no hunting at all. One day the stables were cleared of all horses save Pasha.

"Some time, if he is needed badly, you may have Pasha, but not now." Miss Lou had said. And then she had hidden her face in his cream-white mane and sobbed. Just what the trouble was Pasha did not understand, but he was certain "Mars" Clayton was at the bottom of it.

No longer did Miss Lou ride about the country. Occasionally she galloped up and down the highway, to the Pointdexters and back, just to let Pasha stretch his legs. Queer sights Pasha saw on these trips. Sometimes he would pass many men on horses riding close together in a pack, as the hounds run when they have the scent. They wore strange clothing, did these men, and they carried, instead of riding-crops, big shiny knives that swung at their sides. The sight of them set Pasha's nerves tingling. He would sniff curiously after them and then prick forward his ears and dance nervously.

Of course Pasha knew that something unusual was going on, but what it was he could not guess. There came a time, however, when he found out all about it. Months had passed when, late one night, a hard-breathing, foam-splotched, mud-covered horse was ridden into the yard and taken into the almost deserted stable. Pasha heard the harsh voice of "Mars" Clayton swearing at the stable-boy. Pasha heard his own name spoken, and guessed that it was he who was wanted. Next came Miss Lou to the stable.

"I'm very sorry," he heard "Mars" Clayton say, "but I've got to get out of this. The Yanks are not more than five miles behind."

"But you'll take good care of him, won't you?" he heard Miss Lou ask eagerly.

"Oh, yes; of course," replied "Mars" Clayton, carelessly.

A heavy saddle was thrown on Pasha's back, the girths pulled cruelly tight, and in a moment "Mars" Clayton was on his back. They were barely clear of Gray Oaks driveway before Pasha felt something he had never known before. It was as if someone had jabbed a lot of little knives into his ribs. Roused by pain and fright, Pasha reared in a wild attempt to unseat this hateful rider. But "Mars" Clayton's knees seemed glued to Pasha's shoulders. Next Pasha tried to shake him off by sudden leaps, sidebolts, and stiff-legged jumps. These man[oe]uvres brought vicious jerks on the wicked chain-bit that was cutting Pasha's tender mouth sorrily and more jabs from the little knives. In this way did Pasha fight until his sides ran with blood and his breast was plastered thick with reddened foam.

In the meantime he had covered miles of road, and at last, along in the cold gray of the morning, he was ridden into a field where were many tents and horses. Pasha was unsaddled and picketed to a stake. This latter indignity he was too much exhausted to resent. All he could do was to stand, shivering with cold, trembling from nervous excitement, and wait for what was to happen next.

It seemed ages before anything did happen. The beginning was a tripping bugle-blast. This was answered by the voice of other bugles blown here and there about the field. In a moment men began to tumble out of the white tents. They came by twos and threes and dozens, until the field was full of them. Fires were built on the ground, and soon Pasha could scent coffee boiling and bacon frying. Black boys began moving about among the horses with hay and oats and water. One of them rubbed Pasha hurriedly with a wisp of straw. It was little like the currying and rubbing with brush and comb and flannel to which he was accustomed and which he needed just then, oh, how sadly. His strained muscles had stiffened so much that every movement gave him pain. So matted was his coat with sweat and foam and mud that it seemed as if half the pores of his skin were choked.

He had cooled his parched throat with a long draught of somewhat muddy water, but he had eaten only half of the armful of hay when again the bugles sounded and "Mars" Clayton appeared. Tightening the girths, until they almost cut into Pasha's tender skin, he jumped into the saddle and rode off to where a lot of big black horses were being reined into line. In front of this line Pasha was wheeled. He heard the bugles sound once more, heard his rider shout something to the men behind, felt the wicked little knives in his sides, and then, in spite of aching legs, was forced into a sharp gallop. Although he knew it not, Pasha had joined the Black Horse Cavalry.

The months that followed were to Pasha one long, ugly dream. Not that he minded the hard riding by day and night. In time he became used to all that. He could even endure the irregular feeding, the sleeping in the open during all kinds of weather, and the lack of proper grooming. But the vicious jerks on the torture-provoking cavalry bit, the flat sabre blows on the flank which he not infrequently got from his ill-tempered master, and, above all, the cruel digs of the spur-wheels--these things he could not understand. Such treatment he was sure he did not merit. "Mars" Clayton he came to hate more and more. Some day, Pasha told himself, he would take vengeance with teeth and heels, even if he died for it.

In the meantime he had learned the cavalry drill. He came to know the meaning of each varying bugle-call, from reveille, when one began to paw and stamp for breakfast, to mournful taps, when lights went out, and the tents became dark and silent. Also, one learned to slow from a gallop into a walk; when to wheel to the right or to the left, and when to start on the jump as the first notes of a charge were sounded. It was better to learn the bugle-calls, he found, than to wait for a jerk on the bits or a prod from the spurs.

No more was he terror-stricken, as he had been on his first day in the cavalry, at hearing behind him the thunder of many hoofs. Having once become used to the noise, he was even thrilled by the swinging metre of it. A kind of wild harmony was in it, something which made one forget everything else. At such times Pasha longed to break into his long, wind-splitting lope, but he learned that he must leave the others no more than a pace or two behind, although he could have easily outdistanced them all.

Also, Pasha learned to stand under fire. No more did he dance at the crack of carbines or the zipp-zipp of bullets. He could even hold his ground when shells went screaming over him, although this was hardest of all to bear. One could not see them, but their sound, like that of great birds in flight, was something to try one's nerves. Pasha strained his ears to catch the note of each shell that came whizzing overhead, and, as it passed, looked inquiringly over his shoulder as if to ask, "Now what on earth was that?"

But all this experience could not prepare him for the happenings of that never-to-be-forgotten day in June. There had been a period full of hard riding and ending with a long halt. For several days hay and oats were brought with some regularity. Pasha was even provided with an apology for a stall. It was made by leaning two rails against a fence. Some hay was thrown between the rails. This was a sorry substitute for the roomy box-stall, filled with clean straw, which Pasha always had at Gray Oaks, but it was as good as any provided for the Black Horse Cavalry.

And how many, many horses there were! As far as Pasha could see in either direction the line extended. Never before had he seen so many horses at one time. And men! The fields and woods were full of them; some in brown butternut, some in homespun gray, and many in clothes having no uniformity of color at all. "Mars" Clayton was dressed better than most, for on his butternut coat were shiny shoulder-straps, and it was closed with shiny buttons. Pasha took little pride in this. He knew his master for a cruel and heartless rider, and for nothing more.

One day there was a great parade, when Pasha was carefully groomed for the first time in months. There were bands playing and flags flying. Pasha, forgetful of his ill-treatment and prancing proudly at the head of a squadron of coal-black horses, passed in review before a big, bearded man wearing a slouch hat fantastically decorated with long plumes and sitting a great black horse in the midst of a little knot of officers.

Early the next morning Pasha was awakened by the distant growl of heavy guns. By daylight he was on the move, thousands of other horses with him. Nearer and nearer they rode to the place where the guns were growling. Sometimes they were on roads, sometimes they crossed fields, and again they plunged into the woods where the low branches struck one's eyes and scratched one's flanks. At last they broke clear of the trees to come suddenly upon such a scene as Pasha had never before witnessed.

Far across the open field he could see troop on troop of horses coming toward him. They seemed to be pouring over the crest of a low hill, as if driven onward by some unseen force behind. Instantly Pasha heard, rising from the throats of thousands of riders, on either side and behind him, that fierce, wild yell which he had come to know meant the approach of trouble. High and shrill and menacing it rang as it was taken up and repeated by those in the rear. Next the bugles began to sound, and in quick obedience the horses formed in line just on the edge of the woods, a line which stretched on either flank until one could hardly see where it ended.

From the distant line came no answering cry, but Pasha could hear the bugles blowing and he could see the fronts massing. Then came the order to charge at a gallop. This set Pasha to tugging eagerly at the bit, but for what reason he did not know. He knew only that he was part of a great and solid line of men and horses sweeping furiously across a field toward that other line which he had seen pouring over the hill crest.

He could scarcely see at all now. The thousands of hoofs had raised a cloud of dust that not only enveloped the onrushing line, but rolled before it. Nor could Pasha hear anything save the thunderous thud of many feet. Even the shrieking of the shells was drowned. But for the restraining bit Pasha would have leaped forward and cleared the line. Never had he been so stirred. The inherited memory of countless desert raids, made by his Arab ancestors, was doing its work. For what seemed a long time this continued, and then, in the midst of the blind and frenzied race, there loomed out of the thick air, as if it had appeared by magic, the opposing line.

Pasha caught a glimpse of something which seemed like a heaving wall of tossing heads and of foam-whitened necks and shoulders. Here and there gleamed red, distended nostrils and straining eyes. Bending above was another wall, a wall of dusty blue coats, of grim faces, and of dust-powdered hats. Bristling above all was a threatening crest of waving blades.

What would happen when the lines met? Almost before the query was thought there came the answer. With an earth-jarring crash they came together. The lines wavered back from the shock of impact and then the whole struggle appeared to Pasha to centre about him. Of course this was not so. But it was a fact that the most conspicuous figure in either line had been that of the cream-white charger in the very centre of the Black Horse regiment.

For one confused moment Pasha heard about his ears the whistle and clash of sabres, the spiteful crackle of small arms, the snorting of horses, and the cries of men. For an instant he was wedged tightly in the frenzied mass, and then, by one desperate leap, such as he had learned on the hunting field, he shook himself clear.

Not until some minutes later did Pasha notice that the stirrups were dangling empty and that the bridle-rein hung loose on his neck. Then he knew that at last he was free from "Mars" Clayton. At the same time he felt himself seized by an overpowering dread. While conscious of a guiding hand on the reins Pasha had abandoned himself to the fierce joy of the charge. But now, finding himself riderless in the midst of a horrid din, he knew not what to do, nor which way to turn. His only impulse was to escape. But where? Lifting high his fine head and snorting with terror he rushed about, first this way and then that, frantically seeking a way out of this fog-filled field of dreadful pandemonium. Now he swerved in his course to avoid a charging squad, now he was turned aside by prone objects at sight of which he snorted fearfully. Although the blades still rang and the carbines still spoke, there were no more to be seen either lines or order. Here and there in the dust-clouds scurried horses, some with riders and some without, by twos, by fours, or in squads of twenty or more. The sound of shooting and slashing and shouting filled the air.

To Pasha it seemed an eternity that he had been tearing about the field when he shied at the figure of a man sitting on the ground. Pasha was about to wheel and dash away when the man called to him. Surely the tones were familiar. With wide-open, sniffing nostrils and trembling knees, Pasha, stopped and looked hard at the man on the ground.

"Pasha! Pasha!" the man called weakly. The voice sounded like that of Mr. Dave.

"Come, boy! Come, boy!" said the man in a coaxing tone, which recalled to Pasha the lessons he had learned at Gray Oaks years before. Still Pasha sniffed and hesitated.

"Come here, Pasha, old fellow. For God's sake, come here!"

There was no resisting this appeal. Step by step Pasha went nearer. He continued to tremble, for this man on the ground, although his voice was that of Mr. Dave, looked much different from the one who had taught him tricks. Besides, there was about him the scent of fresh blood. Pasha could see the stain of it on his blue trousers.

"Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the ground, holding out an encouraging hand. Slowly Pasha obeyed until he could sniff the man's fingers. Another step and the man was smoothing his nose, still speaking gently and coaxingly in a faint voice. In the end Pasha was assured that the man was really the Mr. Dave of old, and glad enough Pasha was to know it.

"Now, Pasha," said Mr. Dave, "we'll see if you've forgotten your tricks, and may the good Lord grant you haven't. Down, sir! Kneel, Pasha, kneel!"

It had been a long time since Pasha had been asked to do this, a very long time; but here was Mr. Dave asking him, in just the same tone as of old, and in just the same way. So Pasha, forgetting his terror under the soothing spell of Mr. Dave's voice, forgetting the fearful sights and sounds about him, remembering only that here was the Mr. Dave whom he loved, asking him to do his old trick--well, Pasha knelt.

"Easy now, boy; steady!" Pasha heard him say. Mr. Dave was dragging himself along the ground to Pasha's side. "Steady now, Pasha; steady, boy!" He felt Mr. Dave's hand on the pommel. "So-o-o, boy; so-o-o-o!" Slowly, oh, so slowly, he felt Mr. Dave crawling into the saddle, and although Pasha's knees ached from the unfamiliar strain, he stirred not a muscle until he got the command, "Up, Pasha, up!"

Then, with a trusted hand on the bridle-rein, Pasha joyfully bounded away through the fog, until the battle-field was left behind. Of the long ride that ensued only Pasha knows, for Mr. Dave kept his seat in the saddle more by force of muscular habit than anything else. A man who has learned to sleep on horseback does not easily fall off, even though he has not the full command of his senses. Only for the first hour or so did Pasha's rider do much toward guiding their course. In hunting-horses, however, the sense of direction is strong. Pasha had it--especially for one point of the compass. This point was south. So, unknowing of the possible peril into which he might be taking his rider, south he went. How Pasha ever did it, as I have said, only Pasha knows; but in the end he struck the Richmond Pike.

It was a pleading whinny which aroused Miss Lou at early daybreak. Under her window she saw Pasha, and on his back a limp figure in a blue, dust-covered, dark-stained uniform. And that was how Pasha's cavalry career came to an end. That one fierce charge was his last.

* * * * *

In the Washington home of a certain Maine Congressman you may see, hung in a place of honor and lavishly framed, the picture of a horse. It is very creditably done in oils, is this picture. It is of a cream-white horse, with an arched neck, clean, slim legs, and a splendid flowing tail.

Should you have any favors of state to ask of this Maine Congressman it would be the wise thing, before stating your request, to say something nice about the horse in the picture. Then the Congressman will probably say, looking fondly at the picture: "I must tell Lou--er--my wife, you know, what you have said. Yes, that was Pasha. He saved my neck at Brandy Station. He was one-half Arab, Pasha was, and the other half, sir, was human."

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Louisa de la Ramée (1839-1908), an English novelist, is generally known by her pseudonym "Ouida," which was the result of a child's attempt to pronounce her first name. Her novels had strong popular qualities: intensely dramatic, with sentiment rather high-pitched and always verging on the sensational. The intense human interest is constantly present in her work and accounts for her great vogue. Two of her stories, "The Dog of Flanders" and "Moufflou," have gained a permanent place in juvenile literature. They are popular among sixth, seventh, and eighth grade pupils.

MOUFFLOU

"OUIDA"

Moufflou's masters were some boys and girls. They were very poor, but they were very merry. They lived in an old, dark, tumble-down place, and their father had been dead five years; their mother's care was all they knew; and Tasso was the eldest of them all, a lad of nearly twenty, and he was so kind, so good, so laborious, so cheerful, so gentle, that the children all younger than he adored him. Tasso was a gardener. Tasso, however, though the eldest and mainly the bread-winner, was not so much Moufflou's master as was little Romolo, who was only ten, and a cripple. Romolo, called generally Lolo, had taught Moufflou all he knew; and that all was a very great deal, for nothing cleverer than was Moufflou had ever walked upon four legs.

Why Moufflou?

Well, when the poodle had been given to them by a soldier who was going back to his home in Piedmont, he had been a white woolly creature a year old, and the children's mother, who was a Corsican by birth, had said that he was just like a _moufflon_, as they call sheep in Corsica. White and woolly this dog remained, and he became the handsomest and biggest poodle in all the city, and the corruption of Moufflou from Moufflon remained the name by which he was known; it was silly, perhaps, but it suited him and the children, and Moufflou he was.

They lived in an old quarter of Florence, in that picturesque zigzag which goes round the grand church of Or San Michele, and which is almost more Venetian than Tuscan in its mingling of color, charm, stateliness, popular confusion, and architectural majesty. The tall old houses are weather-beaten into the most delicious hues; the pavement is enchantingly encumbered with peddlers and stalls and all kinds of trades going on in the open air, in that bright, merry, beautiful Italian custom which, alas, alas! is being driven away by new-fangled laws which deem it better for the people to be stuffed up in close, stewing rooms without air, and would fain do away with all the good-tempered politics and the sensible philosophies and the wholesome chatter which the open-street trades and street gossipry encourage, for it is good for the populace to _sfogare_ and in no other way can it do so one-half so innocently. Drive it back into musty shops, and it is driven at once to mutter sedition. . . . But you want to hear about Moufflou.

Well, Moufflou lived here in that high house with the sign of the lamb in wrought iron, which shows it was once a warehouse of the old guild of the Arte della Lana. They are all old houses here, drawn round about that grand church which I called once, and will call again, like a mighty casket of oxidized silver. A mighty casket indeed, holding the Holy Spirit within it; and with the vermilion and the blue and the orange glowing in its niches and its lunettes like enamels, and its statues of the apostles strong and noble, like the times in which they were created,--St. Peter with his keys, and St. Mark with his open book, and St. George leaning on his sword, and others also, solemn and austere as they, austere though benign, for do they not guard the White Tabernacle of Oreagna within?

The church stands firm as a rock, square as a fortress of stone, and the winds and the waters of the skies may beat about it as they will, they have no power to disturb its sublime repose. Sometimes I think of all the noble things in all our Italy Or San Michele is the noblest, standing there in its stern magnificence, amidst people's hurrying feet and noisy laughter, a memory of God.

The little masters of Moufflou lived right in its shadow, where the bridge of stone spans the space between the houses and the church high in mid-air; and little Lolo loved the church with a great love. He loved it in the morning-time, when the sunbeams turned it into dusky gold and jasper; he loved it in the evening-time, when the lights of its altars glimmered in the dark, and the scent of its incense came out into the street; he loved it in the great feasts, when the huge clusters of lilies were borne inside it; he loved it in the solemn nights of winter; the flickering gleam of the dull lamps shone on the robes of an apostle, or the sculpture of a shield, or the glow of a casement-moulding in majolica. He loved it always, and, without knowing why, he called it _la mia chiesa_.

Lolo, being lame and of delicate health, was not enabled to go to school or to work, though he wove the straw covering of wine-flasks and plaited the cane matting with busy fingers. But for the most part he did as he liked, and spent most of his time sitting on the parapet of Or San Michele, watching the venders of earthenware at their trucks, or trotting with his crutch (and he could trot a good many miles when he chose) out with Moufflou down a bit of the Stocking-makers' Street, along under the arcades of the Uffizi, and so over the Jewellers' Bridge, and out of byways that he knew into the fields on the hill-side upon the other bank of Arno. Moufflou and he would spend half the day--all the day--out there in daffodil-time; and Lolo would come home with great bundles and sheaves of golden flowers, and he and Moufflou were happy.

His mother never liked to say a harsh word to Lolo, for he was lame through her fault; she had let him fall in his babyhood, and the mischief had been done to his hip never again to be undone. So she never raised her voice to him, though she did often to the others,--to curly-pated Cecco, and pretty black-eyed Dina, and saucy Bice, and sturdy Beppo, and even to the good, manly, hard-working Tasso. Tasso was the mainstay of the whole, though he was but a gardener's lad, working in the green Cascine at small wages. But all he earned he brought home to his mother; and he alone kept in order the lazy, high-tempered Sandro, and he alone kept in check Bice's love of finery, and he alone could with shrewdness and care make both ends meet and put _minestra_ always in the pot and bread always in the cupboard.

When his mother thought, as she thought indeed almost ceaselessly, that with a few months he would be of the age to draw his number, and might draw a high one and be taken from her for three years, the poor soul believed her very heart would burst and break; and many a day at twilight she would start out unperceived and creep into the great church and pour her soul forth in supplication before the White Tabernacle.

Yet, pray as she would, no miracle could happen to make Tasso free of military service: if he drew a fatal number, go he must, even though he take all the lives of them to their ruin with him.

One morning Lolo sat as usual on the parapet of the church, Moufflou beside him. It was a brilliant morning in September. The men at the hand-barrows and at the stall were selling the crockery, the silk handkerchiefs, and the straw hats which form the staple of the commerce that goes on round about Or San Michele,--very blithe, good-natured, gay commerce, for the most part, not got through, however, of course, without bawling and screaming, and shouting and gesticulating, as if the sale of a penny pipkin or a twopenny pie-pan were the occasion for the exchange of many thousands of pounds sterling and cause for the whole world's commotion. It was about eleven o'clock; the poor petitioners were going in for alms to the house of the fraternity of San Giovanni Battista; the barber at the corner was shaving a big man with a cloth tucked about his chin, and his chair set well out on the pavement; the sellers of the pipkins and pie-pans were screaming till they were hoarse, "_Un soldo l'uno, due soldi tre!_" big bronze bells were booming till they seemed to clang right up to the deep-blue sky; some brethren of the Misericordia went by bearing a black bier; a large sheaf of glowing flowers--dahlias, zinnias, asters, and daturas--was borne through the huge arched door of the church near St. Mark and his open book. Lolo looked on at it all, and so did Moufflou, and a stranger looked at them as he left the church.

"You have a handsome poodle there, my little man," he said to Lolo, in a foreigner's too distinct and careful Italian.

"Moufflou is beautiful," said Lolo, with pride. "You should see him when he is just washed; but we can only wash him on Sundays, because then Tasso is at home."

"How old is your dog?"

"Three years old."

"Does he do any tricks?"

"Does he!" said Lolo, with a very derisive laugh: "why, Moufflou can do anything! He can walk on two legs ever so long; make ready, present, and fire; die; waltz; beg, of course; shut a door; make a wheelbarrow of himself; there is nothing he will not do. Would you like to see him do something?"

"Very much," said the foreigner.

To Moufflou and to Lolo the street was the same thing as home; this cheery _piazzetta_ by the church, so utterly empty sometimes, and sometimes so noisy and crowded, was but the wider threshold of their home to both the poodle and the child.

So there, under the lofty and stately walls of the old church, Lolo put Moufflou through his exercises. They were second nature to Moufflou, as to most poodles. He had inherited his address at them from clever parents, and, as he had never been frightened or coerced, all his lessons and acquirements were but play to him. He acquitted himself admirably, and the crockery-venders came and looked on, and a sacristan came out of the church and smiled, and the barber left his customer's chin all in a lather while he laughed, for the good folk of the quarter were all proud of Moufflou and never tired of him, and the pleasant, easy-going, good-humored disposition of the Tuscan populace is so far removed from the stupid buckram and whale-bone in which the new-fangled democracy wants to imprison it.

The stranger also was much diverted by Moufflou's talents, and said, half aloud, "How this clever dog would amuse poor Victor! Would you bring your poodle to please a sick child I have at home!" he said, quite aloud, to Lolo, who smiled and answered that he would. Where was the sick child?

"At the Gran Bretagna; not far off," said the gentleman. "Come this afternoon, and ask for me by this name."

He dropped his card and a couple of francs into Lolo's hand, and went his way. Lolo, with Moufflou scampering after him, dashed into his own house, and stumped up the stairs, his crutch making a terrible noise on the stone.

"Mother, mother! see what I have got because Moufflou did his tricks," he shouted. "And now you can buy those shoes you want so much, and the coffee that you miss so of a morning, and the new linen for Tasso, and the shirts for Sandro."

For to the mind of Lolo two francs was as two millions,--source unfathomable of riches inexhaustible!

With the afternoon he and Moufflou trotted down the arcades of the Uffizi and down the Lung' Arno to the hotel of the stranger, and, showing the stranger's card, which Lolo could not read, they were shown at once into a great chamber, all gilding and fresco and velvet furniture.

But Lolo, being a little Florentine, was never troubled by externals, or daunted by mere sofas and chairs: he stood and looked around him with perfect composure; and Moufflou, whose attitude, when he was not romping, was always one of magisterial gravity, sat on his haunches and did the same.

Soon the foreigner he had seen in the forenoon entered and spoke to him, and led him into another chamber, where stretched on a couch was a little wan-faced boy about seven years old; a pretty boy, but so pallid, so wasted, so helpless. This poor little boy was heir to a great name and a great fortune, but all the science in the world could not make him strong enough to run about among the daisies, or able to draw a single breath without pain. A feeble smile lit up his face as he saw Moufflou and Lolo; then a shadow chased it away.

"Little boy is lame like me," he said, in a tongue Lolo did not understand.

"Yes, but he is a strong little boy, and can move about, as perhaps the suns of his country will make you do," said the gentleman, who was the poor little boy's father. "He has brought you his poodle to amuse you. What a handsome dog! is it not?"

"Oh, _buffins_!" said the poor little fellow, stretching out his wasted hands to Moufflou, who submitted his leonine crest to the caress.

Then Lolo went through the performance, and Moufflou acquitted himself ably as ever; and the little invalid laughed and shouted with his tiny thin voice, and enjoyed it all immensely, and rained cakes and biscuits on both the poodle and its master. Lolo crumped the pastries with willing white teeth, and Moufflou did no less. Then they got up to go, and the sick child on the couch burst into fretful lamentations and outcries.

"I want the dog! I will have the dog!" was all he kept repeating.

But Lolo did not know what he said, and was only sorry to see him so unhappy.

"You shall have the dog to-morrow," said the gentleman, to pacify his little son; and he hurried Lolo and Moufflou out of the room, and consigned them to a servant, having given Lolo five francs this time.

"Why, Moufflou," said Lolo, with a chuckle of delight, "if we could find a foreigner every day, we could eat meat at supper, Moufflou, and go to the theatre every evening?"

And he and his crutch clattered home with great eagerness and excitement, and Moufflou trotted on his four frilled feet, the blue bow with which Bice had tied up his curls on the top of his head, fluttering in the wind. But, alas! even his five francs could bring no comfort at home. He found his whole family wailing and mourning in utterly inconsolable distress.

Tasso had drawn his number that morning, and the number was seven, and he must go and be a conscript for three years.

The poor young man stood in the midst of his weeping brothers and sisters, with his mother leaning against his shoulder, and down his own brown cheeks the tears were falling. He must go, and lose his place in the public gardens, and leave his people to starve as they might, and be put in a tomfool's jacket, and drafted off among cursing and swearing and strange faces, friendless, homeless, miserable! And the mother,--what would become of the mother?

Tasso was the best of lads and the mildest. He was quite happy sweeping up the leaves in the long alleys of the Cascine, or mowing the green lawns under the ilex avenues, and coming home at supper-time, among the merry little people and the good woman that he loved. He was quite contented; he wanted nothing, only to be let alone; and they would not let him alone. They would haul him away to put a heavy musket in his hand and a heavy knapsack on his back, and drill him, and curse him, and make him into a human target, a live popinjay.

No one had any heed for Lolo and his five francs, and Moufflou, understanding that some great sorrow had fallen on his friends, sat down and lifted up his voice and howled.

Tasso must go away!--that was all they understood. For three long years they must go without the sight of his face, the aid of his strength, the pleasure of his smile: Tasso must go! When Lolo understood the calamity that had befallen them, he gathered Moufflou up against his breast, and sat down too on the floor beside him and cried as if he would never stop crying.

There was no help for it; it was one of those misfortunes which are, as we say in Italian, like a tile tumbled on the head. The tile drops from a height, and the poor head bows under the unseen blow. That is all.

"What is the use of that?" said the mother, passionately, when Lolo showed her his five francs. "It will not buy Tasso's discharge."

Lolo felt that his mother was cruel and unjust, and crept to bed with Moufflou. Moufflou always slept on Lolo's feet.

The next morning Lolo got up before sunrise, and he and Moufflou accompanied Tasso to his work in the Cascine.

Lolo loved his brother, and clung to every moment whilst they could still be together.

"Can nothing keep you, Tasso?" he said, despairingly, as they went down the leafy aisles, whilst the Arno water was growing golden as the sun rose.

Tasso sighed.

"Nothing, dear. Unless Gesu would send me a thousand francs to buy a substitute."

And he knew he might as well have said, "If one could coin gold ducats out of the sunbeams on Arno water."

Lolo was very sorrowful as he lay on the grass in the meadow where Tasso was at work, and the poodle lay stretched beside him.

When Lolo went home to dinner (Tasso took his wrapped in a handkerchief) he found his mother very agitated and excited. She was laughing one moment, crying the next. She was passionate and peevish, tender and jocose by turns; there was something forced and feverish about her which the children felt but did not comprehend. She was a woman of not very much intelligence, and she had a secret, and she carried it ill, and knew not what to do with it; but they could not tell that. They only felt a vague sense of disturbance and timidity at her unwonted manner.

The meal over (it was only bean-soup, and that is soon eaten), the mother said sharply to Lolo, "Your aunt Anita wants you this afternoon. She has to go out, and you are needed to stay with the children: be off with you."

Lolo was an obedient child; he took his hat and jumped up as quickly as his halting hip would let him. He called Moufflou, who was asleep.

"Leave the dog," said his mother, sharply. "'Nita will not have him messing and carrying mud about her nice clean rooms. She told me so. Leave him. I say."

"Leave Moufflou!" echoed Lolo, for never in all Moufflou's life had Lolo parted from him. Leave Moufflou! He stared open-eyed and open-mouthed at his mother. What could have come to her?

"Leave him, I say," she repeated, more sharply than ever. "Must I speak twice to my own children? Be off with you, and leave the dog, I say."

And she clutched Moufflou by his long silky mane and dragged him backwards, whilst with the other hand she thrust out of the door Lolo and Bice.

Lolo began to hammer with his crutch at the door thus closed on him; but Bice coaxed and entreated him.

"Poor mother has been so worried about Tasso," she pleaded. "And what harm can come to Moufflou? And I do think he was tired, Lolo; the Cascine is a long way; and it is quite true that Aunt 'Nita never liked him."

So by one means and another she coaxed her brother away; and they went almost in silence to where their Aunt Anita dwelt, which was across the river, near the dark-red bell-shaped dome of Santa Spirito.

It was true that her aunt had wanted them to mind her room and her babies whilst she was away carrying home some lace to a villa outside the Roman gate, for she was a lace-washer and clear-starcher by trade. There they had to stay in the little dark room with the two babies, with nothing to amuse the time except the clang of the bells of the church of the Holy Spirit, and the voices of the lemonade-sellers shouting in the street below. Aunt Anita did not get back till it was more than dusk, and the two children trotted homeward hand in hand, Lolo's leg dragging itself painfully along, for without Moufflou's white figure dancing on before him he felt very tired indeed. It was pitch dark when they got to Or San Michele, and the lamps burned dully.

Lolo stumped up the stairs wearily, with a vague, dull fear at his small heart.

"Moufflou, Moufflou!" he called. Where was Moufflou? Always at the first sound of his crutch the poodle came flying towards him. "Moufflou, Moufflou!" he called all the way up the long, dark twisting stone stair. He pushed open the door, and he called again, "Moufflou, Moufflou!"

But no dog answered to his call.

"Mother, where is Moufflou?" he asked, staring with blinking, dazzled eyes into the oil-lit room where his mother sat knitting. Tasso was not then home from work. His mother went on with her knitting; there was an uneasy look on her face.

"Mother, what have you done with Moufflou, _my_ Moufflou?" said Lolo, with a look that was almost stern on his ten-year-old face.

Then his mother, without looking up and moving her knitting-needles very rapidly, said,--

"Moufflou is sold!"

And little Dina, who was a quick, pert child, cried, with a shrill voice,--

"Mother has sold him for a thousand francs to the foreign gentleman."

"Sold him!"

Lolo grew white and grew cold as ice; he stammered, threw up his hands over his head, gasped a little for breath, then fell down in a dead swoon, his poor useless limb doubled under him.

When Tasso came home that sad night and found his little brother shivering, moaning, and half delirious, and when he heard what had been done, he was sorely grieved.

"Oh, mother, how could you do it?" he cried. "Poor, poor Moufflou! and Lolo loves him so!"

"I have got the money," said his mother, feverishly, "and you will not need to go for a soldier: we can buy your substitute. What is a poodle, that you mourn about it? We can get another poodle for Lolo."

"Another will not be Moufflou," said Tasso, and yet was seized with such a frantic happiness himself at the knowledge that he would not need go to the army, that he too felt as if he were drunk on new wine, and had not the heart to rebuke his mother.

"A thousand francs!" he muttered; "a thousand francs! _Dio mio!_ Who could ever have fancied anybody would have given such a price for a common white poodle? One would think the gentleman had bought the church and the tabernacle!"

"Fools and their money are soon parted," said his mother, with cross contempt.

It was true: she had sold Moufflou.

The English gentleman had called on her while Lolo and the dog had been in the Cascine, and had said that he was desirous of buying the poodle, which had so diverted his sick child that the little invalid would not be comforted unless he possessed it. Now, at any other time the good woman would have sturdily refused any idea of selling Moufflou; but that morning the thousand francs which would buy Tasso's substitute were forever in her mind and before her eyes. When she heard the foreigner her heart gave a great leap, and her head swam giddily, and she thought, in a spasm of longing--if she could get those thousand francs! But though she was so dizzy and so upset she retained her grip on her native Florentine shrewdness. She said nothing of her need of the money; not a syllable of her sore distress. On the contrary, she was coy and wary, affected great reluctance to part with her pet, invented a great offer made for him by a director of a circus, and finally let fall a hint that less than a thousand francs she could never take for poor Moufflou.

The gentleman assented with so much willingness to the price that she instantly regretted not having asked double. He told her that if she would take the poodle that afternoon to his hotel the money should be paid to her; so she despatched her children after their noonday meal in various directions, and herself took Moufflou to his doom. She could not believe her senses when ten hundred-franc notes were put into her hand. She scrawled her signature, Rosina Calabucci, to a formal receipt, and went away, leaving Moufflou in his new owner's rooms, and hearing his howls and moans pursue her all the way down the staircase and out into the air.

She was not easy at what she had done.

"It seemed," she said to herself, "like selling a Christian."

But then to keep her eldest son at home,--what a joy that was! On the whole, she cried so and laughed so as she went down the Lung' Arno that once or twice people looked at her, thinking her out of her senses, and a guard spoke to her angrily.

Meanwhile, Lolo was sick and delirious with grief. Twenty times he got out of his bed and screamed to be allowed to go with Moufflou, and twenty times his mother and his brothers put him back again and held him down and tried in vain to quiet him.

The child was beside himself with misery. "Moufflou! Moufflou!" he sobbed at every moment; and by night he was in a raging fever, and when his mother, frightened, ran in and called in the doctor of the quarter, that worthy shook his head and said something as to a shock of the nervous system, and muttered a long word,--"meningitis."

Lolo took a hatred to the sight of Tasso, and thrust him away, and his mother too.

"It is for you Moufflou is sold," he said, with his little teeth and hands tight clinched.

After a day or two Tasso felt as if he could not bear his life, and went down to the hotel to see if the foreign gentleman would allow him to have Moufflou back for half an hour to quiet his little brother by a sight of him. But at the hotel he was told that the _Milord Inglese_ who had bought the dog of Rosina Calabucci had gone that same night of the purchase to Rome, to Naples, to Palermo, _chi sa_?

"And Moufflou with him?" asked Tasso.

"The _barbone_ he had bought went with him," said the porter of the hotel. "Such a beast! Howling, shrieking, raging all the day, and all the paint scratched off the _salon_ door."

Poor Moufflou! Tasso's heart was heavy as he heard of that sad helpless misery of their bartered favorite and friend.

"What matter?" said his mother, fiercely, when he told her. "A dog is a dog. They will feed him better than we could. In a week he will have forgotten--_che!_"

But Tasso feared that Moufflou would not forget. Lolo certainly would not. The doctor came to the bedside twice a day, and ice and water were kept on the aching hot little head that had got the malady with the long name, and for the chief part of the time Lolo lay quiet, dull, and stupid, breathing heavily, and then at intervals cried and sobbed and shrieked hysterically for Moufflou.

"Can you not get what he calls for to quiet him with a sight of it?" said the doctor. But that was not possible, and poor Rosina covered her head with her apron and felt a guilty creature.

"Still, you will not go to the army," she said to Tasso. Clinging to that immense joy for her consolation. "Only think! we can pay Guido Squarcione to go for you. He always said he would go if anybody would pay him. Oh, my Tasso, surely to keep you is worth a dog's life!"

"And Lolo's?" said Tasso, gloomily. "Nay, mother, it works ill to meddle too much with fate. I drew my number; I was bound to go. Heaven would have made it up to you somehow."

"Heaven sent me the foreigner; the Madonna's own self sent him to ease a mother's pain," said Rosina, rapidly and angrily. "There are the thousand francs safe to hand in the _cassone_, and what, pray, is it we miss? Only a dog like a sheep, that brought gallons of mud in with him every time it rained, and ate as much as any one of you."

"But Lolo?" said Tasso, under his breath.

His mother was so irritated and so tormented by her own conscience that she upset all the cabbage broth into the burning charcoal.

"Lolo was always a little fool, thinking of nothing but the church and the dog and nasty field-flowers," she said, angrily. "I humored him ever too much because of the hurt to his hip, and so--and so--"

Then the poor soul made matters worse by dropping her tears into the saucepan, and fanning the charcoal so furiously that the flame caught her fan of cane-leaves, and would have burned her arm had not Tasso been there.

"You are my prop and safety always. Who would not have done what I did? Not Santa Felicita herself," she said, with a great sob.

But all this did not cure poor Lolo.

The days and the weeks of the golden autumn weather passed away, and he was always in danger, and the small close room where he slept with Sandro and Beppo and Tasso was not one to cure such an illness as had now beset him. Tasso went to his work with a sick heart in the Cascine, where the colchicum was all lilac among the meadow grass, and the ashes and elms were taking their first flush of the coming autumnal change. He did not think Lolo would ever get well, and the good lad felt as if he had been the murderer of his little brother.

True, he had had no hand or voice in the sale of Moufflou, but Moufflou had been sold for his sake. It made him feel half guilty, very unhappy, quite unworthy of all the sacrifice that had been made for him. "Nobody should meddle with fate," thought Tasso, who knew his grandfather had died in San Bonifazio because he had driven himself mad over the dream-book trying to get lucky numbers for the lottery and become a rich man at a stroke.

It was rapture, indeed, to know that he was free of the army for a time at least, that he might go on undisturbed at his healthful labor, and get a rise in wages as time went on, and dwell in peace with his family, and perhaps--perhaps in time earn enough to marry pretty flaxen-haired Biondina, the daughter of the barber in the piazzetta. It was rapture indeed; but then poor Moufflou!--and poor, poor Lolo! Tasso felt as if he had bought his own exemption by seeing his little brother and the good dog torn in pieces and buried alive for his service.

And where was poor Moufflou?

Gone far away somewhere south in the hurrying, screeching, vomiting, braying train it made Tasso giddy only to look at as it rushed by the green meadows beyond the Cascine on its way to the sea.

"If he could see the dog he cries so for, it might save him," said the doctor, who stood with grave face watching Lolo.

But that was beyond any one's power. No one could tell where Moufflou was. He might be carried away to England, to France, to Russia, to America,--who could say? They did not know where his purchaser had gone. Moufflou even might be dead.

The poor mother, when the doctor said that, went and looked at the ten hundred-franc notes that were once like angels' faces to her, and said to them,--

"Oh, you children of Satan, why did you tempt me? I sold the poor, innocent, trustful beast to get you, and now my child is dying!"

Her eldest son would stay at home, indeed; but if this little lame one died! Rosina Calabucci would have given up the notes and consented never to own five francs in her life if only she could have gone back over the time and kept Moufflou, and seen his little master running out with him into the sunshine.

More than a month went by, and Lolo lay in the same state, his yellow hair shorn, his eyes dilated and yet stupid, life kept in him by a spoonful of milk, a lump of ice, a drink of lemon-water; always muttering, when he spoke at all, "Moufflou, Moufflou, _dov' e_ Moufflou?" and lying for days together in somnolence and unconsciousness, with the fire eating at his brain and the weight lying on it like a stone.

The neighbors were kind, and brought fruit and the like, and sat up with him, and chattered so all at once in one continuous brawl that they were enough in themselves to kill him, for such is ever the Italian fashion of sympathy in all illness.

But Lolo did not get well, did not even seem to see the light at all, or to distinguish any sounds around him; and the doctor in plain words told Rosina Calabucci that her little boy must die. Die, and the church so near! She could not believe it. Could St. Mark, and St. George, and the rest that he had loved so do nothing for him? No, said the doctor, they could do nothing; the dog might do something, since the brain had so fastened on that one idea; but then they had sold the dog.

"Yes; I sold him!" said the poor mother, breaking into floods of remorseful tears.

So at last the end drew so nigh that one twilight time the priest came out of the great arched door that is next it. Mark, with the Host uplifted, and a little acolyte ringing the bell before it, and passed across the piazzetta, and went up the dark staircase of Rosina's dwelling, and passed through the weeping, terrified children, and went to the bedside of Lolo.

Lolo was unconscious, but the holy man touched his little body and limbs with the sacred oil, and prayed over him, and then stood sorrowful with bowed head.

Lolo had had his first communion in the summer, and in his preparation for it had shown an intelligence and devoutness that had won the priest's gentle heart.

Standing there, the holy man commended the innocent soul to God. It was the last service to be rendered to him save that very last of all when the funeral office should be read above his little grave among the millions of nameless dead at the sepulchres of the poor at Trebbiano.

All was still as the priest's voice ceased; only the sobs of the mother and of the children broke the stillness as they kneeled; the hand of Biondina had stolen into Tasso's.

Suddenly, there was a loud scuffling noise; hurrying feet came patter, patter, patter up the stairs, a ball of mud and dust flew over the heads of the kneeling figures, fleet as the wind Moufflou dashed through the room and leaped upon the bed.

Lolo opened his heavy eyes, and a sudden light of consciousness gleamed in them like a sunbeam. "Moufflou!" he murmured, in his little thin faint voice. The dog pressed close to his breast and kissed his wasted face.

Moufflou was come home!

And Lolo came home too, for death let go its hold upon him. Little by little, very faintly and flickeringly and very uncertainly at the first, life returned to the poor little body, and reason to the tormented, heated little brain. Moufflou was his physician; Moufflou, who, himself a skeleton under his matted curls, would not stir from his side and looked at him all day long with two beaming brown eyes full of unutterable love.

Lolo was happy; he asked no questions,--was too weak, indeed, even to wonder. He had Moufflou; that was enough.

Alas! though they dared not say so in his hearing, it was not enough for his elders. His mother and Tasso knew that the poodle had been sold and paid for; that they could lay no claim to keep him; and that almost certainly his purchaser would seek him out and assert his indisputable right to him. And then how would Lolo ever bear that second parting?--Lolo, so weak that he weighed no more than if he had been a little bird.

Moufflou had, no doubt, traveled a long distance and suffered much. He was but skin and bone; he bore the marks of blows and kicks; his once silken hair was all discolored and matted; he had, no doubt, traveled far. But then his purchaser would be sure to ask for him, soon or late, at his old home; and then? Well, then if they did not give him up themselves, the law would make them.

Rosina Calabucci and Tasso, though they dared say nothing before any of the children, felt their hearts in their mouths at every step on the stair, and the first interrogation of Tasso every evening when he came from his work was, "Has any one come for Moufflou?" For ten days no one came, and their first terrors lulled a little.

On the eleventh morning, a feast-day, on which Tasso was not going to his labors in the Cascine, there came a person, with a foreign look, who said the words they so much dreaded to hear: "Has the poodle that you sold to an English gentleman come back to you?"

Yes: his English master claimed him!

The servant said that they had missed the dog in Rome a few days after buying him and taking him there; that he had been searched for in vain, and that his master had thought it possible the animal might have found his way back to his old home: there had been stories of such wonderful sagacity in dogs: anyhow, he had sent for him on the chance; he was himself back on the Lung' Arno. The servant pulled from his pocket a chain, and said his orders were to take the poodle away at once: the little sick gentleman had fretted very much about his loss.

Tasso heard in a very agony of despair. To take Moufflou away now would be to kill Lolo,--Lolo so feeble still, so unable to understand, so passionately alive to every sight and sound of Moufflou, lying for hours together motionless with his hand buried in the poodle's curls, saying nothing, only smiling now and then, and murmuring a word or two in Moufflou's ear.

"The dog did come home," said Tasso, at length, in a low voice; "angels must have shown him the road, poor beast! From Rome! Only to think of it, from Rome! And he a dumb thing! I tell you he is here, honestly: so will you not trust me just so far as this? Will you let me go with you and speak to the English lord before you take the dog away? I have a little brother sorely ill--"

He could not speak more, for tears that choked his voice.

At last the messenger agreed so far as this: Tasso might go first and see the master, but he would stay here and have a care they did not spirit the dog away,--"for a thousand francs were paid for him," added the man, "and a dog that can come all the way from Rome by itself must be an uncanny creature."

Tasso thanked him, went up-stairs, was thankful that his mother was at mass and could not dispute with him, took the ten hundred-franc notes from the old oak _cassone_, and with them in his breast-pocket walked out into the air. He was but a poor working lad, but he had made up his mind to do an heroic act. He went straightway to the hotel where the English _milord_ was, and when he had got there remembered that still he did not know the name of Moufflou's owner; but the people of the hotel knew him as Rosina Calabucci's son, and guessed what he wanted, and said the gentleman who had lost the poodle was within, up-stairs, and they would tell him.

Tasso waited some half-hour with his heart beating sorely against the packet of hundred-franc notes. At last he was beckoned up-stairs, and there he saw a foreigner with a mild fair face, and a very lovely lady, and a delicate child who was lying on a couch. "Moufflou! Where is Moufflou?" cried the little child, impatiently, as he saw the youth enter.

Tasso took his hat off, and stood in the door-way an embrowned, healthy, not ungraceful figure, in his working-clothes of rough blue stuff.

"If you please, most illustrious," he stammered, "poor Moufflou has come home."

The child gave a cry of delight; the gentleman and lady one of wonder. Come home! All the way from Rome!

"Yes, he has, most illustrious," said Tasso, gaining courage and eloquence; "and now I want to beg something of you. We are poor, and I drew a bad number, and it was for that my mother sold Moufflou. For myself, I did not know anything of it; but she thought she would buy my substitute, and of course she could; but Moufflou is come home, and my little brother Lolo, the little boy your most illustrious first saw playing with the poodle, fell ill of the grief of losing Moufflou, and for a month has lain saying nothing sensible, but only calling for the dog, and my old grandfather died of worrying himself mad over the lottery numbers, and Lolo was so near dying that the Blessed Host had been brought, and the holy oil had been put on him, when all at once there rushes in Moufflou, skin and bone, and covered with mud, and at the sight of him Lolo comes back to his senses, and that is now ten days ago, and though Lolo is still as weak as a new-born thing, he is always sensible, and takes what we give him to eat, and lies always looking at Moufflou, and smiling, and saying, 'Moufflou! Moufflou!' and, most illustrious, I know well you have bought the dog, and the law is with you, and by the law you claim it, but I thought perhaps, as Lolo loves him so, you would let us keep the dog, and would take back the thousand francs, and myself I will go and be a soldier, and heaven will take care of them all somehow."

Then Tasso, having said all this in one breathless, monotonous recitative, took the thousand francs out of his breast-pocket and held them out timidly towards the foreign gentleman, who motioned them aside and stood silent.

"Did you understand, Victor?" he said, at last, to his little son.

The child hid his face in his cushions.

"Yes, I did understand something: let Lolo keep him; Moufflou was not happy with me."

But he burst out crying as he said it.

Moufflou had run away from him.

Moufflou had never loved him, for all his sweet cakes and fond caresses and platefuls of delicate savory meats. Moufflou had run away and found his own road over two hundred miles and more to go back to some little hungry children, who never had enough to eat themselves and so, certainly, could never give enough to eat to the dog. Poor little boy! He was so rich and so pampered and so powerful, and yet he could never make Moufflou love him!

Tasso, who understood nothing that was said, laid the ten hundred-franc notes down on a table near him.

"If you would take them, most illustrious, and give me back what my mother wrote when she sold Moufflou," he said, timidly, "I would pray for you night and day, and Lolo would too; and as for the dog, we will get a puppy and train him for your little _signorino_; they can all do tricks, more or less, it comes by nature; and as for me, I will go to the army willingly; it is not right to interfere with fate; my old grandfather died mad because he would try to be a rich man, by dreaming about it and pulling destiny by the ears, as if she were a kicking mule; only, I do pray of you, do not take away Moufflou. And to think he trotted all those miles and miles, and you carried him by train too, and he never could have seen the road, and he had no power of speech to ask--"

Tasso broke down again in his eloquence, and drew the back of his hand across his wet eyelashes.

The English gentleman was not altogether unmoved.

"Poor faithful dog!" he said, with a sigh. "I am afraid we were very cruel to him, meaning to be kind. No; we will not claim him, and I do not think you should go for a soldier; you seem so good a lad, and your mother must need you. Keep the money, my boy, and in payment you shall train up the puppy you talk of, and bring him to my little boy. I will come and see your mother and Lolo to-morrow. All the way from Rome! What wonderful sagacity! what matchless fidelity!"

You can imagine, without any telling of mine, the joy that reigned in Moufflou's home when Tasso returned thither with the money and the good tidings both. His substitute was bought without a day's delay, and Lolo rapidly recovered. As for Moufflou, he could never tell them his troubles, his wanderings, his difficulties, his perils; he could never tell them by what miraculous knowledge he had found his way across Italy, from the gates of Rome to the gates of Florence. But he soon grew plump again, and merry, and his love for Lolo was yet greater than before.

By the winter all the family went to live on an estate near Spezia that the English gentleman had purchased, and there Moufflou was happier than ever. The little English boy is gaining strength in the soft air, and he and Lolo are great friends, and play with Moufflou and the poodle puppy half the day upon the sunny terraces and under the green orange boughs. Tasso is one of the gardeners there; he will have to serve as a soldier probably in some category or another, but he is safe for the time, and is happy. Lolo, whose lameness will always exempt him from military service, when he grows to be a man means to be a florist, and a great one. He has learned to read, as the first step on the road of his ambition.

"But oh, Moufflou, how _did_ you find your way home?" he asks the dog a hundred times a week.

How indeed!

No one ever knew how Moufflou had made that long journey on foot, so many weary miles; but beyond a doubt he had done it alone and unaided, for if any one had helped him they would have come home with him to claim the reward.

393

Olive Thorne Miller (1831-1918) is remembered in the history of American juvenile literature as a writer on birds. Her purpose was to show truly the characteristics and habits of the "little brothers of the air." The following selection illustrates the style of much of her work. Some of her books that may appropriately be used as literature in the third, fourth, or fifth grade are _The Children's Book of Birds_, _Little Brothers of the Air_, _Little Folks in Feathers and Fur_, and _Four Handed Folk_. (The selection that follows is from the first-named book, and is used by permission of and by special arrangement with the publishers, The Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.)

BIRD HABITS

OLIVE THORNE MILLER

I. WHERE HE SLEEPS

Most birds sleep on their feet.

You know how a canary goes to sleep, all puffed out like a ball, with his head buried in the feathers of his shoulder. He may stick his bill over behind the top of the wing, but he never "puts his head under his wing," as you have heard.

Sometimes he stands straight up on one leg, with the other drawn up out of sight in his feathers, but more often he sits down on the perch, still resting on his feet. Most wild birds of the perching kind sleep in the same way.

It is only lately that we have begun to find out where birds sleep, because it is dark when they go to bed, and they get up before it is light enough for us to see them.

The only way to catch them in bed is to go out in the evening, and start them up after they have gone to sleep. And this is not very kind to the poor little birds. Some men who are trying to learn about the habits of birds have tried this way, and so have found out some of their sleeping-places.

One thing they have learned is that the nest is not often used for a bed, except for the mother while she is sitting and keeping her little ones warm.

Robins and orioles, and others, creep into the thick branches of an evergreen tree, close up to the trunk. Some crawl under the edge of a haystack, others into thick vines or thorny bushes. All these are meant for hiding-places, so that beasts that prowl about at night, and like to eat birds, will not find them.

Tree sparrows like to sleep in holes in the ground like little caves. The men who found these cosy little bedrooms think they are places dug out by field mice, and other small animals, for their own use. And when they are left, the birds are glad to take them.

When the weather is cold, some birds sleep under the snow. You may think that would not be very warm, and it is not so warm as a bed in the house with plenty of blankets. But it is much warmer than a perch in a tree, with nothing but leaves to keep off the wind.

While the snow is falling, some birds find it as good as blankets for their use. Grouse, who live on the ground, dive into a snow-bank and snuggle down quietly, while the snow falls and covers them all over and keeps the cold wind off. Air comes through the snow, so they do not smother.

Some birds creep into a pile of brush that is covered with snow, and find under the twigs little places like tents, where the snow has been kept out by the twigs, and they sleep there, away from the wind and storm outside.

Water birds find the best sleeping-places on the water, where they float all night like tiny boats. Some of them leave one foot hanging down and paddling a little, while they sleep, to keep from being washed to the shore.

Bob-white and his family sleep in a close circle on the ground, all with their heads turned outward, so that they can see or hear an enemy, whichever way he comes.

Hawks and eagles are said to sleep standing, never sitting on the feet like a canary. Some ducks and geese do even more: they sleep standing on one foot. Woodpeckers and chimney swifts hang themselves up by their claws, using their stiff tail for a brace, as if it were a third leg.

Some birds, like the crows, sleep in great flocks. They agree upon a piece of woods, and all the crows for miles around come there every night. Sometimes thousands of them sleep in this one bedroom, called a crow roost. Robins do the same, after the young are big enough to fly so far.

Audubon, who has told us so much about birds, once found a hollow tree which was the sleeping-room of chimney swifts. The noise they made going out in the morning was like the roar of a great mill-wheel.

He wanted to see the birds asleep. So in the daytime, when they were away, he had a piece cut out at the foot of the tree, big enough to let him in, and then put back, so the birds would not notice anything unusual.

At night, after the swifts were abed, he took a dark lantern and went in. He turned the light upon them little by little, so as not to startle them. Then he saw the whole inside of the tree full of birds. They were hanging by their claws, side by side, as thick as they could hang. He thought there were as many as twelve thousand in that one bedroom.

II. HIS TRAVELS

Most of our birds take two long journeys every year, one in the fall to the south, and the other in the spring back to the north. These journeys are called "migrations."

The birds do not go all at once, but in many cases those of a kind who live near each other collect in a flock and travel together. Each species or kind has its own time to go.

It might be thought that it is because of the cold that so many birds move to a warmer climate. But it is not so; they are very well dressed to endure cold. Their feather suits are so warm that some of our smallest and weakest birds are able to stay with us, like the chickadee and the golden-crowned kinglet. It is simply because they cannot get food in winter, that they have to go.

The fall travel begins soon after the first of July. The bobolink is one of the first to leave us, though he does not start at once on his long journey. By that time his little folk are full grown, and can take care of themselves, and he is getting on his winter suit, or moulting.

Then some morning all the bobolinks in the country are turned out of their homes in the meadows, by men and horses and mowing machines, for at that time the long grass is ready to cut.

Then he begins to think about the wild rice that is getting just right to eat. Besides, he likes to take his long journey to South America in an easy way, stopping here and there as he goes. So some morning we miss his cheerful call, and if we go to the meadow we shall not be able to see a single bobolink.

There, too, are the swallows, who eat only small flying insects. As the weather grows cooler, these tiny flies are no longer to be found. So the swallows begin to flock, as it is called. For a few days they will be seen on fences and telegraph wires, chattering and making a great noise, and then some morning they will all be gone.

They spend some time in marshes and lonely places before they at last set out for the south.

As the days grow shorter and cooler, the warblers go. These are the bright-colored little fellows, who live mostly in the tops of trees. Then the orioles and the thrushes and the cuckoos leave us, and most birds who live on insects.

By the time that November comes in, few of them will be left. Birds who can live on seeds and winter berries, such as cedar-berries and partridge-berries, and others, often stay with us,--bluebirds, finches, and sometimes robins.

Many birds take their journey by night. Think of it! Tiny creatures, that all summer go to bed at dark, start off some night, when it seems as if they ought to be asleep, and fly all night in the dark.

When it grows light, they stop in some place where they can feed and rest. And the next night, or two or three nights later, they go on again. So they do until they reach their winter home, hundreds or thousands of miles away.

These night flyers are the timid birds, and those who live in the woods and do not like to be seen,--thrushes, wrens, vireos, and others. Birds with strong wings, who are used to flying hours every day, and bolder birds, who do not mind being seen, take their journey by daylight.

Most of them stop now and then, a day or two at a time, to feed and rest. They fly very high, and faster than our railroad trains can go.

In the spring the birds take their second long journey, back to their last year's home.

How they knew their way on these journeys, men have been for many years trying to find out. They have found that birds travel on regular roads, or routes, that follow the rivers and the shore of the ocean. They can see much better than we can, and even in the night they can see water.

One such road, or highway, is over the harbor of New York. When the statue of Liberty was set up on an island in the harbor a few years ago, it was put in the birds' path.

Usually they fly too high to mind it; but when there is a rain or fog they come much lower, and, sad to say, many of them fly against it and are killed.

We often see strange birds in our city streets and parks, while they are passing through on their migration, for they sometimes spend several days with us.

394

Ernest Thompson Seton (1860--) was born in England, but has lived most of his life in America. He began his career as an artist. He made more than 1,000 drawings of birds and animals for the _Century Dictionary_. Later he began to write about animals and has achieved unusual success in that field. His _Wild Animals at Home_, _Wild Animal Ways_, _The Biography of a Grizzly_, and _Wild Animals I Have Known_ are all greatly enjoyed by young people. ("The Poacher and the Silver Fox" is taken from the first-mentioned book, by permission of the publishers, Doubleday, Page & Co., Garden City, New York.)

THE POACHER AND THE SILVER FOX

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON

How is it that all mankind has a sneaking sympathy with a poacher? A burglar or a pickpocket has our unmitigated contempt; he clearly is a criminal; but you will notice that the poacher in the story is generally a reckless daredevil with a large and compensatory amount of good-fellow in his make-up--yes, I almost said, of good citizenship. I suppose, because in addition to the breezy, romantic character of his calling, seasoned with physical danger as well as moral risk, there is away down in human nature a strong feeling that, in spite of man-made laws, the ancient ruling holds that "wild game belongs to no man till some one makes it his property by capture." It may be wrong, it may be right, but I have heard this doctrine voiced by red men and white, as primitive law, once or twice; and have seen it lived up to a thousand times.

Well, Josh Cree was a poacher. This does not mean that every night in every month he went forth with nefarious tricks and tools, to steal the flesh and fur that legally were not his. Far from it. Josh never poached but once. But that's enough; he had crossed the line, and this is how it came about:

As you roll up the Yellowstone from Livingston to Gardiner you may note a little ranch-house on the west of the track with its log stables, its corral, its irrigation ditch, and its alfalfa patch of morbid green. It is a small affair, for it was founded by the handiwork of one honest man, who with his wife and small boy left Pennsylvania, braved every danger of the plains, and secured this claim in the late '80's. Old man Cree--he was only forty, but every married man is "Old Man" in the West--was ready to work at any honest calling from logging or sluicing to grading and muling. He was strong and steady, his wife was steady and strong. They saved their money, and little by little they got the small ranch-house built and equipped; little by little they added to their stock on the range with the cattle of a neighbour, until there came the happy day when they went to live on their own ranch--father, mother, and fourteen-year-old Josh, with every prospect of making it pay. The spreading of that white tablecloth for the first time was a real religious ceremony, and the hard workers gave thanks to the All-father for His blessing on their every effort.

One year afterward a new event brought joy: there entered happily into their happy house a little girl, and all the prairie smiled about them. Surely their boat was well beyond the breakers.

But right in the sunshine of their joy the trouble cloud arose to block the sky. Old man Cree was missing one day. His son rode long and far on the range for two hard days before he sighted a grazing pony, and down a rocky hollow near, found his father, battered and weak, near death, with a broken leg and a gash in his head.

He could only gasp "Water" as Josh hurried up, and the boy rushed off to fill his hat at the nearest stream.

They had no talk, for the father swooned after drinking, and Josh had to face the situation; but he was Western trained. He stripped himself of all spare clothing, and his father's horse of its saddle blanket; then, straightening out the sick man, he wrapped him in the clothes and blanket, and rode like mad for the nearest ranch-house. The neighbour, a young man, came at once, with a pot to make tea, an axe, and a rope. They found the older Cree conscious but despairing. A fire was made, and hot tea revived him. Then Josh cut two long poles from the nearest timber and made a stretcher, or travois, Indian fashion, the upper ends fast to the saddle of a horse, while the other ends trailed on the ground. Thus by a long, slow journey the wounded man got back. All he had prayed for was to get home. Every invalid is sure that if only he can get home all will soon be well. Mother was not yet strong, the baby needed much care, but Josh was a good boy, and the loving best of all was done for the sick one. His leg, set by the army surgeon of Fort Yellowstone, was knit again after a month, but had no power. He had no force; the shock of those two dire days was on him. The second month went by, and still he lay in bed. Poor Josh was the man of the place now, and between duties, indoors and out, he was worn body and soul.

Then it was clear they must have help. So Jack S---- was engaged at the regular wages of $40 a month for outside work, and a year of struggle went by, only to see John Cree in his grave, his cattle nearly all gone, his widow and boy living in a house on which was still $500 of the original mortgage. Josh was a brave boy and growing strong, but unboyishly grave with the weight of care. He sold off the few cattle that were left, and set about keeping the roof over his mother and baby sister by working a truck farm for the market supplied by the summer hotels of the Park, and managed to come out even. He would in time have done well, but he could not get far enough ahead to meet that 10 per cent mortgage already overdue.

The banker was not a hard man, but he was in the business for the business. He extended the time, and waited for interest again and again, but it only made the principal larger, and it seemed that the last ditch was reached, that it would be best to let the money-man foreclose, though that must mean a wipe-out and would leave the fatherless family homeless.

Winter was coming on, work was scarce, and Josh went to Gardiner to see what he could get in the way of house or wage. He learned of a chance to 'substitute' for the Park mail-carrier, who had sprained his foot. It was an easy drive to Fort Yellowstone, and there he readily agreed, when they asked him, to take the letters and packages and go on farther to the Canyon Hotel. Thus it was that on the 20th day of November 189-, Josh Cree, sixteen years old, tall and ruddy, rode through the snow to the kitchen door of the Canyon Hotel and was welcomed as though he were old Santa Claus himself.

Two Magpies on a tree were among the onlookers. The Park Bears were denned up, but there were other fur-bearers about. High on the wood-pile sat a Yellow Red Fox in a magnificent coat. Another was in front of the house, and the keeper said that as many as a dozen came some days. And sometimes, he said, there also came a wonderful Silver Fox, a size bigger than the rest, black as coal, with eyes like yellow diamonds, and a silver frosting like little stars on his midnight fur.

"My! but he's a beauty. That skin would buy the best team of mules on the Yellowstone." That was interesting and furnished talk for a while. In the morning when they were rising for their candlelight breakfast, the hotel man glancing from the window exclaimed, "Here he is now!" and Josh peered forth to see in the light of sunrise something he had often heard of, but never before seen, a coal-black Fox, a giant among his kind. How slick and elegant his glossy fur, how slim his legs, and what a monstrous bushy tail; and the other Foxes moved aside as the patrician rushed in impatient haste to seize the food thrown out by the cook.

"Ain't he a beauty?" said the hotel man. "I'll bet that pelt would fetch five hundred."

Oh, why did he say "five hundred," the exact sum, for then it was that the tempter entered into Josh Cree's heart. Five hundred dollars! just the amount of the mortgage. "Who owns wild beasts? The man that kills them," said the tempter, and the thought was a live one in his breast as Josh rode back to Fort Yellowstone.

At Gardiner he received his pay, $6.00, for three days' work and, turning it into groceries, set out for the poor home that soon would be lost to him, and as he rode he did some hard and gloomy thinking. On his wrist there hung a wonderful Indian quirt of plaited rawhide and horsehair with beads on the shaft, and a band of Elk teeth on the butt. It was a pet of his, and "good medicine," for a flat piece of elkhorn let in the middle was perforated with a hole, through which the distant landscape was seen much clearer--a well-known law, an ancient trick, but it made the quirt prized as a thing of rare virtue, and Josh had refused good offers for it. Then a figure afoot was seen, and coming nearer, it turned out to be a friend, Jack Day, out a-gunning with a .22 rifle. But game was scarce and Jack was returning to Gardiner empty-handed and disgusted. They stopped for a moment's greeting when Day said: "Huntin's played out now. How'll you swap that quirt for my rifle?" A month before Josh would have scorned the offer. A ten-dollar quirt for a five-dollar rifle, but now he said briefly: "For rifle with cover, tools and ammunition complete, I'll go ye." So the deal was made and in an hour Josh was home. He stabled Grizzle, the last of their saddle stock, and entered.

Love and sorrow dwelt in the widow's home, but the return of Josh brought its measure of joy. Mother prepared the regular meal of tea, potatoes, and salt pork; there was a time when they had soared as high as canned goods, but those prosperous days were gone. Josh was dandling baby sister on his lap as he told of his trip, and he learned of two things of interest: First, the bank must have its money by February; second, the stable at Gardiner wanted a driver for the Cook City stage. Then the little events moved quickly. His half-formed plan of getting back to the Canyon was now frustrated by the new opening, and, besides this, hope had been dampened by the casual word of one who reported that "that Silver Fox had not been seen since at the Canyon."

Then began long days of dreary driving through the snow, with a noon halt at Yancey's and then three days later the return, in the cold, the biting cold. It was freezing work, but coldest of all was the chill thought at his heart that February 1st would see him homeless.

Small bands of Mountain Sheep he saw at times on the slope of Evarts, and a few Blacktail, and later, when the winter deepened, huge bull Elk were seen along the trail. Sometimes they moved not more than a few paces to let him pass. These were everyday things to him, but in the second week of his winter work he got a sudden thrill. He was coming down the long hill back of Yancey's when what should he see there, sitting on its tail, shiny black with yellow eyes like a huge black cat unusually long and sharp in the nose, but a wonderful Silver Fox! Possibly the same as the one he saw at the Canyon, for that one he knew had disappeared and there were not likely to be two in the Park. Yes, it might be the same, and Josh's bosom surged with mingled feelings. Why did he not carry that little gun? Why did he not realize? were the thoughts that came--$500! A noble chance! broad daylight only twenty-five yards! and gone!

The Fox was still there when Josh drove on. On the next trip he brought the little rifle. He had sawed off the stock so he could hide it easily in his overcoat if need be. No man knew that he carried arms, but the Foxes seemed to know. The Red ones kept afar and the Black one came no more. Day after day he drove and hoped but the Black Fox has cunning measured to his value. He came not, or if he came, was wisely hidden, and so the month went by, till late in the cold Moon of Snow he heard old Yancey say, "There's a Silver Fox bin a-hanging around the stable this last week. Leastwise Dave says he seen him." There were soldiers sitting around that stove, game guardians of the Park, and still more dangerous, a scout, the soldiers' guide, a mountaineer. Josh turned not an inch, he made no sound in response, but his heart gave a jump. Half an hour later he went out to bed his horses for the night, and peering around the stable he saw a couple of shadowy forms that silently shifted until swallowed by the gloom.

Then the soldiers came to bed their horses, and Josh went back to the stove. His big driving coat hung with the little sawed-off rifle in the long pocket. He waited till the soldiers one by one went up the ladder to the general bunk-room. He rose again, got the lantern, lighted it, carried it out behind the lonely stable. The horses were grinding their hay, the stars were faintly lighting the snow. There was no one about as he hung the lantern under the eaves outside so that it could be seen from the open valley, but not from the house.

A faint Yap-yah of a Fox was heard on the piney hillside, as he lay down on the hay in the loft, but there were no signs of life on the snow. He had come to wait all night if need be, and waited. The lantern might allure, it might scare, but it was needed in this gloom, and it tinged the snow with faint yellow light below him. An hour went by, then a big-tailed form came near and made a little bark at the lantern. It looked very dark, but it had a paler patch on the throat. This waiting was freezing work; Josh's teeth were chattering in spite of his overcoat. Another gray form came, then a much larger black one shaped itself on the white. It dashed at the first, which fled, and the second one followed but a little and then sat down on the snow, gazing at that bright light. When you are sure, you are so sure--Josh knew him now, he was facing the Silver Fox. But the light was dim. Josh's hand trembled as he bared it to lay the back on his lips and suck so as to make a mousey squeak. The effect on the Fox was instant. He glided forward intent as a hunting cat. Again he stood in, oh! such a wonderful pose, still as a statue, frozen like a hiding Partridge, unbudging as a lone kid Antelope in May. And Josh raised--yes, he had come for that--he raised that fatal gun. The lantern blazed in the Fox's face at twenty yards; the light was flung back doubled by its shining eyes; it looked perfectly clear. Josh lined the gun, but, strange to tell, the sights so plain were lost at once, and the gun was shaking like a sorghum stalk while the Gopher gnaws its root. He laid the weapon down with a groan, cursed his own poor trembling hand, and in an instant the wonder Fox was gone.

Poor Josh! He wasn't bad-tongued, but now he used all the evil words he had ever heard, and he was Western bred. Then he reacted on himself. "The Fox might come back!" Suddenly he remembered something. He got out a common sulphur match. He wet it on his lips and rubbed it on the muzzle sight: Then on each side of the notch on the breech sight. He lined it for a tree. Yes! surely! What had been a blur of blackness had now a visible form.

A faint bark on a far hillside might mean a coming or a going Fox. Josh waited five minutes, then again he squeaked on his bare hand. The effect was a surprise when from the shelter of the stable wall ten feet below there leaped the great dark Fox. At fifteen feet it paused. Those yellow orbs were fiery in the light and the rifle sights with the specks of fire were lined. There was a sharp report and the black-robed fur was still and limp in the snow.

Who can tell the crack of a small rifle among the louder cracks of green logs splitting with the fierce frost of a Yellowstone winter's night? Why should travel-worn travelers wake at each slight, usual sound? Who knows? Who cares?

And afar in Livingston what did the fur dealer care? It was a great prize. Or the banker? he got his five hundred, and mother found it easy to accept the Indians' creed: "Who owns wild beasts? The man who kills them."

"I did not know how it would come," she said; "I only knew it would come, for I prayed and believed."

We know that it came when it meant the most. The house was saved. It was the turn in their fortune's tide, and the crucial moment of the change was when those three bright sulphur spots were lined with the living lamps in the head of the Silver Fox. Yes! Josh was a poacher. Just once.

395

David Starr Jordan (1851--) was for many years president, now president emeritus, of Leland Stanford Junior University, and is known internationally for his books on science and on the prevention of war; he also is author of several books for children. The story that follows is taken from his _Science Sketches_, by permission of the publishers, A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago. It may stand as a perfect illustration of the modern informational story based on recognized scientific facts. "The Story of a Stone," from the same book, is equally good. These stories may be taught in the seventh or eighth grade.

THE STORY OF A SALMON

DAVID STARR JORDAN

In the realm of the Northwest Wind, on the boundary-line between the dark fir-forests and the sunny plains, there stands a mountain,--a great white cone two miles and a half in perpendicular height. On its lower mile the dense fir-woods cover it with never-changing green; on its next half-mile a lighter green of grass and bushes gives place in winter to white; and on its uppermost mile the snows of the great ice age still linger in unspotted purity. The people of Washington Territory say that their mountain is the great "King-pin of the Universe," which shows that even in its own country Mount Tacoma is not without honor.

Flowing down from the southwest slope of Mount Tacoma is a cold, clear river, fed by the melting snows of the mountain. Madly it hastens down over white cascades and beds of shining sands, through birch-woods and belts of dark firs, to mingle its waters at last with those of the great Columbia. This river is the Cowlitz; and on its bottom, not many years ago, there lay half buried in the sand a number of little orange-colored globules, each about as large as a pea. These were not much in themselves, but great in their possibilities. In the waters above them little suckers and chubs and prickly sculpins strained their mouths to draw these globules from the sand, and vicious-looking crawfishes picked them up with their blundering hands and examined them with their telescopic eyes. But one, at least, of the globules escaped their curiosity, else this story would not be worth telling. The sun shone down on it through the clear water, and the ripples of the Cowlitz said over it their incantations, and in it at last awoke a living being. It was a fish,--a curious little fellow, not half an inch long, with great, staring eyes, which made almost half his length, and with a body so transparent that he could not cast a shadow. He was a little salmon, a very little salmon; but the water was good, and there were flies and worms and little living creatures in abundance for him to eat, and he soon became a larger salmon. Then there were many more little salmon with him, some larger and some smaller, and they all had a merry time. Those who had been born soonest and had grown largest used to chase the others around and bite off their tails, or, still better, take them by the heads and swallow them whole; for, said they, "Even young salmon are good eating." "Heads I win, tails you lose," was their motto. Thus, what was once two small salmon became united into a single larger one, and the process of "addition, division, and silence" still went on. By-and-by, when all the salmon were too large to be swallowed, they began to grow restless. They saw that the water rushing by seemed to be in a great hurry to get somewhere, and it was somehow suggested that its hurry was caused by something good to eat at the other end of its course. Then they all started down the stream, salmon-fashion,--which fashion is to get into the current, head up-stream; and thus to drift backward as the river sweeps along.

Down the Cowlitz River the salmon went for a day and a night, finding much to interest them which we need not know. At last they began to grow hungry; and coming near the shore, they saw an angle-worm of rare size and beauty floating in an eddy of the stream. Quick as thought one of them opened his mouth, which was well filled with teeth of different sizes, and put it around the angle-worm. Quicker still he felt a sharp pain in his gills, followed by a smothering sensation, and in an instant his comrades saw him rise straight into the air. This was nothing new to them; for they often leaped out of the water in their games of hide-and-seek, but only to come down again with a loud splash not far from where they went out. But this one never came back, and the others went on their course wondering.

At last they came to where the Cowlitz and the Columbia join, and they were almost lost for a time; for they could find no shores, and the bottom and the top of the water were so far apart. Here they saw other and far larger salmon in the deepest part of the current, turning neither to the right nor to the left, but swimming right on up-stream, just as rapidly as they could. And these great salmon would not stop for them, and would not lie and float with the current. They had no time to talk, even in the simple sign language by which fishes express their ideas, and no time to eat. They had important work before them, and the time was short. So they went on up the river, keeping their great purposes to themselves; and our little salmon and his friends from the Cowlitz drifted down the stream.

By-and-by the water began to change. It grew denser, and no longer flowed rapidly along; and twice a day it used to turn about and flow the other way. Then the shores disappeared, and the water began to have a different and peculiar flavor,--a flavor which seemed to the salmon much richer and more inspiring than the glacier-water of their native Cowlitz. There were many curious things to see,--crabs with hard shells and savage faces, but so good when crushed and swallowed! Then there were luscious squid swimming about; and, to a salmon, squid are like ripe peaches and cream. There were great companies of delicate sardines and herring, green and silvery, and it was such fun to chase and capture them! Those who eat sardines packed in oil by greasy fingers, and herrings dried in the smoke, can have little idea how satisfying it is to have a meal of them, plump and sleek and silvery, fresh from the sea.

Thus the salmon chased the herrings about, and had a merry time. Then they were chased about in turn by great sea-lions,--swimming monsters with huge half-human faces, long thin whiskers, and blundering ways. The sea-lions liked to bite out the throat of a salmon, with its precious stomach full of luscious sardines, and then to leave the rest of the fish to shift for itself. And the seals and the herrings scattered the salmon about, till at last the hero of our story found himself quite alone, with none of his own kind near him. But that did not trouble him much, and he went on his own way, getting his dinner when he was hungry, which was all the time, and then eating a little between meals for his stomach's sake.

So it went on for three long years; and at the end of this time our little fish had grown to be a great, fine salmon of twenty-two pounds' weight, shining like a new tin pan, and with rows of the loveliest round black spots on his head and back and tail. One day, as he was swimming about, idly chasing a big sculpin with head so thorny that he never was swallowed by anybody, all of a sudden the salmon noticed a change in the water around him.

Spring had come again, and south-lying snow-drifts on the Cascade Mountains once more felt that the "earth was wheeling sunwards." The cold snow waters ran down from the mountains and into the Columbia River, and made a freshet on the river. The high water went far out into the sea, and out in the sea our salmon felt it on his gills. He remembered how the cold water used to feel in the Cowlitz when he was a little fish. In a blundering, fishy fashion he thought about it; he wondered whether the little eddy looked as it used to look, and whether caddis-worms and young mosquitoes were really as sweet and tender as he used to think they were. Then he thought some other things; but as the salmon's mind is located in the optic lobes of his brain, and ours is in a different place, we cannot be quite certain what his thoughts really were.

What our salmon did, we know. He did what every grown salmon in the ocean does when he feels the glacier-water once more upon his gills. He became a changed being. He spurned the blandishment of soft-shelled crabs. The pleasures of the table and of the chase, heretofore his only delights, lost their charms for him. He turned his course straight toward the direction whence the cold water came, and for the rest of his life never tasted a mouthful of food. He moved on toward the river-mouth, at first playfully, as though he were not really certain whether he meant anything after all. Afterward, when he struck the full current of the Columbia, he plunged straight forward with an unflinching determination that had in it something of the heroic. When he had passed the rough water at the bar, he was not alone. His old neighbors of the Cowlitz, and many more from the Clackamas and the Spokane and Des Chûtes and Kootenay,--a great army of salmon,--were with him. In front were thousands pressing on, and behind them were thousands more, all moved by a common impulse which urged them up the Columbia.

They were all swimming bravely along where the current was deepest, when suddenly the foremost felt something tickling like a cobweb about their noses and under their chins. They changed their course a little to brush it off, and it touched their fins as well. Then they tried to slip down with the current, and thus leave it behind. But, no! the thing, whatever it was, although its touch was soft, refused to let go, and held them like a fetter. The more they struggled, the tighter became its grasp, and the whole foremost rank of the salmon felt it together; for it was a great gill-net, a quarter of a mile long, stretched squarely across the mouth of the river.

By-and-by men came in boats, and hauled up the gill-net and the helpless salmon that had become entangled in it. They threw the fishes into a pile in the bottom of the boat, and the others saw them no more. We that live outside the water know better what befalls them, and we can tell the story which the salmon could not.

All along the banks of the Columbia River, from its mouth to nearly thirty miles away, there is a succession of large buildings, looking like great barns or warehouses, built on piles in the river, high enough to be out of the reach of floods. There are thirty of these buildings, and they are called canneries. Each cannery has about forty boats, and with each boat are two men and a long gill-net. These nets fill the whole river as with a nest of cobwebs from April to July, and to each cannery nearly a thousand great salmon are brought every day. These salmon are thrown in a pile on the floor; and Wing Hop, the big Chinaman, takes them one after another on the table, and with a great knife dexterously cuts off the head, the tail, and the fins; then with a sudden thrust he removes the intestines and the eggs. The body goes into a tank of water; and the head is dropped into a box on a flat-boat, and goes down the river to be made into salmon oil. Next, the body is brought to another table; and Quong Sang, with a machine like a feed-cutter, cuts it into pieces each just as long as a one-pound can. Then Ah Sam, with a butcher-knife, cuts these pieces into strips just as wide as the can. Next Wan Lee, the "China boy," brings down a hundred cans from the loft where the tinners are making them, and into each puts a spoonful of salt. It takes just six salmon to fill a hundred cans. Then twenty Chinamen put the pieces of meat into the cans, fitting in little strips to make them exactly full. Ten more solder up the cans, and ten more put the cans into boiling water till the meat is thoroughly cooked, and five more punch a little hole in the head of each can to let out the air. Then they solder them up again, and little girls paste on them bright-colored labels showing merry little cupids riding the happy salmon up to the cannery door, with Mount Tacoma and Cape Disappointment in the background; and a legend underneath says that this is "Booth's," or "Badollet's Best," or "Hume's," or "Clark's," or "Kinney's Superfine Salt Water Salmon." Then the cans are placed in cases, forty-eight in a case, and five hundred thousand cases are put up every year. Great ships come to Astoria, and are loaded with them; and they carry them away to London and San Francisco and Liverpool and New York and Sidney and Valparaiso; and the man at the corner grocery sells them at twenty cents a can.

All this time our salmon is going up the river, eluding one net as by a miracle, and soon having need of more miracles to escape the rest; passing by Astoria on a fortunate day,--which was Sunday, the day on which no man may fish if he expects to sell what he catches,--till finally he came to where nets were few, and, at last, to where they ceased altogether. But there he found that scarcely any of his many companies were with him; for the nets cease when there are no more salmon to be caught in them. So he went on, day and night, where the water was deepest, stopping not to feed or loiter on the way, till at last he came to a wild gorge, where the great river became an angry torrent, rushing wildly over a huge staircase of rocks. But our hero did not falter; and summoning all his forces, he plunged into the Cascades. The current caught him and dashed him against the rocks. A whole row of silvery scales came off and glistened in the water like sparks of fire, and a place on his side became black-and-red, which, for a salmon, is the same as being black-and-blue for other people. His comrades tried to go up with him; and one lost his eye, one his tail, and one had his lower jaw pushed back into his head like the joint of a telescope. Again he tried to surmount the Cascades; and at last he succeeded, and an Indian on the rocks above was waiting to receive him. But the Indian with his spear was less skillful than he was wont to be, and our hero escaped, losing only a part of one of his fins; and with him came one other, and henceforth these two pursued their journey together.

Now a gradual change took place in the looks of our salmon. In the sea he was plump and round and silvery, with delicate teeth in a symmetrical mouth. Now his silvery color disappeared, his skin grew slimy, and the scales sank into it; his back grew black, and his sides turned red,--not a healthy red, but a sort of hectic flush. He grew poor, and his back, formerly as straight as need be, now developed an unpleasant hump at the shoulders. His eyes--like those of all enthusiasts who forsake eating and sleeping for some loftier aim--became dark and sunken. His symmetrical jaws grew longer and longer, and meeting each other, as the nose of an old man meets his chin, each had to turn aside to let the other pass. His beautiful teeth grew longer and longer, and projected from his mouth, giving him a savage and wolfish appearance, quite at variance with his real disposition. For all the desires and ambitions of his nature had become centered into one. We may not know what this one was, but we know that it was a strong one; for it had led him on and on,--past the nets and horrors of Astoria; past the dangerous Cascades; past the spears of Indians; through the terrible flume of the Dalles, where the mighty river is compressed between huge rocks into a channel narrower than a village street; on past the meadows of Umatilla and the wheat-fields of Walla Walla; on to where the great Snake River and the Columbia join; on up the Snake River and its eastern branch, till at last he reached the foot of the Bitter Root mountains in the Territory of Idaho, nearly a thousand miles from the ocean which he had left in April. With him still was the other salmon which had come with him through the Cascades, handsomer and smaller than he, and, like him, growing poor and ragged and tired.

At last, one October afternoon, our finny travelers came together to a little clear brook, with a bottom of fine gravel, over which the water was but a few inches deep. Our fish painfully worked his way to it; for his tail was all frayed out, his muscles were sore, and his skin covered with unsightly blotches. But his sunken eyes saw a ripple in the stream, and under it a bed of little pebbles and sand. So there in the sand he scooped out with his tail a smooth round place, and his companion came and filled it with orange-colored eggs. Then our salmon came back again; and softly covering the eggs, the work of their lives was done, and, in the old salmon fashion, they drifted tail foremost down the stream.

They drifted on together for a night and a day, but they never came to the sea. For the salmon has but one life to live, and it ascends the river but once. The rest lies with its children. And when the April sunshine fell on the globules in the gravel, these were wakened into life. With the early autumn rains, the little fishes were large enough to begin their wanderings. They dropped down the current in the old salmon fashion. And thus they came into the great river and drifted away to the sea.

396

Probably no short-story writer now living is better known than Rudyard Kipling, an English author born in Bombay, India, in 1865. Among his many stories are some that may be classed as juvenile romantic nature literature. _Just-So Stories_ is a collection of humorous stories of this type, excellent for the fifth and sixth grades. _The Jungle Book_ and _The Second Jungle Book_, of a more serious nature, may be used in the seventh and eighth grades. The story that follows, taken from one of his earlier volumes, illustrates well Mr. Kipling's style of writing. It is suitable for the seventh or eighth grade.

MOTI GUJ--MUTINEER

RUDYARD KIPLING

Once upon a time there was a coffee-planter in India who wished to clear some forest land for coffee-planting. When he had cut down all the trees and burned the underwood, the stumps still remained. Dynamite is expensive and slow fire slow. The happy medium for stump-clearing is the lord of all beasts, who is the elephant. He will either push the stump out of the ground with his tusks, if he has any, or drag it out with ropes. The planter, therefore, hired elephants by ones and twos and threes, and fell to work. The very best of all the elephants belonged to the very worst of all the drivers or mahouts; and this superior beast's name was Moti Guj. He was the absolute property of his mahout, which would never have been the case under native rule: for Moti Guj was a creature to be desired by kings, and his name, being translated, meant the Pearl Elephant. Because the British government was in the land, Deesa, the mahout, enjoyed his property undisturbed. He was dissipated. When he had made much money through the strength of his elephant, he would get extremely drunk and give Moti Guj a beating with a tent-peg over the tender nails of the forefeet. Moti Guj never trampled the life out of Deesa on these occasions, for he knew that after the beating was over, Deesa would embrace his trunk and weep and call him his love and his life and the liver of his soul, and give him some liquor. Moti Guj was very fond of liquor--arrack for choice, though he would drink palm-tree toddy if nothing better offered. Then Deesa would go to sleep between Moti Guj's forefeet, and as Deesa generally chose the middle of the public road, and as Moti Guj mounted guard over him, and would not permit horse, foot, or cart to pass by, traffic was congested till Deesa saw fit to wake up.

There was no sleeping in the daytime on the planter's clearing: the wages were too high to risk. Deesa sat on Moti Guj's neck and gave him orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the stumps--for he owned a magnificent pair of tusks; or pulled at the end of a rope--for he had a magnificent pair of shoulders--while Deesa kicked him behind the ears and said he was the king of elephants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash down his three hundred pounds' weight of green food with a quart of arrack, and Deesa would take a share, and sing songs between Moti Guj's legs till it was time to go to bed. Once a week Deesa led Moti Guj down to the river, and Moti Guj lay on his side luxuriously in the shallows, while Deesa went over him with a coir-swab and a brick. Moti Guj never mistook the pounding blow of the latter for the smack of the former that warned him to get up and turn over on the other side. Then Deesa would look at his feet and examine his eyes, and turn up the fringes of his mighty ears in case of sores or budding ophthalmia. After inspection the two would "come up with a song from the sea," Moti Guj, all black and shining, waving a torn tree branch twelve feet long in his trunk, and Deesa knotting up his own long wet hair.

It was a peaceful, well-paid life till Deesa felt the return of the desire to drink deep. He wished for an orgy. The little draughts that led nowhere were taking the manhood out of him.

He went to the planter, and "My mother's dead," he said, weeping.

"She died on the last plantation two months ago, and she died once before that when you were working for me last year," said the planter, who knew something of the ways of nativedom.

"Then it's my aunt, and she was just the same as a mother to me," said Deesa, weeping more than ever. "She has left eighteen small children entirely without bread, and it is I who must fill their little stomachs," said Deesa, beating his head on the floor.

"Who brought you the news?" said the planter.

"The post," said Deesa.

"There hasn't been a post here for the past week. Get back to your lines!"

"A devastating sickness has fallen on my village, and all my wives are dying," yelled Deesa, really in tears this time.

"Call Chihun, who comes from Deesa's village," said the planter. "Chihun, has this man got a wife?"

"He?" said Chihun. "No. Not a woman of our village would look at him. They'd sooner marry the elephant."

Chihun snorted. Deesa wept and bellowed.

"You will get into a difficulty in a minute," said the planter. "Go back to your work!"

"Now I will speak Heaven's truth," gulped Deesa, with an inspiration. "I haven't been drunk for two months. I desire to depart in order to get properly drunk afar off and distant from this heavenly plantation. Thus I shall cause no trouble."

A flickering smile crossed the planter's face. "Deesa," said he, "you've spoken the truth, and I'd give you leave on the spot if anything could be done with Moti Guj while you're away. You know that he will only obey your orders."

"May the light of the heavens live forty thousand years. I shall be absent but ten little days. After that, _upon_ my faith and honor and soul, I return. As to the inconsiderable interval, have I the gracious permission of the heaven-born to call up Moti Guj?"

Permission was granted, and in answer to Deesa's shrill yell, the mighty tusker swung out of the shade of a clump of trees where he had been squirting dust over himself till his master should return.

"Light of my heart, protector of the drunken, mountain of might, give ear!" said Deesa, standing in front of him.

Moti Guj gave ear, and saluted with his trunk. "I am going away!" said Deesa.

Moti Guj's eyes twinkled. He liked jaunts as well as his master. One could snatch all manner of nice things from the road-side then.

"But you, you fussy old pig, must stay behind and work."

The twinkle died out as Moti Guj tried to look delighted. He hated stump-hauling on the plantation. It hurt his teeth.

"I shall be gone for ten days, oh delectable one! Hold up your near forefoot and I'll impress the fact upon it, warty toad of a dried mud-puddle." Deesa took a tent-peg and banged Moti Guj ten times on the nails. Moti Guj grunted and shuffled from foot to foot.

"Ten days," said Deesa, "you will work and haul and root the trees as Chihun here shall order you. Take up Chihun and set him on your neck!" Moti Guj curled the tip of his trunk, Chihun put his foot there, and was swung on to the neck. Deesa handed Chihun the heavy _ankus_--the iron elephant goad.

Chihun thumped Moti Guj's bald head as a paver thumps a curbstone.

Moti Guj trumpeted.

"Be still, hog of the backwoods! Chihun's your mahout for ten days. And now bid me good-by, beast after mine own heart. Oh, my lord, my king! Jewel of all created elephants, lily of the herd, preserve your honored health; be virtuous. Adieu!"

Moti Guj lapped his trunk round Deesa and swung him into the air twice. That was his way of bidding him good-by.

"He'll work now," said Deesa to the planter. "Have I leave to go?"

The planter nodded, and Deesa dived into the woods. Moti Guj went back to haul stumps.

Chihun was very kind to him, but he felt unhappy and forlorn for all that. Chihun gave him a ball of spices, and tickled him under the chin, and Chihun's little baby cooed to him after work was over, and Chihun's wife called him a darling; but Moti Guj was a bachelor by instinct, as Deesa was. He did not understand the domestic emotions. He wanted the light of his universe back again--the drink and the drunken slumber, the savage beatings and the savage caresses.

None the less he worked well, and the planter wondered. Deesa had wandered along the roads till he met a marriage procession of his own caste, and, drinking, dancing, and tippling, had drifted with it past all knowledge of the lapse of time.

The morning of the eleventh day dawned, and there returned no Deesa. Moti Guj was loosed from his ropes for the daily stint. He swung clear, looked round, shrugged his shoulders, and began to walk away, as one having business elsewhere.

"Hi! ho! Come back you!" shouted Chihun. "Come back and put me on your neck, misborn mountain! Return, splendor of the hill-sides! Adornment of all India, heave to, or I'll bang every toe off your fat forefoot!"

Moti Guj gurgled gently, but did not obey. Chihun ran after him with a rope and caught him up. Moti Guj put his ears forward, and Chihun knew what that meant, though he tried to carry it off with high words.

"None of your nonsense with me," said he. "To your pickets, devil-son!"

"Hrrump!" said Moti Guj, and that was all--that and the forebent ears.

Moti Guj put his hands in his pockets, chewed a branch for a toothpick, and strolled about the clearing, making fun of the other elephants who had just set to work.

Chihun reported the state of affairs to the planter, who came out with a dog-whip and cracked it furiously. Moti Guj paid the white man the compliment of charging him nearly a quarter of a mile across the clearing and "Hrrumphing" him into his veranda. Then he stood outside the house, chuckling to himself and shaking all over with the fun of it as an elephant will.

"We'll thrash him," said the planter. "He shall have the finest thrashing ever elephant received. Give Kala Nag and Nazim twelve foot of chain apiece, and tell them to lay on twenty."

Kala Nag--which means Black Snake--and Nazim were two of the biggest elephants in the lines, and one of their duties was to administer the graver punishment, since no man can beat an elephant properly.

They took the whipping-chains and rattled them in their trunks as they sidled up to Moti Guj, meaning to hustle him between them. Moti Guj had never, in all his life of thirty-nine years, been whipped, and he did not intend to begin a new experience. So he waited, waving his head from right to left, and measuring the precise spot in Kala Nag's fat side where a blunt tusk could sink deepest. Kala Nag had no tusks; the chain was the badge of his authority; but for all that, he swung wide of Moti Guj at the last minute, and tried to appear as if he had brought the chain out for amusement. Nazim turned round and went home early. He did not feel fighting fit that morning and so Moti Guj was left, standing alone with his ears cocked.

That decided the planter to argue no more, and Moti Guj rolled back to his amateur inspection of the clearing. An elephant who will not work and is not tied up is about as manageable as an eighty-one-ton gun loose in a heavy seaway. He slapped old friends on the back and asked them if the stumps were coming away easily; he talked nonsense concerning labor and the inalienable rights of elephants to a long "nooning"; and, wandering to and fro, he thoroughly demoralized the garden till sundown, when he returned to his picket for food.

"If you won't work, you shan't eat," said Chihun, angrily. "You're a wild elephant, and no educated animal at all. Go back to your jungle."

Chihun's little brown baby was rolling on the floor of the hut, and stretching out its fat arms to the huge shadow in the doorway. Moti Guj knew well that it was the dearest thing on earth to Chihun. He swung out his trunk with a fascinating crook at the end, and the brown baby threw itself, shouting upon it. Moti Guj made fast and pulled up till the brown baby was crowing in the air twelve feet above his father's head.

"Great Lord!" said Chihun. "Flour cakes of the best, twelve in number, two feet across and soaked in rum, shall be yours on the instant, and two hundred pounds weight of fresh-cut young sugar-cane therewith. Deign only to put down safely that insignificant brat who is my heart and my life to me!"

Moti Guj tucked the brown baby comfortably between his forefeet, that could have knocked into toothpicks all Chihun's hut, and waited for his food. He ate it, and the brown baby crawled away. Moti Guj dozed and thought of Deesa. One of many mysteries connected with the elephant is that his huge body needs less sleep than anything else that lives. Four or five hours in the night suffice--two just before midnight, lying down on one side; two just after one o'clock, lying down on the other. The rest of the silent hours are filled with eating and fidgeting, and long grumbling soliloquies.

At midnight, therefore, Moti Guj strode out of his pickets, for a thought had come to him that Deesa might be lying drunk somewhere in the dark forest with none to look after him. So all that night he chased through the undergrowth, blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears. He went down to the river and blared across the shallows where Deesa used to wash him, but there was no answer. He could not find Deesa, but he disturbed all the other elephants in the lines, and nearly frightened to death some gypsies in the woods.

At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation. He had been very drunk indeed, and he expected to get into trouble for outstaying his leave. He drew a long breath when he saw that the bungalow and the plantation were still uninjured, for he knew something of Moti Guj's temper, and reported himself with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj had gone to his pickets for breakfast. The night exercises had made him hungry.

"Call up your beast," said the planter; and Deesa shouted in the mysterious elephant language that some mahouts believe came from China at the birth of the world, when elephants and not men were masters. Moti Guj heard and came. Elephants do not gallop. They move from places at varying rates of speed. If an elephant wished to catch an express train he could not gallop, but he could catch the train. So Moti Guj was at the planter's door almost before Chihun noticed that he had left his pickets. He fell into Deesa's arms, trumpeting with joy, and the man and beast wept and slobbered over each other, and handled each other from head to heel to see that no harm had befallen.

"Now we will get to work," said Deesa. "Lift me up, my son and my joy!"

Moti Guj swung him up, and the two went to the coffee-clearing to look for difficult stumps.

The planter was too astonished to be very angry.

397

Among the writers of nature fiction, probably no one deserves higher rank than Charles G. D. Roberts (1860--), a Canadian. Mr. Roberts does not tell of his own adventures. His stories are truly nature fiction because the characters are animals and the purpose is to reveal the nature of these characters by showing how they would act when placed in various imaginary situations. _Kings in Exile_, from which the following selection is taken, is a book of splendid stories of large animals. Other excellent books by Mr. Roberts, suitable for the seventh and eighth grades, are _Hoof and Claw_, _Children of the Wild_, _Secret Trails_, and _Watchers of the Trails_, ("Last Bull" is used by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Co., New York.)

LAST BULL

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS

That was what two grim old sachems of the Dacotahs had dubbed him; and though his official title, on the lists of the Zoological Park, was "Kaiser," the new and more significant name had promptly supplanted it. The Park authorities--people of imagination and of sentiment, as must all be who would deal successfully with wild animals--had felt at once that the name aptly embodied the tragedies and the romantic memories of his all-but-vanished race. They had felt, too, that the two old braves who had been brought East to adorn a city pageant, and who had stood gazing stoically for hours at the great bull buffalo through the barrier of the steel-wire fence, were fitted, before all others, to give him a name. Between him and them there was surely a tragic bond, as they stood there islanded among the swelling tides of civilization which had already engulfed their kindreds. "Last Bull" they had called him, as he answered their gaze with little, sullen, melancholy eyes from under his ponderous and shaggy front. "Last Bull"--and the passing of his race was in the name.

Here, in his fenced, protected range, with a space of grassy meadow, half a dozen clumps of sheltering trees, two hundred yards of the run of a clear, unfailing brook, and a warm shed for refuge against the winter storms, the giant buffalo ruled his little herd of three tawny cows, two yearlings, and one blundering, butting calf of the season. He was a magnificent specimen of his race--surpassing, it was said, the finest bull in the Yellowstone preserves or in the guarded Canadian herd of the North. Little short of twelve feet in length, a good five foot ten in height at the tip of his humped and huge fore-shoulders, he seemed to justify the most extravagant tales of pioneer and huntsman. His hind-quarters were trim and fine-lined, built apparently for speed, smooth-haired, and of a grayish lion-color. But his fore-shoulders, mounting to an enormous hump, were of an elephantine massiveness, and clothed in a dense, curling, golden-brown growth of matted hair. His mighty head was carried low, almost to the level of his knees, on a neck of colossal strength, which was draped, together with the forelegs down to the knees, in a flowing brown mane tipped with black. His head, too, to the very muzzle, wore the same luxuriant and sombre drapery, out of which curved viciously the keen-tipped crescent of his horns. Dark, huge, and ominous, he looked curiously out of place in the secure and familiar tranquillity of his green pasture.

For a distance of perhaps fifty yards, at the back of the pasture, the range of the buffalo herd adjoined that of the moose, divided from it by that same fence of heavy steel-wire mesh, supported by iron posts, which surrounded the whole range. One sunny and tingling day in late October--such a day as makes the blood race full red through all healthy veins--a magnificent stranger was brought to the Park, and turned into the moose-range.

The newcomer was a New Brunswick bull moose, captured on the Tobique during the previous spring when the snow was deep and soft, and purchased for the Park by one of the big Eastern lumber-merchants. The moose-herd had consisted, hitherto, of four lonely cows, and the splendid bull was a prize which the Park had long been coveting. He took lordly possession, forthwith, of the submissive little herd, and led them off at once from the curious crowds about the gate to explore the wild-looking thickets at the back of the pasture. But no sooner had he fairly entered these thickets than he found his further progress barred by the steel-meshed fence. This was a bitter disappointment, for he had expected to go striding through miles of alder swamp and dark spruce woods, fleeing the hated world of men and bondage, before setting himself to get acquainted with his new followers. His high-strung temper was badly jarred. He drew off, shaking his vast antlers, and went shambling with spacious stride down along the barrier towards the brook. The four cows, in single file, hurried after him anxiously, afraid he might be snatched away from them.

Last Bull, standing solitary and morose on a little knoll in his pasture, caught sight of the strange, dark figure of the running moose. A spark leapt into his heavy eyes. He wheeled, pawed the sod, put his muzzle to the ground, and bellowed a sonorous challenge. The moose stopped short and stared about him, the stiff hair lifting angrily along the ridge of his massive neck. Last Bull lowered his head and tore up the sod with his horns.

This vehement action caught the eyes of the moose. At first he stared in amazement, for he had never seen any creature that looked like Last Bull. The two were only about fifty or sixty yards apart, across the little valley of the bushy swamp. As he stared, his irritation speedily overcame his amazement. The curious-looking creature over there on the knoll was defying him, was challenging him. At this time of year his blood was hot and quick for any challenge. He gave vent to a short, harsh, explosive cry, more like a grumbling bleat than a bellow, and as unlike the buffalo's challenge as could well be imagined. Then he fell to thrashing the nearest bushes violently with his antlers. This, for some reason unknown to the mere human chronicler, seemed to be taken by Last Bull as a crowning insolence. His long, tasselled tail went stiffly up into the air, and he charged wrathfully down the knoll. The moose, with his heavy-muzzled head stuck straight out scornfully before him, and his antlers laid flat along his back, strode down to the encounter with a certain deadly deliberation. He was going to fight. There was no doubt whatever on that score. But he had not quite made up his wary mind as to how he would deal with this unknown and novel adversary.

They looked not so unequally matched, these two, the monarch of the Western plains, and the monarch of the Northeastern forests. Both had something of the monstrous, the uncouth, about them, as if they belonged not to this modern day, but to some prehistoric epoch when Earth moulded her children on more lavish and less graceful lines. The moose was like the buffalo in having his hind-quarters relatively slight and low, and his back sloping upwards to a hump over the immensely developed fore-shoulders. But he had much less length of body, and much less bulk, though perhaps eight or ten inches more of height at the tip of the shoulder. His hair was short, and darker than that of his shaggy rival, being almost black except on legs and belly. Instead of carrying his head low, like the buffalo, for feeding on the level prairies, he bore it high, being in the main a tree-feeder. But the greatest difference between the two champions was in their heads and horns. The antlers of the moose formed a huge, fantastic, flatly palmated or leaflike structure, separating into sharp prongs along the edges, and spreading more than four feet from tip to tip. To compare them with the short, polished crescent of the horns of Last Bull was like comparing a two-handed broadsword to a bowie-knife. And his head, instead of being short, broad, ponderous, and shaggy, like Last Bull's, was long, close-haired, and massively horse-faced, with a projecting upper lip heavy and grim.

Had there been no impregnable steel barrier between them, it is hard to say which would have triumphed in the end, the ponderous weight and fury of Last Bull, or the ripping prongs and swift wrath of the moose. The buffalo charged down the knoll at a thundering gallop; but just before reaching the fence he checked himself violently. More than once or twice before had those elastic but impenetrable meshes given him his lesson, hurling him back with humiliating harshness when he dashed his bulk against them. He had too lively a memory of past discomfitures to risk a fresh one now in the face of this insolent foe. His matted front came against the wire with a force so cunningly moderated that he was not thrown back by the recoil. And the keen points of his horns went through the meshes with a vehemence which might indeed have done its work effectively had they come in contact with the adversary. As it was, however, they but prodded empty air.

The moose, meanwhile, had been in doubt whether to attack with his antlers, as was his manner when encountering foes of his own kind, or with his knife-edged fore-hoofs, which were the weapons he used against bears, wolves, or other alien adversaries. Finally he seemed to make up his mind that Last Bull, having horns and a most redoubtable stature, must be some kind of moose. In that case, of course, it became a question of antlers. Moreover, in his meetings with rival bulls it had never been his wont to depend upon a blind, irresistible charge,--thereby leaving it open to an alert opponent to slip aside and rip him along the flank,--but rather to fence warily for an advantage in the locking of antlers, and then bear down his foe by the fury and speed of his pushing. It so happened, therefore, that he, too, came not too violently against the barrier. Loudly his vast spread of antlers clashed upon the steel meshes; and one short prong, jutting low over his brow, pierced through and furrowed deeply the matted forehead of the buffalo.

As the blood streamed down over his nostrils, obscuring one eye, Last Bull quite lost his head with rage. Drawing off, he hurled himself blindly upon the barrier--only to be hurled back again with a vigor that brought him to his knees. But at the same time the moose, on the other side of the fence, got a huge surprise. Having his antlers against the barrier when Last Bull charged, he was forced back irresistibly upon his haunches with a rudeness quite unlike anything that he had ever before experienced. His massive neck felt as if a pine tree had fallen upon it, and he came back to the charge quite beside himself with bewilderment and rage.

By this time, however, the keepers and Park attendants were arriving on the scene, armed with pitchforks and other unpleasant executors of authority. Snorting, and bellowing, and grunting, the monstrous duellists were forced apart; and Last Bull, who had been taught something of man's dominance, was driven off to his stable and imprisoned. He was not let out again for two whole days. And by that time another fence, parallel with the first and some five or six feet distant from it, had been run up between his range and that of the moose. Over this impassable zone of neutrality, for a few days, the two rivals flung insult and futile defiance, till suddenly, becoming tired of it all, they seemed to agree to ignore each other's existence.

After this, Last Bull's sullenness of temper appeared to grow upon him. He was fond of drawing apart from the little herd, and taking up his solitary post on the knoll, where he would stand for an hour at a time motionless except for the switching of his long tail, and staring steadily westward as if he knew where the great past of his race had lain. In that direction a dense grove of chestnuts, maples, and oaks bounded the range, cutting off the view of the city roofs, the roar of the city traffic. Beyond the city were mountains and wide waters which he could not see; but beyond the waters and the mountains stretched the green, illimitable plains--which perhaps (who knows?) in some faint vision inherited from the ancestors whose myriads had possessed them, his sombre eyes, in some strange way, _could_ see. Among the keepers and attendants generally it was said, with anxious regret, that perhaps Last Bull was "going bad." But the headkeeper, Payne, himself a son of the plains, repudiated the idea. _He_ declared sympathetically that the great bull was merely homesick, pining for the wind-swept levels of the open country (God's country, Payne called it!) which his imprisoned hoofs had never trodden.

Be this as it may, the fact could not be gainsaid that Last Bull was growing more and more morose. The spectators, strolling along the wide walk which skirted the front of his range, seemed to irritate him, and sometimes, when a group had gathered to admire him, he would turn his low-hung head and answer their staring eyes with a kind of heavy fury, as if he burned to break forth upon them and seek vengeance for incalculable wrongs. This smouldering indignation against humanity extended equally, if not more violently, to all creatures who appeared to him as servants or allies of humanity. The dogs whom he sometimes saw passing, held in leash by their masters or mistresses, made him paw the earth scornfully if he happened to be near the fence. The patient horses who pulled the road-roller or the noisy lawn-mower made his eyes redden savagely. And he hated with peculiar zest the roguish little trick elephant, Bong, who would sometimes, his inquisitive trunk swinging from side to side, go lurching lazily by with a load of squealing children on his back.

Bong, who was a favored character, amiable and trustworthy, was allowed the freedom of the Park in the early morning, before visitors began to arrive who might be alarmed at seeing an elephant at large. He was addicted to minding his own business, and never paid the slightest attention to any occupants of cage or enclosure. He was quite unaware of the hostility which he had aroused in the perverse and brooding heart of Last Bull.

One crisp morning in late November, when all the grass in the Park had been blackened by frost, and the pools were edged with silver rims of ice, and mists were white and saffron about the scarce-risen sun, and that autumn thrill was in the air which gives one such an appetite, Bong chanced to be strolling past the front of Last Bull's range. He did not see Last Bull, who was nothing to him. But, being just as hungry as he ought to be on so stimulating a morning, he did see, and note with interest, some bundles of fresh hay on the other side of the fence.

Now, Bong was no thief. But hay had always seemed to him a free largess, like grass and water, and this looked like very good hay. So clear a conscience had he on the subject that he never thought of glancing around to see if any of the attendants were looking. Innocently he lurched up to the fence, reached his lithe trunk through, gathered a neat wisp of the hay, and stuffed it happily into his curious, narrow, pointed mouth. Yes, he had not been mistaken. It was good hay. With great satisfaction he reached in for another mouthful.

Last Bull, as it happened, was standing close by, but a little to one side. He had been ignoring, so far, his morning ration. He was not hungry. And, moreover, he rather disapproved of the hay because it had the hostile man-smell strong upon it. Nevertheless, he recognized it very clearly as his property, to be eaten when he should feel inclined to eat it. His wrath, then, was only equalled by his amazement when he saw the little elephant's presumptuous gray trunk reach in and coolly help itself. For a moment he forgot to do anything whatever about it. But when, a few seconds later, that long, curling trunk of Bong's insinuated itself again and appropriated another bundle of the now precious hay, the outraged owner bestirred himself. With a curt roar, that was more of a cough or a grunt than a bellow, he lunged forward and strove to pin the intruding trunk to the ground.

With startled alacrity Bong withdrew his trunk, but just in time to save it from being mangled. For an instant he stood with the member held high in air, bewildered by what seemed to him such a gratuitous attack. Then his twinkling little eyes began to blaze, and he trumpeted shrilly with anger. The next moment, reaching over the fence, he brought down the trunk on Last Bull's hump with such a terrible flail-like blow that the great buffalo stumbled forward upon his knees.

He was up again in an instant and hurling himself madly against the inexorable steel which separated him from his foe. Bong hesitated for a second, then, reaching over the fence once more, clutched Last Bull maliciously around the base of his horns and tried to twist his neck. This enterprise, however, was too much even for the elephant's titanic powers, for Last Bull's greatest strength lay in the muscles of his ponderous and corded neck. Raving and bellowing, he plunged this way and that, striving in vain to wrench himself free from that incomprehensible, snake-like thing which had fastened upon him. Bong, trumpeting savagely, braced himself with widespread pillars of legs, and between them it seemed that the steel fence must go down under such cataclysmic shocks as it was suffering. But the noisy violence of the battle presently brought its own ending. An amused but angry squad of attendants came up and stopped it, and Bong, who seemed plainly the aggressor, was hustled off to his stall in deep disgrace.

Last Bull was humiliated. In this encounter things had happened which he could in no way comprehend; and though, beyond an aching in neck and shoulders, he felt none the worse physically, he had nevertheless a sense of having been worsted, of having been treated with ignominy, in spite of the fact that it was his foe, and not he, who had retired from the field. For several days he wore a subdued air and kept about meekly with his docile cows. Then his old, bitter moodiness reasserted itself, and he resumed his solitary broodings on the crest of the knoll.

When the winter storms came on, it had been Last Bull's custom to let himself be housed luxuriously at nightfall, with the rest of the herd, in the warm and ample buffalo-shed. But this winter he made such difficulty about going in that at last Payne decreed that he should have his own way and stay out. "It will do him no harm, and may cool his peppery blood some!" had been the keeper's decision. So the door was left open, and Last Bull entered or refrained, according to his whim. It was noticed, however,--and this struck a chord of answering sympathy in the plainsman's imaginative temperament,--that, though on ordinary nights he might come in and stay with the herd under shelter, on nights of driving storm, if the tempest blew from the west or northwest, Last Bull was sure to be out on the naked knoll to face it. When the fine sleet or stinging rain drove past him, filling his nostrils with their cold, drenching his matted mane, and lashing his narrowed eyes, what visions swept through his troubled, half-comprehending brain, no one may know. But Payne, with understanding born of sympathy and a common native soil, catching sight of his dark bulk under the dark of the low sky, was wont to declare that _he_ knew. He would say that Last Bull's eyes discerned, black under the hurricane, but lit strangely with the flash of keen horns and rolling eyes and frothed nostrils, the endless and innumerable droves of the buffalo, with the plains wolf skulking on their flanks, passing, passing, southward into the final dark. In the roar of the wind, declared Payne, Last Bull, out there in the night, listened to the trampling of all those vanished droves. And though the other keepers insisted to each other, quite privately, that their chief talked a lot of nonsense about "that there mean-tempered old buffalo," they nevertheless came gradually to look upon Last Bull with a kind of awe, and to regard his surly whims as privileged.

It chanced that winter that men were driving a railway tunnel beneath a corner of the Park. The tunnel ran for a short distance under the front of Last Bull's range, and passed close by the picturesque cottage occupied by Payne and two of his assistants. At this point the level of the Park was low, and the shell of earth was thin above the tunnel roof.

There came a Sunday afternoon, after days of rain and penetrating January thaw, when sun and air combined to cheat the earth with an illusion of spring. The buds and the mould breathed of April, and gay crowds flocked to the Park, to make the most of winter's temporary repulse. Just when things were at their gayest, with children's voices clamoring everywhere like starlings, and Bong, the little elephant, swinging good-naturedly up the broad white track with all the load he had room for on his back, there came an ominous jar and rumble, like the first of an earthquake, which ran along the front of Last Bull's range.

With sure instinct, Bong turned tail and fled with his young charges away across the grassland. The crowds, hardly knowing what they fled from, with screams and cries and blanched faces, followed the elephant's example. A moment later and, with a muffled crash, all along the front of the range, the earth sank into the tunnel, carrying with it half a dozen panels of Last Bull's hated fence.

Almost in a moment the panic of the crowd subsided. Every one realized just what had happened. Moreover, thanks to Bong's timely alarm, every one had got out of the way in good season. All fear of earthquake being removed, the crowd flocked back eagerly to stare down into the wrecked tunnel, which formed now a sort of gaping, chaotic ditch, with sides at some points precipitous and at others brokenly sloping. The throng was noisy with excited interest and with relief at having escaped so cleanly. The break had run just beneath one corner of the keepers' cottage, tearing away a portion of the foundation and wrenching the structure slightly aside without overthrowing it. Payne, who had been in the midst of his Sunday toilet, came out upon his twisted porch, half undressed and with a shaving-brush covered with lather in his hand. He gave one look at the damage which had been wrought, then plunged indoors again to throw his clothes on, at the same time sounding the hurry call for the attendants in other quarters of the Park.

Last Bull, who had been standing on his knoll, with his back to the throngs, had wheeled in astonishment at the heavy sound of the cave-in. For a few minutes he had stared sullenly, not grasping the situation. Then very slowly it dawned on him that his prison walls had fallen. Yes, surely, there at last lay his way to freedom, his path to the great open spaces for which he dumbly and vaguely hungered. With stately deliberation he marched down from his knoll to investigate.

But presently another idea came into his slow mind. He saw the clamorous crowds flocking back and ranging themselves along the edge of the chasm. These were his enemies. They were coming to balk him. A terrible madness surged through all his veins. He bellowed savage warning and came thundering down the field, nose to earth, dark, mountainous, irresistible.

The crowd yelled and shrank back. "He can't get across!" shouted some. But others cried: "He can! He's coming! Save yourselves!" And with shrieks they scattered wildly across the open, making for the kiosks, the pavilions, the trees, anything that seemed to promise hiding or shelter from that on-rushing doom.

At the edge of the chasm--at this point forming not an actual drop, but a broken slide--Last Bull hardly paused. He plunged down, rolled over in the débris, struggled to his feet again instantly, and went ploughing and snorting up the opposite steep. As his colossal front, matted with mud, loomed up over the brink, his little eyes rolling and flaming, and the froth flying from his red nostrils, he formed a very nightmare of horror to those fugitives who dared to look behind them.

Surmounting the brink, he paused. There were so many enemies, he knew not which to pursue first. But straight ahead, in the very middle of the open, and far from any shelter, he saw a huddled group of children and nurses fleeing impotently and aimlessly. Shrill cries came from the cluster, which danced with colors, scarlet and yellow and blue and vivid pink. To the mad buffalo, these were the most conspicuous and the loudest of his foes, and therefore the most dangerous. With a bellow he flung his tail straight in the air, and charged after them.

An appalling hush fell, for a few heartbeats, all over the field. Then from different quarters appeared uniformed attendants, racing and shouting frantically to divert the bull's attention. From fleeing groups black-coated men leapt forth, armed only with their walking-sticks, and rushed desperately to defend the flock of children, who now, in the extremity of their terror, were tumbling as they ran. Some of the nurses were fleeing far in front, while others, the faithful ones, with eyes starting from their heads, grabbed up their little charges and struggled on under the burden.

Already Last Bull was halfway across the space which divided him from his foes. The ground shook under his ponderous gallop. At this moment Payne reappeared on the broken porch.

One glance showed him that no one was near enough to intervene. With a face stern and sorrowful he lifted the deadly .405 Winchester which he had brought out with him. The spot he covered was just behind Last Bull's mighty shoulder.

The smokeless powder spoke with a small, venomous report, unlike the black powder's noisy reverberation. Last Bull stumbled. But recovering himself instantly, he rushed on. He was hurt, and he felt it was those fleeing foes who had done it. A shade of perplexity darkened Payne's face. He fired again. This time his aim was true. The heavy expanding bullet tore straight through bone and muscle and heart, and Last Bull lurched forward upon his head, ploughing up the turf for yards. As his mad eyes softened and filmed, he saw once more, perhaps,--or so the heavy-hearted keeper who had slain him would have us believe,--the shadowy plains unrolling under the wild sky, and the hosts of his vanished kindred drifting past into the dark.

SECTION X

ROMANCE CYCLES AND LEGEND

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Baldwin, James, _The Story of Roland_. _The Story of Siegfried._

Baring-Gould, Sabine, _Curious Myths of the Middle Ages_.

Becquer, G. A., _Romantic Legends of Spain_.

Canton, W. V., _Child's Book of Saints_.

Cervantes-Saavedra, Miguel de, _Don Quixote_. [In translation, or as retold by Havell or Parry.]

Church, Alfred J., _Stories from the Iliad_. _Stories from the Odyssey._ _Heroes of Chivalry and Romance._ _Stories of Charlemagne and the Twelve Peers of France._

Colum, Padraic, _The Adventures of Odysseus and the Tale of Troy_.

Crommelin, Emeline G., _Famous Legends_.

Darton, F. J. H., _Wonder Book of Old Romance_.

Farrington, Margaret V., _Tales of King Arthur_.

Finnemore, John, _The Story of Robin Hood and His Merry Men_.

Guerber, H. A., _Legends of the Middle Ages_.

Guest, Lady Charlotte, _The Mabinogion_.

Herbertson, Agnes G., _Heroic Legends_.

Homer, _Iliad_. [Prose translation by Lang, Leaf, and Myers; poetic by Bryant.]

Homer, _Odyssey_. [Prose translation by George H. Palmer; poetic by Bryant.]

Hull, Eleanor, _The Boys' Cuchulain: Heroic Legends of Ireland_.

Lamb, Charles, _The Adventures of Ulysses_.

Lane, E. W., _Arabian Nights' Entertainments_.

Lang, Andrew, _A Book of Romance_.

Lanier, Sidney, _The Boy's King Arthur_. _The Boy's Mabinogion_.

MacLeod, Mary, _King Arthur and His Noble Knights_.

Marshall, H. E., _The Story of William Tell_. _The Story of Roland._

Marvin, Frank S. (and others), _Adventures of Odysseus_.

Morris, William, _Sigurd, the Volsung_.

Newbolt, Henry, _Stories from Froissart_.

Pyle, Howard, _Stories of King Arthur and His Knights_. _Some Merry Adventures of Robin Hood._

Plummer, Mary W., _Stories from the Chronicle of the Cid_.

Ragozin, Z. A., _Frithjof and Roland_. _Siegfried and Beowulf._

Rolleston, T. W., _High Deeds of Finn_.

Scudder, Horace E., _The Book of Legends_.

Tappan, Eva March, _Robin Hood: His Book_.

Tennyson, Alfred, _The Idylls of the King_.

Warren, Maude Radford, _King Arthur and His Knights_. _Robin Hood and His Merry Men._

Wilson, C. D., _Story of the Cid for Young People_.

SECTION X. ROMANCE CYCLES AND LEGEND

INTRODUCTORY

_The material included._ The heading adopted for this section is used somewhat loosely to include those many and varied collections of stories which have with the passage of time been gradually brought together into so-called cycles, unified around some central figure, or by means of some kind of framework. It would thus bring into its scope the series of stories which make up the Greek _Odyssey_, the Anglo-Saxon _Beowulf_, the Finnish _Kalevala_, and other national epics. It would include the stories centering around King Arthur, Siegfried, Roland, the Cid, Alexander, Charlemagne, Robin Hood, and Reynard the Fox. Besides all these cycles and others like them, there is a great body of separate legends of persons and places, exemplified by "The Proud King," that seem almost to constitute a work by themselves. The extended body of eastern stories known as _The Arabian Nights_ are also placed here, as is Cervantes' _Don Quixote_. The last inclusion may seem to violate even the wide range of the heading, as _Don Quixote_ is distinctly one of the world's great modern masterpieces, and is by a known author. But that book is after all a cycle of adventures with a central figure not unlike the romance cycles, and, since it is popularly supposed to have had its origin in the purpose of humorously satirizing the romances of chivalry, it may be allowed to stand in connection with them.

_The place for such stories._ The developing child soon passes out of the period where the old fairy stories and their modern analogues satisfy his needs. He comes into a period of hero-worship where he demands not only courage and prowess of magnificent proportions, but also a sinking of self in as equally magnificent and disinterested service of great causes. To the child's mind there is nothing fantastical about the chivalric ideas of courtesy, and friendship, and all high personal ideals. It is the natural food of his mind. He will allow nothing mean or unclean. It seems, roughly speaking, that the time of greatest appeal for such stories is about the fourth, fifth, and sixth grades. By the end of that period he is already well along toward an interest in the real men and women of history, toward a more realistic and practical conception of the problems of human life.

_The problems of choice and adaptation._ The wealth of material available is so great as to be bewildering. As yet there is no common agreement as to just which stories are best for our purpose, nor is there any as to where particular stories should be used. The adapters and story-tellers differ much in their views on these questions. Young teachers, it is clear, cannot be expected to know this vast field in any detail. The saving fact is that teachers can hardly make a mistake by using any story that has awakened their own interest and enthusiasm, and which, for that reason, they will be able to present in a simple and striking form. Having in mind, then, the beginning teacher, we make the following specific suggestions:

1. _Beowulf._ The inexperienced teacher will find a splendid version, "The Story of Beowulf," ready-made in Wyche's _Some Great Stories and How to Tell Them_. To work from the complete epic, use any of the translations by Child, Tinker, Gummere, or Hall. "Perhaps it is not too much to assert . . . that in its lofty spirit, its vigor, and its sincerity, . . . it reflects traits which are distinctive of English-speaking people throughout the world."

2. _King Arthur._ The final source must be Sir Thomas Malory's _Le Morte D'Arthur_, represented in the following pages by Nos. 401, 402, and 403. Some passages from Malory should be read to the class. For suggestions as to method in handling the stories, see Wyche as above, where there is a fine brief version. In _King Arthur and His Knights_, by Mrs. Warren (Maude Radford), may be found a good working version of the whole cycle. ". . . In delicacy of feeling, in reverence for women, in courtesy to friend and foe, the Arthurian story foreshadowed much that is gentlest and best in modern civilization."

3. _Robin Hood._ Go at once to one of the simple prose versions of the story. Satisfactory ones are those by Miss Tappan, by Mrs. Warren, or by Howard Pyle (the shorter version). As time and opportunity offer read the simple old ballads which are the source of the story of "merry" Sherwood. "If ever verse lashed abuse with a smile, it is this. The sun shines brightly overhead; it is a good world to be alive in, its wrongs are being righted, and its very misfortunes are ultimately to bring happier times."

4. A few stories about Roland, Siegfried, the Cid, Charlemagne, and others may be used by teachers who have had opportunity to get acquainted with those great figures, or who have access to some of the authorities listed in the bibliography. This material is more difficult to handle satisfactorily than that already discussed, and may well be sparingly used, if not omitted altogether. For a general collection of legends, the ideal as to choice and method of presentation is Scudder's _The Book of Legends_ (No. 412). From _The Arabian Nights_ use "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves" (No. 398), "Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp," and "The Stories of Sindbad the Sailor." Almost any of the accessible versions will be satisfactory. For _Reynard the Fox_, the one adaptation that presents the story in a fairly good form for children is that made by Sir Henry Cole, available as edited by Joseph Jacobs (Nos. 399 and 400). Perhaps as much of _Don Quixote_ is given in this text (Nos. 405-411) as teachers can use. A full translation is a satisfactory source for this story, although the shortened forms by Havell or Parry are admirable.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

Most of the books on story-telling have discussions of the best ways of dealing with the romance material. Especially valuable in this connection are Wyche, _Great Stories and How to Tell Them_, and Lyman, _Story Telling_. For scholarly and yet not too difficult books giving a perspective of the entire field see W. W. Lawrence, _Medieval Story and the Beginnings of the Social Ideals of English-speaking People_, or W. P. Ker, _Epic and Romance_. Consult MacClintock, "Hero-Tales and Romances," _Literature in the Elementary School_, chap. viii.

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_The Arabian Nights' Entertainment_ or _Thousand and One Nights_ is a collection of about four hundred old oriental stories, chiefly from Persia, India, and Arabia. They were brought together probably in the thirteenth century and told orally as stories told to entertain King Shahriyar; but scholars think the collection was not written until some time between the years 1350 and 1550. Some of the stories probably were told as early as the ninth century. The stories are of various kinds--fables, anecdotes, legends, hero stories, wonder stories, and romances. "The Story of Alnaschar" (No. 235 in this book) is one of the fables. The collection became known to European readers in 1704, when it was translated from the Arabic by a French scholar named Galland. Since that time the fables have been translated extensively. The translation into English by Lane is the most valuable one for a teacher who wishes to have all of the book that is fit for public use. Like many of the world's great compilations of this sort, it is made up of a mixture of good and bad. The oriental play of imagination in these stories and the background of old Eastern scenery and customs have made them a source of entertainment and instruction for all civilized nations. The story that follows has always been one of the favorites among oriental wonder stories, and is given in a familiar traditional version.

ALI BABA, AND THE FORTY THIEVES

In a town in Persia there lived two brothers, the sons of a poor man; the one was named Cassim, and the other Ali Baba. Cassim, the elder, married a wife with a considerable fortune, and lived at his ease in a handsome house, with plenty of servants; but the wife of Ali Baba was as poor as himself; they dwelt in a mean cottage in the suburbs of the city, and he maintained his family by cutting wood in a neighboring forest.

One day when Ali Baba was in the forest and preparing to load his three asses with the wood he had cut, he saw a troop of horsemen coming towards him. He had often heard of robbers who infested that forest, and, in a great fright, he hastily climbed a large thick tree, which stood near the foot of a rock, and hid himself among the branches.

The horsemen soon galloped up to the rock, where they all dismounted. Ali Baba counted forty of them, and he could not doubt but they were thieves, by their ill-looking countenances. They each took a loaded portmanteau from his horse; and he who seemed to be their captain, turning to the rock, said, "Open Sesame," and immediately a door opened in the rock, and all the robbers passed in, when the door shut itself. In a short time the door opened again, and the forty robbers came out, followed by their captain, who said, "Shut Sesame." The door instantly closed; and the troop, mounting their horses, were presently out of sight.

Ali Baba remained in the tree a long time, and seeing that the robbers did not return, he ventured down, and, approaching close to the rock, said, "Open Sesame." Immediately the door flew open, and Ali Baba beheld a spacious cavern, very light, and filled with all sorts of possessions,--merchandise, rich stuffs, and heaps of gold and silver coin, which these robbers had taken from merchants and travelers.

Ali Baba then went in search of his asses, and having brought them to the rock, took as many bags of gold coin as they could carry, and put them on their backs, covering them with some loose fagots of wood. Afterwards (not forgetting to say "Shut Sesame") he drove the asses back to the city; and having unloaded them in the stable belonging to his cottage, carried the bags into the house and spread the gold coin out upon the floor before his wife.

His wife, delighted with so much money, wanted to count it; but finding it would take up too much time, she was resolved to measure it, and running to the house of Ali Baba's brother, she entreated them to lend her a small measure. Cassim's wife was very proud and envious. "I wonder," she said to herself, "what sort of grain such poor people can have to measure; but I am determined I will find out what they are doing." So before she gave the measure, she artfully rubbed the bottom with some suet.

Away ran Ali Baba's wife, measured her money, and helped her husband to bury it in the yard. Then she carried back the measure to her brother-in-law's house, without perceiving that a piece of gold was left sticking to the bottom of it. "Fine doings, indeed!" cried Cassim's wife to her husband, after examining the measure. "Your brother there, who pretends to be so poor, is richer than you are, for he does not count his money, but measures it."

Cassim, hearing these words and seeing the piece of gold, grew as envious as his wife; and hastening to his brother, threatened to inform the Cadi of his wealth if he did not confess to him how he came by it. Ali Baba without hesitation told him the history of the robbers and the secret of the cave, and offered him half his treasure; but the envious Cassim disdained so poor a sum, resolving to have fifty times more than that out of the robbers' cave. Accordingly he rose early the next morning and set out with ten mules loaded with great chests. He found the rock easily enough by Ali Baba's description; and having said "Open Sesame," he gained admission into the cave, where he found more treasure than he had expected to behold even from his brother's account of it.

He immediately began to gather bags of gold and pieces of rich brocade, all which he piled close to the door; but when he had got together as much as his ten mules could possibly carry, or even more, and wanted to get out to load them, the thoughts of his wonderful riches had made him entirely forget the word which caused the door to open. In vain he tried "Bame," "Fame," "Lame," "Tetame," and a thousand others. The door remained as immovable as the rock itself, notwithstanding Cassim kicked and screamed till he was ready to drop with fatigue and vexation.

Presently he heard the sound of horses' feet, which he rightly concluded to be the robbers, and he trembled lest he should now fall a victim to his thirst for riches. He resolved, however, to make an effort to escape; and when he heard the "Sesame" pronounced, and saw the door open, he sprang out, but was instantly put to death by the swords of the robbers.

The thieves now held a council, but not one of them could possibly guess by what means Cassim had got into the cave. They saw the heaps of treasure he had piled ready to take away, but they did not miss what Ali Baba had secured before. At length they agreed to cut Cassim's body into four quarters and hang the pieces within the cave, that it might terrify any one from further attempts; and also determined not to return themselves for some time to the cave for fear of being watched and discovered.

When Cassim's wife saw night come on, and her husband not returned, she became greatly terrified; she watched at her window till daybreak and then went to tell Ali Baba of her fears. Cassim had not informed him of his design of going to the cave; but Ali Baba, now hearing of his journey thither, went immediately in search of him. He drove his asses to the forest without delay. He was alarmed to see blood near the rock; and on entering the cave, he found the body of his unfortunate brother cut to pieces and hung up within the door. It was now too late to save him; but he took down the quarters and put them upon one of his asses, covering them with fagots of wood; and, weeping for the miserable end of his brother, he regained the city. The door of his brother's house was opened by Morgiana, an intelligent, faithful female slave, who, Ali Baba knew, was worthy to be trusted with the secret.

He therefore delivered the body to Morgiana, and went himself to impart the sad tidings to the wife of Cassim. The poor woman was deeply afflicted, and reproached herself with her foolish envy and curiosity, as being the cause of her husband's death; but Ali Baba having convinced her of the necessity of being very discreet, she checked her lamentations and resolved to leave everything to the management of Morgiana.

Morgiana, having washed the body, hastened to an apothecary's and asked for some particular medicine, saying that it was for her master Cassim, who was dangerously ill. She took care to spread the report of Cassim's illness throughout the neighborhood; and as they saw Ali Baba and his wife going daily to the house of their brother, in great affliction, they were not surprised to hear shortly that Cassim had died of his disorder.

The next difficulty was to bury him without discovery; but Morgiana was ready to contrive a plan for that also. She put on her veil and went to a distant part of the city very early in the morning, where she found a poor cobbler just opening his stall. She put a piece of gold into his hand, and told him he should have another, if he would suffer himself to be blindfolded and go with her, carrying his tools with him. Mustapha, the cobbler, hesitated at first, but the gold tempted him and he consented; when Morgiana, carefully covering his eyes, so that he could not see a step of the way, led him to Cassim's house; and taking him into the room where the body was lying, removed the bandage from his eyes, and bade him sew the mangled limbs together. Mustapha obeyed her order; and having received two pieces of gold, was led blindfold the same way back to his own stall.

Morgiana then covered the body with a winding-sheet and sent for the undertaker to make preparations for the funeral. Cassim was buried with all due solemnity the same day. Ali Baba now removed his few goods, and all the gold coin that he had brought home from the cavern, to the house of his deceased brother, of which he took possession; and Cassim's widow received every kind attention from both Ali Baba and his wife.

After an interval of some months, the troop of robbers again visited their retreat in the forest, and were completely astonished to find the body taken away from the cave, and everything else remaining in its usual order. "We are discovered," said the captain, "and shall certainly be undone, if you do not adopt speedy measures to prevent our ruin. Which of you, my brave comrades, will undertake to search out the villain who is in possession of our secret?"

One of the boldest of the troop advanced, and offered himself; and was accepted on the following conditions: namely, that if he succeeded in his enterprise, he was to be made second in command of the troop; but that if he brought false intelligence, he was immediately to be put to death. The bold robber readily agreed to the conditions; and having disguised himself, he proceeded to the city.

He arrived there about daybreak, and found the cobbler Mustapha in his stall, which was always open before any other shop in the town. "Good morrow, friend," said the robber, as he passed the stall, "you rise betimes; I should think old as you are, you could scarcely see to work by this light."

"Indeed, sir," replied the cobbler, "old as I am, I do not want for good eyesight; as you must needs believe, when I tell you I sewed a dead body together the other day, where I had not so good a light as I have now."

"A dead body!" exclaimed the robber; "you mean, I suppose, that you sewed up the winding-sheet for a dead body."

"I mean no such thing," replied Mustapha; "I tell you that I sewed the four quarters of a man together."

This was enough to convince the robber he had luckily met with the very man who could give him the information he was in search of. However he did not wish to appear eager to learn the particulars, lest he should alarm the cobbler. "Ha! ha!" said he, "I find, good Mr. Cobbler, that you perceive I am a stranger here, and you wish to make me believe that the people of your city do impossible things."

"I tell you," said Mustapha in a loud and angry tone, "I sewed a dead body together with my own hands."--"Then I suppose you can tell me also where you performed this wonderful business." Upon this, Mustapha related every particular of his being led blindfold to the house, etc.

"Well, my friend," said the robber, "it is a fine story, I confess, but not very easy to believe; however, if you will convince me by showing me the house you talk of, I will give you four pieces of gold to make amends for my unbelief."

"I think," said the cobbler, after considering awhile, "that if you were to blindfold me, I should remember every turning we made; but with my eyes open I am sure I should never find it." Accordingly the robber covered Mustapha's eyes with his handkerchief; and the cobbler led him through most of the principal streets, and stopping by Cassim's door, said, "Here it is; I went no further than this house."

The robber immediately marked the door with a piece of chalk; and, giving Mustapha his four pieces of gold, dismissed him. Shortly after the thief and Mustapha had quitted the door, Morgiana, coming home from market, perceived the little mark of white chalk on the door. Suspecting something was wrong, she directly marked four doors on one side and five on the other of her master's, in exactly the same manner, without saying a word to any one.

The robber meantime rejoined his troop and boasted greatly of his success. His captain and comrades praised his diligence; and being well armed, they proceeded to the town in different disguises, and in separate parties of three and four together.

It was agreed among them that they were to meet in the market-place at the dusk of evening, and that the captain and the robber who had discovered the house were to go there first, to find out to whom it belonged. When they arrived in the street, having a lantern with them, they began to examine the doors, and found to their confusion and astonishment that ten doors were marked exactly alike. The robber, who was the captain's guide, could not say a word in explanation of this mystery; and when the disappointed troop got back to the forest, his enraged companions ordered him to be put to death.

Another now offered himself upon the same conditions as the former; and having bribed Mustapha, and discovered the house, he made a mark with the dark red chalk upon the door, in a part that was not in the least conspicuous; and carefully examined the surrounding doors, to be certain that no such marks were upon them. But nothing could escape the prying eyes of Morgiana; scarcely had the robber departed, when she discovered the red mark; and getting some red chalk, she marked seven doors on each side, precisely in the same place and in the same manner. The robber, valuing himself highly upon the precautions he had taken, triumphantly conducted his captain to the spot; but great indeed was his confusion and dismay when he found it impossible to say which, among fifteen houses marked exactly alike, was the right one. The captain, furious with his disappointment, returned again with the troop to the forest; and the second robber was also condemned to death.

The captain having lost two of his troop, judged that their hands were more active than their heads in such services; and he resolved to employ no other of them, but to go himself upon the business. Accordingly he repaired to the city and addressed himself to the cobbler Mustapha, who, for six pieces of gold, readily performed the services for him he had done for the other two strangers. The captain, much wiser than his men, did not amuse himself with setting a mark upon the door, but attentively considered the house, counted the number of windows, and passed by it very often, to be certain that he should know it again.

He then returned to the forest, and ordered his troop to go into the town, and buy nineteen mules and thirty-eight large jars, one full of oil and the rest empty. In two or three days the jars were bought, and all things in readiness; and the captain having put a man into each jar, properly armed, the jars being rubbed on the outside with oil, and the covers having holes bored in them for the men to breathe through, loaded his mules, and in the habit of an oil-merchant entered the town in the dusk of the evening. He proceeded to the street where Ali Baba dwelt, and found him sitting in the porch of his house. "Sir," said he to Ali Baba, "I have brought this oil a great way to sell, and am too late for this day's market. As I am quite a stranger in this town, will you do me the favor to let me put my mules into your court-yard, and direct me where I may lodge to-night?"

Ali Baba, who was a very good-natured man, welcomed the pretended oil-merchant very kindly, and offered him a bed in his own house; and having ordered the mules to be unloaded in the yard, and properly fed, he invited his guest in to supper. The captain, having seen the jars placed ready in the yard, followed Ali Baba into the house, and after supper was shown to the chamber where he was to sleep.

It happened that Morgiana was obliged to sit up later that night than usual, to get ready her master's bathing linen for the following morning; and while she was busy about the fire, her lamp went out, and there was no more oil in the house. After considering what she could possibly do for a light, she recollected the thirty-eight oil jars in the yard and determined to take a little oil out of one of them for her lamp. She took her oil pot in her hand and approached the first jar; the robber within said, "Is it time, captain?"

Any other slave, on hearing a man in an oil jar, would have screamed out; but the prudent Morgiana instantly recollected herself, and replied softly, "No, not yet; lie still till I call you." She passed on to every jar, receiving the same question and making the same answer, till she came to the last, which was really filled with oil.

Morgiana was now convinced that this was a plot of the robbers to murder her master, Ali Baba; so she ran back to the kitchen and brought out a large kettle, which she filled with oil, and set it on a great wood fire; and as soon as it boiled she went and poured into the jars sufficient of the boiling oil to kill every man within them. Having done this she put out her fire and her lamp, and crept softly to her chamber.

The captain of the robbers, finding everything quiet in the house, and perceiving no light anywhere, arose and went down into the yard to assemble his men. Coming to the first jar, he felt the steam of the boiled oil; he ran hastily to the rest and found every one of his troop put to death in the same manner. Full of rage and despair at having failed in his design, he forced the lock of a door that led into the garden and made his escape over the walls.

On the following morning Morgiana related to her master, Ali Baba, his wonderful deliverance from the pretended oil-merchant and his gang of robbers. Ali Baba at first could scarcely credit her tale; but when he saw the robbers dead in the jars, he could not sufficiently praise her courage and sagacity; and without letting any one else into the secret, he and Morgiana the next night buried the thirty-seven thieves in a deep trench at the bottom of the garden. The jars and mules, as he had no use for them, were sent from time to time to the different markets and sold.

While Ali Baba took these measures to prevent his and Cassim's adventures in the forest from being known, the captain returned to his cave, and for some time abandoned himself to grief and despair. At length, however, he determined to adopt a new scheme for the destruction of Ali Baba. He removed by degrees all the valuable merchandise from the cave to the city and took a shop exactly opposite to Ali Baba's house. He furnished this shop with everything that was rare and costly, and went by the name of the merchant Cogia Hassan. Many persons made acquaintance with the stranger; among others, Ali Baba's son went every day to the shop. The pretended Cogia Hassan soon appeared to be very fond of Ali Baba's son, offered him many presents, and often detained him at dinner, on which occasions he treated him in the handsomest manner.

Ali Baba's son thought it was necessary to make some return to these civilities, and pressed his father to invite Cogia Hassan to supper. Ali Baba made no objection, and the invitation was accordingly given. The artful Cogia Hassan would not too hastily accept this invitation, but pretended he was not fond of going into company, and that he had business which demanded his presence at home. These excuses only made Ali Baba's son the more eager to take him to his father's house; and after repeated solicitations, the merchant consented to sup at Ali Baba's house the next evening.

A most excellent supper was provided, which Morgiana cooked in the best manner, and as was her usual custom, she carried in the first dish herself. The moment she looked at Cogia Hassan, she knew it was the pretended oil-merchant. The prudent Morgiana did not say a word to any one of this discovery, but sent the other slaves into the kitchen and waited at table herself; and while Cogia Hassan was drinking, she perceived he had a dagger hid under his coat.

When supper was ended, and the dessert and wine on the table, Morgiana went away and dressed herself in the habit of a dancing-girl; she next called Abdalla, a fellow slave, to play on his tabor while she danced. As soon as she appeared at the parlor door, her master, who was very fond of seeing her dance, ordered her to come in to entertain his guest with some of her best dancing. Cogia Hassan was not very well satisfied with this entertainment, yet was compelled, for fear of discovering himself, to seem pleased with the dancing, while, in fact, he wished Morgiana a great way off, and was quite alarmed lest he should lose his opportunity of murdering Ali Baba and his son.

Morgiana danced several dances with the utmost grace and agility; and then drawing a poniard from her girdle, she performed many surprising things with it, sometimes presenting the point to one and sometimes to another, and then seemed to strike it into her own bosom. Suddenly she paused, and holding the poniard in the right hand, presented her left to her master as if begging some money; upon which Ali Baba and his son each gave her a small piece of money. She then turned to the pretended Cogia Hassan, and while he was putting his hand into his purse, she plunged the poniard into his heart.

"Wretch!" cried Ali Baba, "thou hast ruined me and my family."

"No, sir," replied Morgiana, "I have preserved, and not ruined you and your son. Look well at this traitor, and you will find him to be the pretended oil-merchant who came once before to rob and murder you."

Ali Baba pulled off the turban and the cloak which the false Cogia Hassan wore and discovered that he was not only the pretended oil-merchant, but the captain of the forty robbers who had slain his brother Cassim; nor could he doubt that his perfidious aim had been to destroy him, and probably his son, with the concealed dagger. Ali Baba, who felt the new obligation he owed to Morgiana for thus saving his life a second time, embraced her and said, "My dear Morgiana, I give you your liberty; but my gratitude must not stop there: I will also marry you to my son, who can esteem and admire you no less than does his father." Then turning to his son, he added, "You, my son, will not refuse the wife I offer; for, in marrying Morgiana, you take to wife the preserver and benefactor of yourself and family." The son, far from showing any dislike, readily and joyfully accepted his proposed bride, having long entertained an affection for the good slave Morgiana.

Having rejoiced in their deliverance, they buried the captain that night with great privacy, in the trench along with his troop of robbers; and a few days afterwards, Ali Baba celebrated the marriage of his son and Morgiana with a sumptuous entertainment. Every one who knew Morgiana said she was worthy of her good fortune, and highly commended her master's generosity toward her.

During a twelvemonth Ali Baba forbore to go near the forest, but at length his curiosity incited him to make another journey.

When he came to the cave he saw no footsteps of either men or horses; and having said, "Open Sesame," he went in, and judged by the state of things deposited in the cavern that no one had been there since the pretended Cogia Hassan had removed the merchandise to his shop in the city. Ali Baba took as much gold home as his horse could carry.

Afterwards he carried his son to the cave and taught him the secret. This secret they handed down to their posterity; and using their good fortune with moderation, they lived in honor and splendor, and served with dignity some of the chief offices in the city.

A quaint and interesting cycle of animal stories was formed in the Middle Ages with the fox, called Reynard, as the hero or central character. Their origin was not different from that of the cycles that grew up concerning such popular heroes as King Arthur, Robin Hood, Charlemagne, and Siegfried; but one difference at least may be observed--Reynard is always represented as evil, though clever and successful. These stories of Reynard have furnished material for many workers in the field of literature and they have generally served as a vehicle for satire. Indeed, there was much satire in the original versions of the folk. Perhaps the greatest of these modern recensions is that of the German poet Goethe. The best version for use with children is that made by Sir Henry Cole ("Felix Summerley") and edited more recently by Joseph Jacobs in his usual masterly fashion. The introduction to this edition gives just the facts that the reader needs for understanding the significance of the Reynard cycle.

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It may be noted that King Lion, after hearing many complaints about Reynard's evil ways, decides to bring him to court for trial. The first special constable sent to summon Reynard was Bruin the Bear, and now we are to learn--

HOW BRUIN THE BEAR SPED WITH REYNARD THE FOX

The next morning away went _Bruin_ the bear in quest of the fox, armed against all plots of deceit whatsoever. And as he came through a dark forest, in which _Reynard_ had a bypath, which he used when he was hunted, he saw a high mountain, over which he must pass to go to _Malepardus_. For though _Reynard_ has many houses, yet _Malepardus_ is his chiefest and most ancient castle, and in it he lay both for defense and ease. Now at last when _Bruin_ was come to _Malepardus_, he found the gates close shut, at which after he had knocked, sitting on his tail, he called aloud, "Sir _Reynard_, are you at home? I am _Bruin_ your kinsman, whom the King hath sent to summon you to the court, to answer many foul accusations exhibited against you, and hath taken a great vow, that if you fail to appear to this summons, your life shall answer your contempt, and your goods and honors shall lie confiscate at his highness's mercy. Therefore, fair kinsman, be advised of your friend, and go with me to the court to shun the danger that else will fall upon you."

_Reynard_, lying close by the gate, as his custom was for the warm sun's sake, hearing those words, departed into one of his holes, for _Malepardus_ is full of many intricate and curious rooms, which labyrinth-wise he could pass through, when either his danger or the benefit of any prey required the same. There he meditated awhile with himself how he might counterplot and bring the bear to disgrace (who he knew loved him not) and himself to honor; at last he came forth, and said, "Dear uncle _Bruin_, you are exceeding welcome. Pardon my slowness in coming, for at your first speech I was saying my even song, and devotion must not be neglected. Believe me, he hath done you no good service, nor do I thank him which hath sent you this weary and long journey, in which your much sweat and toil far exceeds the worth of the labor. Certainly had you not come, I had to-morrow been at the court of my own accord, yet at this time my sorrow is much lessened, inasmuch as your counsel at this present may return me double benefit. Alas, cousin, could his Majesty find no meaner a messenger than your noble self to employ in these trivial affairs? Truly it appears strange to me, especially since, next his royal self, you are of greatest renown both in blood and riches. For my part, I would we were both at court, for I fear our journey will be exceeding troublesome. To speak truth, since I made mine abstinence from flesh, I have eaten such strange new meats, that my body is very much distempered, and swelleth as if it would break."

"Alas, dear cousin," said the bear, "what meat is that which maketh you so ill?"

"Uncle," answered he, "what will it profit you to know? The meat was simple and mean. We poor men are no lords, you know, but eat that for necessity which others eat for wantonness; yet not to delay you, that which I ate was honeycombs, great, full, and most pleasant, which, compelled by hunger, I ate too unmeasurably and am thereby infinitely distempered."

"Ha," quoth _Bruin_, "honeycombs? Do you make such slight respect of them, nephew? Why it is meat for the greatest emperor in the world. Fair nephew, help me but to some of that honey, and command me whilst I live; for one little part thereof I will be your servant everlastingly."

"Sure," said the fox, "uncle, you but jest with me."

"But jest with you?" replied _Bruin_, "beshrew my heart then, for I am in that serious earnest, that for one lick thereat you shall make me the faithfullest of all your kindred."

"Nay," said the fox, "if you be in earnest, then know I will bring you where so much is, that ten of you shall not be able to devour it at a meal, only for your love's sake, which above all things I desire, uncle."

"Not ten of us?" said the bear, "it is impossible; for had I all the honey betwixt _Hybla_ and _Portugal_, yet I could in a short space eat it all myself."

"Then know, uncle," quoth the fox, "that near at hand here dwelleth a husbandman named _Lanfert_, who is master of so much honey that you cannot consume it in seven years, which for your love and friendship's sake I will put into your safe possession."

_Bruin_, mad upon the honey, swore, that to have one good meal thereof he would not only be his faithful friend, but also stop the mouths of all his adversaries.

_Reynard_, smiling at his easy belief, said, "If you will have seven ton, uncle, you shall have it."

These words pleased the bear so well, and made him so pleasant, that he could not stand for laughing.

Well, thought the fox, this is good fortune. Sure I will lead him where he shall laugh more measurably; and then said, "Uncle, we must delay no time, and I will spare no pains for your sake, which for none of my kin I would perform."

The bear gave him many thanks, and so away they went, the fox promising him as much honey as he could bear, but meant as many strokes as he could undergo. In the end they came to _Lanfert's_ house, the sight whereof made the bear rejoice. This _Lanfert_ was a stout and lusty carpenter, who the other day had brought into his yard a great oak, which, as their manner is, he began to cleave, and had struck into it two wedges in such wise that the cleft stood a great way open, at which the fox rejoiced much, for it was answerable to his wish. So with a laughing countenance he said to the bear, "Behold now, dear uncle, and be careful of yourself, for within this tree is so much honey that it is unmeasurable. Try if you can get into it; yet, good uncle, eat moderately, for albeit the combs are sweet and good, yet a surfeit is dangerous, and may be troublesome to your body, which I would not for a world, since no harm can come to you but must be my dishonor."

"Sorrow not for me, nephew _Reynard_," said the bear, "nor think me such a fool that I cannot temper mine appetite."

"It is true, my best uncle, I was too bold. I pray you enter in at the end, and you shall find your desire."

The bear with all haste entered the tree, with his two feet forward, and thrust his head into the cleft, quite over the ears, which when the fox perceived, he instantly ran and pulled the wedges out of the tree, so that he locked the bear fast therein, and then neither flattery nor anger availed the bear. For the nephew had by his deceit brought the uncle into so false a prison that it was impossible by any art to free himself of the same. Alas, what profited now his great strength and valor? Why, they were both causes of more vexation; and finding himself destitute of all relief, he began to howl and bray, and with scratching and tumbling to make such a noise that _Lanfert_, amazed, came hastily out of his house, having in his hand a sharp hook, whilst the bear lay wallowing and roaring within the tree.

The fox from afar off said to the bear in scorn and mocking, "Is the honey good, uncle, which you eat? How do you? Eat not too much, I beseech you. Pleasant things are apt to surfeit, and you may hinder your journey to the court. When _Lanfert_ cometh (if your belly be full) he will give you drink to digest it, and wash it down your throat."

And having thus said, he went towards his castle. But by this time, _Lanfert_, finding the bear fast taken in the tree, he ran to his neighbors and desired them to come into his yard, for there was a bear fast taken there. This was noised through all the town, so that there was neither man, nor woman, nor child but ran thither, some with one weapon, and some with another--as goads, rakes, broom-staves, or what they could gather up. The priest had the handle of the cross, the clerk the holy water sprinkler, and the priest's wife, Dame _Jullock_, with her distaff, for she was then spinning; nay, the old beldames came that had ne'er a tooth in their heads. This army put _Bruin_ into a great fear, being none but himself to withstand them, and hearing the clamor of the noise which came thundering upon him, he wrestled and pulled so extremely that he got out his head, but he left behind him all the skin, and his ears also; insomuch that never creature beheld a fouler or more deformed beast. For the blood covering all his face, and his hands leaving the claws and skin behind them, nothing remained but ugliness. It was an ill market the bear came to, for he lost both motion and sight--that is, feet and eyes. But notwithstanding this torment, _Lanfert_, the priest, and the whole parish came upon him, and so becudgeled him about his body part, that it might well be a warning to all his misery, to know that ever the weakest shall still go most to the wall. This the bear found by experience, for every one exercised the height of their fury upon him. Even _Houghlin_ with the crooked leg, and _Ludolf_ with the long broad nose, the one with a leaden mall, and the other with an iron whip, all belashed poor sir _Bruin_; not so much but sir _Bertolf_ with the long fingers, _Lanfert_ and _Ortam_ did him more annoyance than all the rest, the one having a sharp Welsh hook, the other a crooked staff well leaded at the end, which he used to play at stab ball withal. There was _Birkin_ and _Armes Ablequack_, _Bane_ the priest with his staff, and Dame _Jullock_ his wife; all these so belabored the bear, that his life was in great danger. The poor bear in this massacre sat and sighed extremely, groaning under the burden of their strokes, of which _Lanfert's_ were the greatest and thundered most dreadfully; for Dame _Podge_ of _Casport_ was his mother, and his father was _Marob_ the steeple-maker, a passing stout man when he was alone. _Bruin_ received of him many showers of stones till _Lanfert's_ brother, rushing before the rest with a staff, struck the bear in the head such a blow that he could neither hear nor see, so that awaking from his astonishment the bear leaped into the river adjoining, through a cluster of wives there standing together, of which he threw divers into the water, which was large and deep, amongst whom the parson's wife was one; which the parson seeing how she floated like a sea-mew, he left striking the bear, and cried to the rest of the company, "Help! oh, help! Dame _Jullock_ is in the water; help, both men and women, for whosoever saves her, I give free pardon of all their sins and transgressions, and remit all penance imposed whatsoever." This heard, every one left the bear to help Dame _Jullock_, which as soon as the bear saw, he cut the stream and swam away as fast as he could, but the priest with a great noise pursued him, crying in his rage, "Turn, villain, that I may be revenged of thee"; but the bear swam in the strength of the stream and suspected not his calling, for he was proud that he was so escaped from them. Only he bitterly cursed the honey tree and the fox, which had not only betrayed him, but had made him lose his hood from his face, and his gloves from his fingers. In this sort he swam some three miles down the water, in which time he grew so weary that he went on land to get ease, where blood trickled down his face; he groaned, sighed, and drew his breath so short, as if his last hour had been expiring.

Now whilst these things were in doing, the fox in his way home stole a fat hen, and threw her into his mail, and running through a bypath that no man might perceive him, he came towards the river with infinite joy; for he suspected that the bear was certainly slain: therefore he said to himself, "My fortune is as I wished it, for the greatest enemy I had in the court is now dead, nor can any man suspect me guilty thereof." But as he spake these words, looking towards the river, he espied where _Bruin_ the bear lay and rested, which struck his heart with grief, and he railed against _Lanfert_ the carpenter, saying, "Silly fool that thou art, what madman would have lost such good venison, especially being so fat and wholesome, and for which he took no pains, for he was taken to his hand; any man would have been proud of the fortune which thou neglectest." Thus fretting and chiding, he came to the river, where he found the bear all wounded and bloody, of which _Reynard_ was only guilty; yet in scorn he said to the bear, "_Monsieur, Dieu vous garde_."

"O thou foul red villain," said the bear to himself, "what impudence is like to this?"

But the fox went on with his speech, and said, "What, uncle? Have you forgot anything at _Lanfert's_, or have you paid him for the honeycombs you stole? If you have not, it will redound much to your disgrace, which before you shall undergo, I will pay him for them myself. Sure the honey was excellent good, and I know much more of the same price. Good uncle, tell me before I go, into what order do you mean to enter, that you wear this new-fashioned hood? Will you be a monk, an abbot, or a friar? Surely he that shaved your crown hath cropped your ears; also your foretop is lost, and your gloves are gone; fie, sloven, go not bare-handed; they say you can sing _peccavi_ rarely."

These taunts made _Bruin_ mad with rage, but because he could not take revenge, he was content to let him talk his pleasure. Then after a small rest he plunged again into the river, and swam down the stream, and landed on the other side, where he began with much grief to meditate how he might get to the court, for he had lost his ears, his talons, and all the skin off his feet, so that had a thousand deaths followed him, he could not go. Yet of necessity he must move, that in the end compelled by extremity, he set his tail on the ground, and tumbled his body over and over; so by degrees, tumbling now half a mile, and then half a mile, in the end he tumbled to the court, where divers beholding his strange manner of approach, they thought some prodigy had come towards them; but in the end the King knew him, and grew angry, saying, "It is sir _Bruin_, my servant; what villains have wounded him thus, or where hath he been that he brings his death thus along with him?"

"O my dread Sovereign Lord the King," cried out the bear, "I complain me grievously unto you; behold how I am massacred, which I humbly beseech you revenge on that false _Reynard_, who, for doing your royal pleasure, hath brought me to this disgrace and slaughter."

Then said the King, "How durst he do this? Now by my crown I swear I will take the revenge which shall make the traitors tremble!"

Whereupon the King sent for all his council, and consulted how and in what sort to persecute against the fox, where it was generally concluded that he should be again summoned to appear and answer his trespasses; and the party to summon him they appointed to be _Tibert_ the cat, as well for his gravity as wisdom; all which pleased the King well.

400

After many ups and downs in fortune Reynard is finally on good terms with the king when Isegrim the Wolf appears with another accusation. Reynard's denial of the charges led the Wolf to challenge him to mortal combat, a well known medieval way of settling the truth of conflicting evidence. The result appears in the following:

THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE FOX AND THE WOLF

The fox answered not a word, but bowing himself down humbly to the earth, both before the King and the Queen's Majesties, went forth into the field; and at the same time the wolf was also ready, and stood boasting, and giving out many proud and vainglorious speeches. The marshals and rulers of the lists were the leopard and the loss. These brought forth a book, on which the wolf swore and maintained his assertion that the fox was a traitor and a murderer, which he would prove on his body, or else be counted a recreant. Then _Reynard_ took the book, and swore he lied as a false traitor and a thief, which he would prove on his body, or be accounted a recreant.

When these ceremonies were done, the marshals of the field bade them do their devoir. And then every creature avoided the lists, save Dame _Rukenaw_, who stood by the fox, and bade him remember the words and instructions she had given him, and call to mind how, when he was scarce seven years old, he had then wisdom enough to pass the darkest night without lantern or candle-light, or the help of the moon, when any occasion required him; and that his experience was much greater, and his reputation of wisdom more frequent with his companions; and therefore to work so as he might win the day, which would be an eternal monument to him and his family for ever.

To this the fox answered, "My best aunt, assure yourself I will do my best, and not forget a tittle of your counsel. I doubt not but my friends shall reap honor and my foes shame by my actions." To this the ape said amen, and so departed.

When none but the combatants were in the lists, the wolf went toward the fox with infinite rage and fury, and thinking to take the fox in his forefeet, the fox leaped nimbly from him and the wolf pursued him, so that there began a tedious chase between them, on which their friends gazed. The wolf taking larger strides than the fox often overtook him, and lifting up his feet to strike him, the fox avoided the blow and smote him on the face with his tail, so that the wolf was stricken almost blind, and he was forced to rest while he cleared his eyes; which advantage when _Reynard_ saw, he scratched up the dust with his feet, and threw it in the eyes of the wolf.

This grieved him worse than the former, so that he durst follow him no longer, for the dust and sand sticking in his eyes smarted so sore, that of force he must rub and wash it away, which _Reynard_ seeing, with all the fury he had he ran upon him, and with his teeth gave him three sore wounds on his head, and scoffing said, "Have I hit you, Mr. Wolf? I will yet hit you better; you have killed many a lamb and many an innocent beast, and would impose the fault upon me, but you shall find the price of your knavery. I am marked to punish thy sins, and I will give thee thy absolution bravely. It is good for thee that thou use patience, for thy evil life is at my mercy. Yet, notwithstanding, if thou wilt kneel down and ask my forgiveness, and confess thyself vanquished, though thou be the worst thing living, yet I will spare thy life, for my pity makes me loath to kill thee."

These words made _Isegrim_ both mad and desperate, so that he knew not how to express his fury; his wounds bled, his eyes smarted, and his whole body was oppressed. So that in the height of his fury he lifted up his foot and struck the fox so great a blow that he felled him to the ground. But _Reynard_, being nimble, quickly rose up again and encountered the wolf, that between them began a dreadful and doubtful combat.

The wolf was exceeding furious, and ten times he leaped to catch _Reynard_ fast, but his skin was so slippery and oily he could not hold him. Nay, so wondrous nimble was he in the fight, that when the wolf thought to have him surest, he would shift himself between his legs and under his belly, and every time gave the wolf a bite with his teeth, or a slap on the face with his tail, that the poor wolf found nothing but despair in the conflict, albeit his strength was much the greater.

Thus many wounds and bitings passing on either side, the one expressing cunning, and the other strength; the one fury, the other temperance. In the end the wolf being enraged that the battle had continued so long, for had his feet been sound it had been much shorter, he said to himself, "I will make an end of this combat, for I know my very weight is able to crush him to pieces; and I lose much of my reputation, to suffer him thus long to contend against me."

And this said, he struck the fox again so sore a blow on the head with his foot, that he fell down to the ground, and ere he could recover himself and arise, he caught him in his feet and threw him under him, lying upon him in such wise, as if he would have pressed him to death.

Now began the fox to be grievously afraid, and all his friends also, and all _Isegrim's_ friends began to shout for joy; but the fox defended himself as well as he could with his claws, lying along, and the wolf could not hurt him with his claws, his feet were so sore; only with his teeth he snatched at him to bite him, which, when the fox saw, he smote the wolf on the head with his fore-claws, so that he tore the skin between his brows and his ears, and one of his eyes hung out of his head, which put the wolf to infinite torment, and he howled out extremely. Then _Isegrim_ wiping his face, the fox took advantage thereof, and with his struggling got upon his feet.

At which the wolf was angry, and striking after him, caught the fox in his arms, and held him fast; never was _Reynard_ in so great a strait as then, for at that time great was their contention; but anger now made the wolf forget his smart, and gripping the fox altogether under him, as _Reynard_ was defending himself his hand lighted into _Isegrim's_ mouth, so that he was in danger of losing it. Then said the wolf to the fox, "Now either yield thyself as vanquished, or else certainly I will kill thee; neither thy dust, thy mocks, nor any subtle invention shall now save thee; thou art now left utterly desperate, and my wounds must have their satisfaction."

When the fox heard this he thought it was a hard election, for both brought his ruin; and suddenly concluding, he said, "Dear uncle, since fortune commands me, I yield to be your servant, and at your commandments will travel for you to the Holy Land, or any other pilgrimage, or do any service which shall be beneficial to your soul or the souls of your forefathers. I will do for the King or for our holy father the Pope, I will hold of you my lands and revenues, and as I, so shall all the rest of my kindred; so that you shall be a lord of many lords, and none shall dare to move against you.

"Besides, whatsoever I get of pullets, geese, partridges, or clover, flesh or fish, you, your wife, and children shall have the first choice, ere any are eaten by me. I will ever stand by your side, and wheresoever you go, no danger shall come near you; you are strong, and I am subtle; we two joined together, what force can prevail against us? Again, we are so near in blood that nature forbids there should be any enmity between us; I would not have fought against you had I been sure of victory, but that you first appealed me, and then you know of necessity I must do my uttermost. I have also in this battle been courteous to you, and not shown my worst violence, as I would on a stranger, for I know it is the duty of a nephew to spare his uncle; and this you might well perceive by my running from you. I tell you, it was an action much contrary to my nature, for I might often have hurt you when I refused, nor are you worse for me by anything more than the blemish of your eye, for which I am sorry, and wished it had not happened; yet thereby know that you shall reap rather benefit than loss thereby, for when other beasts in their sleep shut two windows, you shall shut but one.

"As for my wife, children, and lineage, they shall fall down at your feet before you in any presence; therefore, I humbly desire you, that you will suffer poor _Reynard_ to live. I know you will kill me, but what will that avail you, when you shall never live in safety for fear of revengement of my kindred? Therefore, temperance in any man's wrath is excellent, whereas rashness is ever the mother of repentance. But, uncle, I know you to be valiant, wise, and discreet, and you rather seek honor, peace, and good fame than blood and revenge."

_Isegrim_ the wolf said, "Infinite dissembler, how fain wouldst thou be freed of my servitude? Too well I understand thee, and know that if thou wert safe on thy feet thou wouldst forswear this submission; but know all the wealth in the world shall not buy out thy ransom, for thee and thy friends I esteem them not, nor believe anything thou hast uttered. Too well I know thee, and am no bird for thy lime bush; chaff cannot deceive me. Oh, how wouldst thou triumph if I should believe thee, and say I wanted wit to understand thee; but thou shalt know I can look both on this side and beyond thee. Thy many deceits used upon me have now armed me against thee. Thou sayest thou hast spared me in the battle; but look upon me, and my wounds will show how falsely thou liest; thou never gavest me a time to breathe in, nor will I now give thee a minute to repent in."

Now whilst _Isegrim_ was thus talking, the fox bethought himself how he might best get free, and thrusting his other hand down he caught the wolf fast by the neck, and he wrung him so extremely hard thereby, that he made him shriek and howl out with the anguish; then the fox drew his other hand out of his mouth, for the wolf was in such wondrous torment that he had much ado to contain himself from swooning; for this torment exceeded above the pain of his eye, and in the end he fell over and over in a swoon; then presently _Reynard_ leaped upon him, and drew him about the lists and dragged him by the legs, and struck, wounded, and bit him in many places, so that all the whole field might take notice thereof.

At this, all _Isegrim's_ friends were full of sorrow, and with great weeping and lamentation went to the King and prayed him to be pleased to appease the combat and take it into his own hands; which suit the King granted, and then the leopard and the loss, being marshals, entered the lists and told the fox and the wolf that the King would speak with them, and that the battle should there end, for he would take it into his own hands and determine thereof; as for themselves they had done sufficiently, neither would the King lose either of them. And to the fox they said the whole field gave him the victory.

The greatest and most inspiring cycle of medieval romances is that concerned with the adventures of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Developing largely as separate stories, these romances were brought together into an organic collection by Sir Thomas Malory in the third quarter of the fifteenth century. This work, called _Le Morte D'Arthur_, has remained the standard Arthuriad and is the source of most modern versions. It is one of the great monuments of English prose, and, while at first the strangeness of its style may repel, the wonderful dignity of the story and the sonorous quality of the language make a strong appeal to children as well as to older readers. Teachers should at least be acquainted with a portion of Malory, and the three selections following are taken from his text. No. 404 is added as a suggestion as to how this material may be worked up to tell to children.

401

According to a tradition in _Le Morte D'Arthur_, Uther Pendragon, the father of Arthur, was a powerful king in England. To fulfill a promise made to Merlin, Uther Pendragon allowed Merlin to take Arthur on the day of his birth, that the child might not be known as the son of the king. Merlin took the child to Sir Ector, and the wife of Sir Ector reared Arthur as one of her own children. The following story is an account of how Arthur learned of his parentage.

HOW ARTHUR BECAME KING

SIR THOMAS MALORY

After the death of Uther Pendragon, stood the realm in great jeopardy long while, for every lord that was mighty of men made him strong, and many weened to have been king. Then Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury and counselled him to send for all the lords of the realm and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to London come by Christmas.

So the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, sent for all the lords and gentlemen of arms that they should come by Christmas even unto London. So in the greatest church of London, whether it were Paul's or not the French book maketh no mention, all the estates were long or day in the church for to pray. And when matins and the first mass were done, there was seen in the churchyard, against the high altar, a great stone four square, like unto a marble stone, and in midst thereof was like an anvil of steel a foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword, and letters there were written in gold about the sword that said thus:

"Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all England."

Then the people marveled and told it to the Archbishop. "I command," said the Archbishop, "that you keep you within your church, and pray unto God still; that no man touch the sword till the high mass be all done."

So when all masses were done, all the lords went to behold the stone and the sword. And when they saw the scripture, some assayed; such as would have been king. But none might stir the sword nor move it. "He is not here," said the Archbishop, "that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not God will make him known. But this is my counsel," said the Archbishop, "that we provide ten knights, men of good fame, and they to keep this sword."

So it was ordained, and there was made a cry, that every man should essay that would, for to win the sword. And upon New Year's Day the barons let make a jousts and a tournament, that all knights that would joust or tourney there might play, and all this was ordained for to keep the lords and the commons together, for the Archbishop trusted that God would make him known that should win the sword. So upon New Year's Day, when the service was done, the barons rode unto the field, some to joust and some to tourney, and so it happened that Sir Ector rode unto the jousts, and with him rode Sir Kay his son, and young Arthur that was his nourished brother; and Sir Kay had been made knight at All Hallowmass afore.

So as they rode to the joustsward, Sir Kay had lost his sword, for he had left it at his father's lodging, and so he prayed young Arthur for to ride for his sword. "I will well," said Arthur, and rode fast after the sword, and when he came home, the lady and all were out to see the jousting. Then was Arthur wroth, and said to himself, "I will ride to the churchyard and take the sword with me that sticketh in the stone, for my brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this day." So when he came to the churchyard, Sir Arthur alit and tied his horse to the stile, and so he went to the tent and found no knights there, for they were at jousting; and so he handled the sword by the handles, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and rode his way until he came to his brother Sir Kay, and delivered him the sword.

As soon as Sir Kay saw the sword, he wist well it was the sword of the stone, and so he rode to his father, Sir Ector, and said, "Sir, lo here is the sword of the stone, wherefore I must be king of this land."

When Sir Ector beheld the sword, he returned again and came to the church, and there they alit, all three, and went into the church. And anon he made Sir Kay to swear upon a book how he came to that sword. "Sir," said Sir Kay, "by my brother Arthur, for he brought it to me."

"How gat ye this sword?" said Sir Ector to Arthur.

"Sir, I will tell you. When I came home for my brother's sword, I found nobody at home to deliver me his sword, and so I thought my brother Sir Kay should not be swordless, and so I came hither eagerly and pulled it out of the stone without any pain."

"Found ye any knights about this sword?" said Sir Ector.

"Nay," said Arthur.

"Now," said Sir Ector to Arthur, "I understand ye must be king of this land."

"Wherefore I," said Arthur, "and for what cause?"

"Sir," said Ector, "for God will have it so, for there should never man have drawn out this sword, but he that shall be rightways king of this land. Now let me see whether ye can put the sword there as it was and pull it out again."

"That is no mastery," said Arthur, and so he put it in the stone; therewithal Sir Ector essayed to pull out the sword and failed.

"Now essay," said Sir Ector unto Sir Kay. And anon he pulled at the sword with all his might, but it would not be.

"Now shall ye essay," said Ector to Arthur.

"I will well," said Arthur, and pulled it out easily. And therewithal Sir Ector knelt down to the earth, and Sir Kay. "Alas," said Arthur, "my own dear father and brother, why kneel ye to me?"

"Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, it is not so. I was never your father nor of your blood, but I wot well ye are of an higher blood than I weened ye were." And then Sir Ector told him all, how he had taken him for to nourish him, and by whose commandment, and by Merlin's deliverance. Then Arthur made great doole when he understood that Sir Ector was not his father.

"Sir," said Ector unto Arthur, "will ye be my good and gracious lord when ye are king?"

"Else were I to blame," said Arthur, "for ye are the man in the world that I am most beholden to, and my good lady and mother your wife, that as well as her own hath fostered me and kept. And if ever it be God's will that I be king as ye say, God forbid that I should fail you."

"Sir," said Sir Ector, "I will ask no more of you but that ye will make my son, your foster brother, Sir Kay, seneschal of all your lands."

"That shall be done," said Arthur, "and more, by the faith of my body, that never man shall have that office but he, while he and I live."

Therewithal they went unto the Archbishop and told him how the sword was achieved, and by whom; and on the Twelfth-day all the barons came thither, and to essay to take the sword, who that would essay. But there afore them all, there might none take it out but Arthur; wherefore there were many lords wroth, and said it was great shame unto them all and the realm to be over-governed with a boy of no high blood born, and so they fell out at that time that it was put off until Candlemas, and then all the barons should meet there again; but always the ten knights were ordained to watch the sword day and night, and so they set a pavilion over the stone and the sword, and five always watched. So at Candlemas many more great lords came thither for to have won the sword, but there might none prevail. And right as Arthur did at Christmas, he did at Candlemas, and pulled out the sword easily, whereof the barons were sore agrieved and put it off in delay till the high feast of Easter, yet there were some of the great lords had indignation that Arthur should be king, and put it off in a delay till the feast of Pentecost. And at the feast of Pentecost all manner of men essayed to pull at the sword that would essay, but none might prevail but Arthur, and he pulled it out afore all the lords and commons that were there, wherefore all the commons cried at once, "We will have Arthur unto our king. We will put him no more in delay, for we all see that it is God's will that he shall be our king, and who that holdeth against it, we will slay him." And therewith they all kneeled at once, both rich and poor, and cried Arthur mercy because they had delayed him so long, and Arthur forgave them, and took the sword between both his hands, and offered it upon the altar where the Archbishop was, and so was he made knight of the best man that was there. And so anon was the coronation made. And there was he sworn unto his lords and the commons for to be a true king and to stand with true justice from thenceforth the days of his life.

402

After Arthur was made king, he spent several years in war with his lawless barons before he finally established a stable government in England. Malory's accounts of these wars are interspersed with stories of miraculous incidents, accounts of the adventures of knights, and descriptions of feasts, tournaments, and jousts. The following is a description of the jousting between the knights of King Arthur and those of two French kings, Ban and Bors, who had come to aid Arthur in his wars.

A TOURNEY WITH THE FRENCH

SIR THOMAS MALORY

Then the king let purvey for a great feast, and let cry a great jousts. And by All Hallowmass the two kings were come over the sea with three hundred knights well arrayed both for peace and for war. And King Arthur met with them ten miles out of London, and there was great joy as could be thought or made. And on All Hallowmass at the great feast, sat in the hall the three kings, and Sir Kay seneschal served in the hall, and Sir Lucas the butler, and Sir Griflet. These three knights had the rule of all the service that served the kings. And anon, as they had washed and risen, all knights that would joust made them ready. By when they were ready on horseback there were seven hundred knights. And Arthur, Ban, and Bors, with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Sir Ector, Kay's father, they were in a place covered with cloth of gold like an hall, with ladies and gentlewomen, for to behold who did the best, and thereon to give judgment.

And King Arthur and the two kings let depart the seven hundred knights into two parties. And there were three hundred knights of the realm of Benwick and of Gaul turned on the other side. Then they dressed their shields, and began to couch their spears many good knights. So Griflet was the first that met with a knight, one Ladinas, and they met so eagerly that all men had wonder; and they so fought that their shields fell to pieces, and horse and man fell to the earth; and both French knight and English knight lay so long that all men weened they had been dead. When Lucas the butler saw Griflet so lie, he horsed him again anon, and they two did marvelous deeds of arms with many bachelors. Also Sir Kay came out of an enbushment with five knights with him, and they six smote other six down. But Sir Kay did that day marvelous deeds of arms that there was none did so well as he that day. Then there come Ladinas and Gracian, two knights of France, and did passing well, that all men praised them. Then come there Sir Placidas, a good knight, and met with Sir Kay, and smote him down horse and man, wherefore Sir Griflet was wroth, and met with Sir Placidas so hard that horse and man fell to the earth. But when the five knights wist that Sir Kay had a fall, they were wroth out of wit, and therewith each of them five bare down a knight. When King Arthur and the two kings saw them begin to wax wroth on both parties, they leaped on small hackneys and let cry that all men should depart unto their lodging. And so they went home and unarmed them, and so to evensong and supper. And after, the three kings went into a garden and gave the prize unto Sir Kay, and to Lucas the butler, and unto Sir Griflet.

403

One part of _Le Morte D'Arthur_ will illustrate almost as well as another the nature of the adventure stories that grew up in the Middle Ages regarding the traditional heroes of chivalry. The following selection is taken from the first part of the book.

ADVENTURES OF ARTHUR

SIR THOMAS MALORY

Then on a day there came in the court a squire on horseback, leading a knight before him wounded to the death. He said, "There is a knight in the forest who hath reared up a pavilion by a well, and hath slain my master, a good knight whose name was Miles; wherefore I beseech you that my master may be buried, and that some knight may revenge my master's death."

Then the noise was great of that knight's death in the court, and every man said his advice. Then came Griflet that was but a squire, and he was but young, of the age of King Arthur; so he besought the king for all his service that he had done him to give him the order of knighthood.

"Thou art full young and tender of age," said Arthur, "for to take so high an order on thee."

"Sir," said Griflet, "I beseech you make me knight."

"Sir," said Merlin, "it were great pity to lose Griflet, for he will be a passing good man when he is of age, abiding with you the term of his life. And if he adventure his body with yonder knight at the fountain, it is in great peril if ever he come again, for he is one of the best knights in the world, and the strongest man of arms."

"Well," said Arthur. So at the desire of Griflet the king made him knight. "Now," said Arthur unto Sir Griflet, "sith I have made you knight thou must give me a gift."

"What ye will," said Griflet.

"Thou shalt promise me by the faith of thy body, when thou hast jousted with the knight at the fountain, whether it fall ye to be on foot or on horseback, that right so ye shall come again unto me without making any more debate."

"I will promise you," said Griflet, "as you desire."

Then took Griflet his horse in great haste, and dressed his shield and took a spear in his hand, and so he rode at a great wallop till he came to the fountain, and thereby he saw a rich pavilion, and thereby under a cloth stood a fair horse well saddled and bridled, and on a tree a shield of divers colors and a great spear. Then Griflet smote on the shield with the butt of his spear, that the shield fell down to the ground. With that the knight came out of the pavilion and said, "Fair knight, why smote ye down my shield?"

"For I will joust with you," said Griflet.

"It is better ye do not," said the knight, "for ye are but young, and late made knight, and your might is nothing to mine."

"As for that," said Griflet, "I will joust with you."

"That is me loath," said the knight, "but sith I must needs, I will dress me thereto. Of whence be ye?" said the knight.

"Sir, I am of Arthur's court."

So the two knights ran together that Griflet's spear all to-shivered; and therewithal he smote Griflet through the shield and the left side, and brake the spear that the truncheon stuck in his body, that horse and knight fell down.

When the knight saw him lie so on the ground, he alit, and was passing heavy, for he weened he had slain him, and then he unlaced his helm and gat him wind, and so with the truncheon he set him on his horse and gat him wind, and so betook him to God, and said he had a mighty heart, and if he might live he would prove a passing good knight. And so Sir Griflet rode to the court, where great dole was made for him. But through good leeches he was healed and saved.

Right so came into the court twelve knights, who were aged men, and they came from the Emperor of Rome, and they asked of Arthur truage for this realm, other-else the emperor would destroy him and his land.

"Well," said King Arthur, "ye are messengers, therefore ye may say what ye will, other-else ye should die therefore. But this is mine answer: I owe the emperor no truage, nor none will I hold him, but on a fair field I shall give him my truage that shall be with a sharp spear, or else with a sharp sword, and that shall not be long."

And therewith the messengers departed passingly wroth, and King Arthur as wroth, for in evil time came they then; for the king was passingly wroth for the hurt of Sir Griflet. And so he commanded a privy man of his chamber that or it be day his best horse and armor with all that longeth unto his person, be without the city or to-morrow day. Right so or to-morrow day he met with his man and his horse, and so mounted up and dressed his shield and took his spear, and bade his chamberlain tarry there till he came again. And so Arthur rode a soft pace till it was day, and then was he ware of three churls chasing Merlin, and would have slain him. Then the king rode unto them and bade them, "Flee, churls!" Then were they afeard when they saw a knight, and fled.

"O Merlin," said Arthur, "here hadst thou been slain for all thy crafts had I not been."

"Nay," said Merlin, "not so, for I could save myself an I would; and thou art more near thy death than I am, for thou goest to the deathward, an God be not thy friend."

So as they went thus talking they came to the fountain and the rich pavilion there by it. Then King Arthur was ware where sat a knight armed in a chair. "Sir knight," said Arthur, "for what cause abidest thou here, that there may no knight ride this way but he joust with thee? I rede thee leave that custom," said Arthur.

"This custom," said the knight, "have I used and will use maugre who saith nay, and who is grieved with my custom let him amend it that will."

"I will amend it," said Arthur.

"I shall defend thee," said the knight.

Anon he took his horse and dressed his shield and took a spear, and they met so hard either on other's shield, that all to-shivered their spears. Therewith anon Arthur pulled out his sword. "Nay, not so," said the knight; "it is fairer that we twain run more together with sharp spears."

"I will well," said Arthur, "an I had any more spears."

"I have enow," said the knight, so there came a squire and brought two good spears, and Arthur chose one and he another; so they spurred their horses and came together with all their mights, that either brake their spears to their hands. Then Arthur set hand on his sword. "Nay," said the knight, "ye shall do better. Ye are a passing good jouster as ever I met withal, and once more for the love of the high order of knighthood let us joust once again."

"I assent me," said Arthur.

Anon there were brought two great spears, and every knight gat a spear, and therewith they ran together that Arthur's spear all to-shivered. But the other knight hit him so hard in midst of the shield that horse and man fell to the earth, and therewith Arthur was eager, and pulled out his sword and said, "I will assay thee, sir knight, on foot, for I have lost the honor on horseback."

"I will be on horseback," said the knight.

Then was Arthur wroth, and dressed his shield toward him with his sword drawn. When the knight saw that, he alit, for him thought no worship to have a knight at such avail, he to be on horseback and he on foot, and so he alit and dressed his shield unto Arthur. And there began a strong battle with many great strokes, and so hewed with their swords that the cantels flew in the fields, and much blood they bled both, that all the place there as they fought was overbled with blood, and thus they fought long and rested them, and then they went to battle again, and so hurtled together like two rams that either fell to the earth. So at the last they smote together that both their swords met even together. But the sword of the knight smote King Arthur's sword in two pieces, wherefore he was heavy. Then said the knight unto Arthur, "Thou art in my daunger whether me list to save thee or slay thee, and but thou yield thee as overcome and recreant, thou shalt die."

"As for death," said King Arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh, but to yield me unto thee as recreant I had liefer die than be so shamed."

And therewithal the king leaped unto Pellinore, and took him by the middle and threw him down, and raised off his helm. When the knight felt that, he was adread, for he was a passing big man of might, and anon he brought Arthur under him, and raised off his helm and would have smitten off his head.

Therewithal came Merlin and said, "Knight, hold thy hand, for an thou slay that knight thou puttest this realm in the greatest damage that ever was realm; for this knight is a man of more worship that thou wotest of."

"Why, who is he?" said the knight.

"It is King Arthur."

Then would he have slain him for dread of his wrath, and heaved up his sword, and therewith Merlin cast an enchantment to the knight, that he fell to the earth in a great sleep. Then Merlin took up King Arthur, and rode forth on the knight's horse.

"Alas!" said Arthur, "what hast thou done, Merlin? Hast thou slain this good knight by thy crafts? There liveth not so worshipful a knight as he was; I had liefer than the stint of my land a year that he were alive."

"Care ye not," said Merlin, "for he is wholer than ye; for he is but asleep, and will awake within three hours. I told you," said Merlin, "what a knight he was; here had ye been slain had I not been. Also there liveth not a bigger knight than he is one, and he shall hereafter do you right good service; and his name is Pellinore, and he shall have two sons that shall be passing good men; save one they shall have no fellow of prowess and of good living, and their names shall be Percivale of Wales and Lamerake of Wales."

Right so the king and he departed and went unto an hermit that was a good man and a great leech. So the hermit searched all his wounds and gave him good salves; so the king was there three days, and then were his wounds well amended that he might ride and go, and so departed.

And as they rode, Arthur said, "I have no sword."

"No force," said Merlin, "hereby is a sword that shall be yours, an I may."

So they rode till they came to a lake, the which was a fair water and broad, and in the midst of the lake Arthur was ware of an arm clothed in white samite, that held a fair sword in that hand.

"Lo!" said Merlin, "yonder is that sword that I spake of."

With that they saw a damosel going upon the lake. "What damosel is that?" said Arthur.

"That is the Lady of the Lake," said Merlin; "and within that lake is a rock, and therein is as fair a place as any on earth, and richly beseen; and this damosel will come to you anon, and then speak ye fair to her that she will give you that sword."

Anon withal came the damosel unto Arthur and saluted him, and he her again. "Damosel," said Arthur, "what sword is that, that yonder the arm holdeth above the water? I would it were mine, for I have no sword."

"Sir Arthur, king," said the damosel, "that sword is mine, and if ye will give me a gift when I ask it you, ye shall have it."

"By my faith," said Arthur, "I will give you what gift ye will ask."

"Well!" said the damosel. "Go ye into yonder barge, and row yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you, and I will ask my gift when I see my time."

So Sir Arthur and Merlin alit and tied their horses to two trees, and so they went into the ship, and when they came to the sword that the hand held, Sir Arthur took it up by the handles, and took it with him, and the arm and the hand went under the water. And so they came unto the land and rode forth, and then Sir Arthur saw a rich pavilion.

"What signifieth yonder pavilion?"

"It is the knight's pavilion," said Merlin, "that ye fought with last, Sir Pellinore; but he is out; he is not there. He hath ado with a knight of yours that hight Egglame, and they have foughten together, but at the last Egglame fled, and else he had been dead, and he hath chased him even to Carlion, and we shall meet with him anon in the highway."

"That is well said," said Arthur, "now have I a sword; now will I wage battle with him, and be avenged on him."

"Sir, you shall not so," said Merlin, "for the knight is weary of fighting and chasing, so that ye shall have no worship to have ado with him; also he will not be lightly matched of one knight living, and therefore it is my counsel, let him pass, for he shall do you good service in short time, and his sons after his days. Also ye shall see that day in short space, you shall be right glad to give him your sister to wed."

"When I see him, I will do as ye advise me," said Arthur. Then Sir Arthur looked on the sword, and liked it passing well.

"Whether liketh you the better," said Merlin, "the sword or the scabbard?"

"Me liketh better the sword," said Arthur.

"Ye are more unwise," said Merlin, "for the scabbard is worth ten of the swords, for whiles ye have the scabbard upon you, ye shall never lose no blood be ye never so sore wounded, therefore keep well the scabbard always with you."

So they rode unto Carlion, and by the way they met with Sir Pellinore; but Merlin had done such a craft, that Pellinore saw not Arthur, and he passed by without any words.

"I marvel," said Arthur, "that the knight would not speak."

"Sir," said Merlin, "he saw you not, for an he had seen you, ye had not lightly departed."

So they came unto Carlion, whereof his knights were passing glad. And when they heard of his adventures, they marveled that he would jeopard his person so, alone. But all men of worship said it was merry to be under such a chieftain, that would put his person in adventure as other poor knights did.

This meanwhile came a messenger from King Rience of North Wales, and king he was of all Ireland, and of many isles. And this was his message, greeting well King Arthur in this manner wise, saying that King Rience had discomfited and overcome eleven kings, and every each of them did him homage, and that was this, they gave him their beards clean flayed off, as much as there was; wherefore the messenger came for King Arthur's beard. For King Rience had purfled a mantle with king's beards, and there lacked one place of the mantle; wherefore he sent for his beard, or else he would enter his lands, and burn and slay, and never leave till he have the head and the beard.

"Well," said Arthur, "thou hast said thy message, the which is the most villainous and lewdest message that ever man heard sent unto a king; also thou mayest see my beard is full young yet to make a purfle of it. But tell thou thy king this: I owe him none homage, nor none of mine elders, but or it be long to, he shall do me homage on both his knees, or else he shall lose his head, by the faith of my body, for this is the most shamefulest message that ever I heard speak of. I have espied thy king met never yet with worshipful man, but tell him I will have his head without he do me homage." Then the messenger departed.

"Now is there any here," said Arthur, "that knoweth King Rience?"

Then answered a knight that hight Naram, "Sir, I know the king well. He is a passing good man of his body, as few be living, and a passing proud man, and Sir, doubt ye not he will make war on you with a mighty puissance."

"Well," said Arthur, "I shall ordain for him in short time."

404

The story of "Arthur and Sir Accalon" is taken from Maude Radford Warren's _King Arthur and His Knights_. (By permission of the publishers, Rand McNally & Co., Chicago.) The stories in Malory are retold in a simple and direct style that can be read easily by children in the fifth grade. Most teachers will probably find themselves obliged to use some such book for any of these great cycles which they desire to teach, owing to the amount of time and energy required for working it up from the original source.

ARTHUR AND SIR ACCALON

MAUDE RADFORD WARREN

There was a woman in Arthur's Court named Morgan le Fay, who had learned a great deal about magic. She was a wicked woman, and hated the king because he was more powerful than she, and because he was so good.

However, she pretended to be a true friend to him, and the king believed in her. One day when they were talking together, she asked him if he would not let her take charge of his wonderful sword Excalibur, and its scabbard. She said that she would guard them so carefully that they would never be stolen. As she was very eager, Arthur granted her request.

One day in time of peace, King Arthur went out hunting with a certain knight named Sir Accalon, who was the lover of Morgan le Fay. They rode for a long time, and when they were tired, stopped to rest beside a great lake. As they looked over its shining waters, they saw a beautiful little ship, which sailed straight towards them, and ran up to the sands at their feet. It was all covered with golden silks, which waved in the gentle wind. King Arthur and Sir Accalon climbed into it and examined it thoroughly, but they found no one on board.

They rested on two couches which were on the deck, until it grew dark. Then they were about to return home, when all at once, a hundred torches set on the sides of the ship were lighted, and suddenly there appeared twelve beautiful damsels who told the two that they were welcome, and that they should be served with a banquet.

Presently the maidens led the king and the knight into a room which had a table covered with a white cloth embroidered in purple. It bore many golden dishes, and each dish had a beautiful design carved upon it. Some dishes had vine-leaves, others ivy-leaves; some had angels with long robes sweeping back in graceful lines; and all these dishes held choice food. The king and Sir Accalon ate to their hearts' content.

Then the damsels led them into two separate chambers. King Arthur was tired and so sleepy that he gave but one glance at his bedroom. He saw that it was hung in red silk embroidered with gold dragons and griffins. Then he threw himself on his bed and slept very soundly.

When he awoke, he found himself not in the pretty bed-chamber, but in a dark place. He could see nothing, but all about him he heard the sound of complaining and weeping. He was much bewildered, but in a moment he cried:

"What is this? Where am I?"

Then a voice answered:

"You are in prison, as we are."

"Who are you?" asked Arthur.

The voice replied:

"We are twenty knights, prisoners, and some of us have been here as long as seven years. We are in the dungeons of a wicked lord named Sir Damas. He has a younger brother, and the two brothers are enemies, quarreling about their inheritance. Now the younger brother, Sir Ontzlake, is very strong, but Sir Damas is not strong, and moreover, he is a coward. So he tries to find a knight who will fight for him against Sir Ontzlake.

"But Sir Damas is so much hated that no one will fight for him. So he goes about the country with a body of rough men, and whenever he sees a knight, he captures him. Then he asks him to fight with Sir Ontzlake. So far, all the knights have refused, and have been thrown into prison. We do not have food enough, but we would rather die here than fight for Sir Damas, who is so wicked."

At that moment a damsel entered the prison with a torch, which faintly lighted the dismal place, and advanced to the king.

"Sir," she said, "will you fight for my lord, Sir Damas? If you will, you shall be taken from this prison. If you will not, you shall die here."

Arthur considered for some time, and then said:

"I would rather fight than die in prison. If I fight, will you deliver also all these prisoners?"

The damsel promised, and Arthur consented to fight. While she went to tell Sir Damas, Arthur said to the other prisoners:

"My friends, I do not know Sir Damas, and I do not know Sir Ontzlake. I do not know whether they are bad or good. But I will fight, and then, when I have conquered, I shall judge between them, and do justice to both."

"That is a good plan," said the knights, "but why are you so sure that you will conquer?"

"I am Arthur, the King," he replied.

At that the knights set up a great cry of joy, and the king continued:

"I shall send for my good sword Excalibur and the scabbard, and with these I shall surely win."

So when Arthur and the knights were let out of prison, the king sent the damsel who had visited them to Morgan le Fay for his sword and scabbard.

Meantime, the knight who had accompanied Arthur on the little ship, Sir Accalon, also awoke. He found himself in the palace of Morgan le Fay, and he wondered very much where Arthur was. He went to the lady, who said to him:

"My dear lord, the day has come when you can have great power if you want it. Should you like to be king of this land, instead of Arthur?"

Now Sir Accalon was a traitor at heart. He wanted very much to be king, even if the good Arthur was to be killed; so he said:

"Yes, truly."

Then she said:

"You shall be king, and I shall be your queen. All you need to do is to fight a great battle, which you shall win. I have been using my magic. It was I who sent the ship of silk to you and Arthur. I had him put into prison, and I had you brought here."

Sir Accalon wondered very much. Then she told him of the fight King Arthur was to make against Sir Ontzlake.

"But I have caused Sir Ontzlake to fall sick," she said, "and he cannot fight. I shall go with you to his castle and you can offer to fight for him."

"I to fight with the king!" cried Sir Accalon. "He would surely overthrow me."

"He cannot," said Morgan le Fay, "because you are to fight with his sword. A little while ago he sent to me for Excalibur and the scabbard, but I returned him a false sword which looks like Excalibur, and a false scabbard. You shall take the true ones, and then you will surely overcome him and rule this land."

Then Sir Accalon was glad, and he hastened with the lady to the castle of Sir Ontzlake. They found him groaning because he was ill and because Sir Damas had sent him a challenge to fight with a knight, and he could not accept it. He was much relieved when Morgan le Fay told him that Sir Accalon would fight in his place.

Early in the afternoon, King Arthur and Sir Accalon rode into the field where the combat was to be held. Arthur did not know who Sir Accalon was, nor did any one else, except Morgan le Fay. Two sides of the field were full of people, who came to watch, half of whom were friends of Sir Damas, and the other half were friends of Sir Ontzlake.

Arthur and Sir Accalon rode at each other so furiously that at the shock of the meeting both fell off their horses. Then they began to fight fiercely with their swords. The king could make no headway with his false steel, but whenever Sir Accalon struck at Arthur he drew blood.

The king was much amazed. He grew weaker and weaker, but still he kept on his feet. Those who watched him were sorry for him; they thought they had never seen a man fight so bravely. At last Arthur's sword broke, and fell in two pieces on the ground. When Sir Accalon saw this, he cried:

"Now, yield to me."

"I will never yield," said the king, "and if you do not get me another sword, you will be shamed before all men, for it is an unknightly thing to fight with a defenseless man."

"I do not care," said Sir Accalon. "If you will not yield, defend yourself with your shield as best you can."

He rushed at the king. Arthur was so weak that he could hardly stand, but he guarded himself as well as he could with his shield. Soon he could do no more, and fell to the ground.

At this moment the Lady of the Lake, who had given Arthur his sword, came upon the field. She was invisible, but anyone who had listened intently could have heard a sound like a ripple of water as she walked. She caused Excalibur to fall out of the hand of Sir Accalon and drop near Arthur.

When it fell, Arthur saw that it was his own Excalibur. He grasped its handle and some of his strength came back. He struggled to his feet, and rushing up to Sir Accalon, seized the scabbard of Excalibur and threw it far over the field.

"Now," he said, "send for a second sword and fight with me."

Then Sir Accalon was afraid. Yet he thought that Arthur was so weak that he could still be overcome. So he sent for a second sword, and they began to fight again. Arthur's strength, however, had largely returned, and in a short time he gave Sir Accalon a mortal stroke.

Sir Accalon fell to the ground, and the king, leaning over him, cried:

"Tell me who you are."

Then Sir Accalon was filled with remorse, and he said:

"Oh, my King, I have been a traitor to you, but now I am dying, and I am sorry for what I have done. I deserve my death."

He told the king his name, and all about his treachery, and that of Morgan le Fay.

King Arthur was sad.

"It is very hard to be deceived in a friend," he said, "but I forgive you freely. I will try to cure your wound, and sometime I shall trust you again."

"You cannot cure me," said Sir Accalon. "I am dying. Let them carry me off the field."

So he was taken to a neighboring abbey, while the people crowded about the king to congratulate him, but Arthur said:

"I am sad at heart. My victory is no comfort to me, for to-day I have lost a friend whom I believed true."

Then he called the two brothers, Sir Damas and Sir Ontzlake, and judged their cause. He decided that their property must be divided equally between them, and that they must be friends. They promised never to quarrel again. Arthur told them that they must be kind to other knights and to all people. He said that if he heard that they were not, he could come and punish them.

After this, Sir Damas gave back to the twenty knights all their money, and they went on their way rejoicing. King Arthur mounted his horse and rode over to the abbey, where he sat by the bed of Sir Accalon till the poor knight died. Then the king went back alone to his Court at Camelot.

405-411

Miguel de Cervantes, the greatest literary genius of Spain, was born in 1547 in a small town near Madrid, and he died in 1616, the year of the death of Shakespeare. He received a fair education, and by reading he gained a thorough knowledge of the romantic poetry of Spain and Italy and of the romances of chivalry. At the age of twenty-one he went to Italy. For several years he was a soldier in the Spanish army. When he was twenty-eight years old, he was captured by pirates of Algiers and was held a prisoner for five years. When he returned to Spain, he attempted to make a living by writing dramas and romances, and later he secured an unimportant governmental position as commissary and tax-collector in Seville. In 1606 he published the first part of _Don Quixote_. This book immediately became very popular, but it did not bring him much money nor did it win for him the recognition of literary men. All his life he was poor, and sometimes apparently he was actually in want of food. In 1615, one year before his death, he published the second part of _Don Quixote_, the greatest national book of Spain.

_Don Quixote_ is a humorous satire upon the romances of chivalry, which at the time were so popular in Spain as to corrupt the national life by their loose morals and false ideals. So complete was the success of Cervantes that the whole nation began to laugh at the absurdities of the romances of chivalry, and it is said that not one new edition of any book of chivalry appeared in Spain after the publication of _Don Quixote_.

Although the world no longer takes serious consideration of the ideals of the romances of chivalry, _Don Quixote_ will always be remembered as a great book, for it abounds in good-humored satire of human follies that are found in all ages and countries. Sancho Panza represents the type of person who does not have imagination or spiritual ideals. Not much less ridiculous, though much more deserving of sympathy, is Don Quixote, who represents the type of person who is controlled by imagination and fanciful ideals, unbalanced by practical judgment. The life of a person of either type must be filled with absurdities.

The following selections are taken from _Stories of Don Quixote_ retold by H. L. Havell.

STORIES FROM DON QUIXOTE

I. DREAMS AND SHADOWS

The scene is laid in a village of La Mancha, a high and arid district of Central Spain; and the time is towards the close of the sixteenth century. On the outskirts of the village there stood at the time mentioned a house of modest size, adjoining a little farm, the property of a retired gentleman whose real name was Quisada or Quijada, but who is now known to all mankind by the immortal title of Don Quixote. How he came to alter his name we shall see presently.

On a hot summer afternoon this worthy gentleman was sitting in a small upper room, which served him as a study, absorbed in the contents of a huge folio volume, which lay open on the table before him. Other volumes, of like bulky proportions, were piled up on chairs or strewn on the floor around him. The reader was a man some fifty years of age, tall and spare of figure, and with high, stern features of the severest Spanish type. In his eyes, when from time to time he paused in his reading and gazed absently before him, there was a look of wild abstraction, as of one who lives in a world of dreams and shadows. One hand, with bony, nervous fingers, rested on the open page; with the other he grasped his sword, which lay sheathed on his lap.

No sound disturbs the sultry stillness of the chamber, save only the droning of an imprisoned bee and the rustling of paper when the eager student turned a leaf. Deeper and deeper grew his absorption; his eyes seemed to devour the lines, and he clutched his hair with both hands, as if he would tear it out by the roots. At last, overpowered by a frenzied impulse, he leaped from his seat, and plucking his sword from the scabbard, began cutting and thrusting at some invisible object, shouting in a voice of thunder: "Unhand the maiden, foul caitiff! Give place, I say, and let the princess go! What, wilt thou face me, vile robber? Have at thee, then, and take the wages of thy villainy." As he uttered the last words he aimed a tremendous thrust at his visionary opponent and narrowly escaped transfixing the comely person of a young lady who at this very moment entered the room, with signs of haste and alarm. Behind her, in the dimly-lighted passage, appeared the portly figure of an elderly dame, who was proclaimed, by the bunch of keys which hung at her girdle, to be the gentleman's housekeeper.

"Dear uncle, what ails thee?" said the young lady, gazing with pity and wonder at the poor distracted man, who stood arrested in his last attitude, with rolling eyes and hair in wild disorder, while great beads of sweat poured down his face. But he, whose mind was still soaring in the regions of high romance, at once converted his niece into a rescued princess, saved from violence by his prowess; and, lowering his blade and dropping gracefully on one knee, he raised her hand to his lips and said: "Fear nothing, gentle lady! There lies thine enemy in his gore"; and he pointed to a table which had been overset in one of his wild rushes, carrying with it an inkstand, the contents of which were now trickling in a black stream across the uncarpeted boards.

His niece was accustomed to the strange fits of her eccentric relative, and, humoring his fancy, she answered: "Thou hast done well, and I thank thee. But sit down now and rest awhile after thy toils; and I will bring thee something to drink." With that she led him to a couch and left the room, taking the housekeeper with her. In a few moments she returned, bearing a great pitcher of cold water.

"'Tis a most rare elixir," said he, after taking a deep draught, "prepared by the great enchanter Alquife, and of a magic potency." Then, being exhausted by his violent exertions of body and mind he stretched himself on the couch and soon sank into a quiet sleep.

II. PREPARING FOR THE QUEST

The extraordinary scene which has just been described was only one among many which had occurred during several months, down to the time when our story begins; and we must now go back a little and give some account of our hero's habits and studies, which ended by bringing him to so desperate a state. At that time by far the most popular form of light literature was the Romances of Chivalry,--huge interminable fictions, filled with the most extravagant visions that ever visited the slumbers of a mad poet. Merely to unravel the story of one of these gigantic romances is a task which would tax the strongest brain. They dealt with the adventures of Knights-Errant, who wandered about the earth redressing grievances and succoring the oppressed. Those who venture into these vast jungles of romance are occasionally rewarded by passages of great sweetness, nobility, and charm; but the modern reader soon grows weary of enchanted forests, haunted by giants, dragons, and other impossible monsters, of deserts where despairing lovers roam haggard and forlorn, of dwarfs, goblins, wizards, and all the wild and grotesque creations of the mediæval fancy.

But in the times of which we are writing the passion for Books of Chivalry rose to such a height that it became a serious public evil. In Spain it reached its climax; and our humble gentleman of La Mancha is only an extreme example of the effect which such studies produced on the national mind. Being bitten by the craze for chivalrous fiction, he gradually forsook all the healthy pursuits of a country life and gave himself up entirely to reading such books as Amadis of Gaul, Palmerin of England, and Belianis of Greece; and his infatuation reached such a point that he sold several acres of good arable land to provide himself with funds for the purchase of those ponderous folios with which we saw him surrounded when he was first introduced to our notice. From dawn till eve he pored over his darling books, and sometimes passed whole nights in the same pursuit, until at last, having crammed his brain with this perilous stuff, he began to imagine that these wild inventions were sober reality. From this delusion there was but one step to the belief that he himself was a principal actor in the adventures of which he read; and when the fit was on him, he would take his sword and engage in single combat with the creatures of his brain, stamping his feet and alarming the household with his cries.

At first his frenzy was intermittent, and each attack was followed by a lucid interval; but finally he lost his wits altogether and came to the insane resolution of turning knight-errant and going out into the world as the redresser of wrongs and the champion of the innocent. His intention once formed, he at once took steps to carry it into effect. From a dark corner of the house he brought out an old suit of armor, which had been lying neglected for generations and was now covered with mould and eaten with rust. He cleaned the pieces and repaired them as well as he could; and observing that the helmet was a simple morion, wanting a protection for the face, he made a vizor of pasteboard to supply the defect. Then, wishing to prove the strength of his vizor, he drew his sword and with one stroke destroyed what had cost him the labor of a week. He was considerably shocked by the ease with which he had demolished his handiwork; but having made a second vizor and strengthened it with bars of iron, he did not choose to try any further experiments, but accepted the helmet, thus fortified, as the finest headpiece in the world.

Then he paid a visit to his old horse, and though the poor beast was a mere living skeleton, broken-winded and with his feet full of sandcracks, to his master's eyes he seemed a nobler steed than Bucephalus, or Bavieca, the famous charger of the Cid. It was evident that such a noble steed, who was to carry a warrior so famous, must have a name by which all the world might know him; and accordingly, after deliberating for four days and passing in review a multitude of titles, he determined to call the beast Rozinante.

Having settled this weighty question, he next began to consider what name he should assume himself, being by no means satisfied with that which he had received from his father. Eight days were passed in debating a matter so important to himself and to posterity, and at the end of that time he resolved to call himself Don Quixote. But, remembering that Amadis, not contented with his simple name, had taken the additional title of Amadis of Gaul, he determined, in imitation of that illustrious hero, his model and teacher in all things, to style himself Don Quixote de La Mancha, and thereby confer immortal honor on the land of his birth.

Nothing now remained but to choose a lady to be the mistress of his affections and the load-star of his life; for, as he wisely reflected, a knight-errant without a lady-love was like a tree without fruit or a body without a soul. "If," he said to himself, "I should encounter some giant, as commonly happens to knights-errant, and cut him in twain or otherwise vanquish him and make him my prisoner, will it not be well to have some lady to whom I may send him as a gift, so that he may enter the presence of my sweet mistress and bow the knee before her, saying in a humble and submissive voice: 'Lady, _I am the giant Caraculiambro, vanquished in single combat by the knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose praise no tongue can tell, and I have been commanded by him to present myself to your grace, that you may dispose of me as your Highness pleases_.'"

Our good knight was highly pleased with his own eloquence, and still more so when he had made choice of his lady. In a neighboring village there was a young girl, employed on a farm, with whom he had at one time been in love, though he had never brought himself to declare his passion. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and her he resolved to constitute the queen of his heart, having conferred on her the sounding title of Dulcinea del Toboso, or "The Sweet Lady of Toboso," the village where she was born.

III. THE QUEST BEGINS

"The world is waiting for me," murmured our enthusiast, leaping from his bed at the first peep of dawn and arming himself from head to foot. Then treading softly, so as not to alarm the household, he went to the stable, saddled Rozinante, and leading him out through a back gate of the yard, mounted and rode forth into the plain, hugely delighted to find himself fairly started on his great enterprise.

But hardly had he reached the open country when the terrible thought occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight and by the laws of chivalry was not entitled to engage in combat with any one who bore that rank, and further, even if he were already a knight, he was obliged as a novice to wear plain armor, without device of any kind. So much was he perturbed by these reflections that he was within an ace of giving up his whole design, and would have done so but for a happy inspiration, which saved mankind from so dire a calamity. Many of the heroes of his books of chivalry had got themselves dubbed knight by the first person whom they met, and remembering this, he resolved to follow their example. And as to his armor, he would rub and polish it until it was whiter than ermine.

His scruples thus removed, he continued his journey, leaving his good steed to choose what direction he pleased, as was the fashion with knights-errant when they set out on their adventures. Thus pacing along and dreaming of mighty deeds, he gave vent to his feelings in the following rhapsody: "What a theme for the eloquence of some great master of style--the feats of high emprise wrought by the valiant arm of Don Quixote de La Mancha! Happy the pen which shall describe them, happy the age which shall read the wondrous tale! And thou, brave steed, shalt have thy part in the honor which is done to thy master, when poet and sculptor and painter shall vie with one another in raising an eternal monument to his fame."

Then recalling his part as an afflicted lover, he began to mourn his hard lot in soft and plaintive tones: "O lady Dulcinea, queen of this captive heart! Why hast thou withdrawn from me the light of thy countenance and banished thy faithful servant from thy presence? Shorten, I implore thee, the term of my penance and leave me not to wither in solitude and despair."

Lost in these sublime and melancholy thoughts he rode slowly on from hour to hour, until the sun became so hot that it was enough to melt his brains, if he had possessed any. All that day he continued his journey without meeting with any adventure, which vexed him sorely, for he was eager to encounter some foeman worthy of his steel. Evening came on, and both he and his horse were ready to drop with hunger and fatigue, when, looking about him in search of some castle--or some hovel--where he might find shelter and refreshment, he saw not far from the roadside a small inn, and, setting spurs to Rozinante, rode up to the door at a hobbling canter just as night was falling.

The inn was of the poorest and meanest description, frequented by muleteers and other rude wayfarers; but to his perverted fancy it seemed a turreted castle, with battlements of silver, drawbridge, and moat, and all that belonged to a feudal fortress. Before the door were standing two women, vagabonds of the lowest class, who were traveling in the company of certain mule-drivers; but for him they were instantly transformed into a pair of high-born maidens taking the air before the castle gate.

To complete his illusion, just at this moment a swineherd, who was collecting his drove from a neighboring stubble field, sounded a few notes on his horn. This Don Quixote took for a signal which had been given by some dwarf from the ramparts, to inform the inmates of the castle of his approach; and so, with huge satisfaction, he lifted his pasteboard vizor, and uncovering his haggard and dusty features, thus addressed the women who were eyeing him with looks of no small alarm, and evidently preparing to retreat: "Fly not, gracious ladies, neither wrong me by dreaming that ye have aught to fear from me, for the order of chivalry which I profess suffers not that I should do harm to any, least of all to maidens of lofty lineage, such as I perceive you to be."

Hearing themselves accosted by that extraordinary figure in language to which they were so little used, the women could not restrain their mirth, but laughed so long and loud that Don Quixote began to be vexed and said in a tone of grave rebuke, "Beauty and discourtesy are ill-matched together, and unseemly is the laugh which folly breeds in a vacant mind. Take not my words amiss, for I mean no offence, but am ready to serve you with heart and hand."

At this dignified reproof, the damsels only laughed louder than before, and there is no saying what might have come of it if the innkeeper, who appeared at this moment, had not undertaken the office of peacemaker, for which he was well fitted, being a fat, good-humored fellow, who loved a quiet life. At first, when he saw that fantastic warrior on his spectral steed, he was much inclined to join the girls in their noisy merriment. But finding some ground for alarm in so many engines of war, he contrived to swallow his laughter, and going up to Don Quixote, said to him civilly enough: "If your honor is in search of quarters for the night, you will find in this inn all that you require excepting a bed, which is not to be had here."

Finding the governor of the fortress--that is to say, the landlord of the inn--so obsequious, Don Quixote replied cheerfully: "Sir Castellan, you will not find me hard to please, for

Arms are all my rich array, My repose to fight alway."

"If that be your case, then," answered the innkeeper, humoring his strange guest, "'tis plain that

Your couch is the field, your pillow a shield, Your slumber a vigil from dusk until day:

and therefore you may dismount in the full assurance of finding under my humble roof divers good reasons for keeping awake for a twelvemonth, should such be your desire."

As he said this, he went and held the stirrup for Don Quixote, who was so weak from his long fast that it cost him much pain and effort to dismount. "I commend to thy especial care this my good steed," said he, as soon as he had found his feet: "he is the rarest piece of horseflesh that ever lived by bread."

The innkeeper bestowed but one glance on poor Rozinante, and finding little to admire in him, he thrust him hastily into the stable and came back to attend to the wants of his guest. Meanwhile Don Quixote submitted to be disarmed by the young women, who had now made their peace. Having removed his body armor, they tried to relieve him of his helmet, which was attached to his neck by green ribbons. Being unable to loose the knots, they proposed to cut the ribbons, but as he would not allow them to do this, he was obliged to keep his helmet on all that night, which made him the strangest and most diverting object that could be imagined.

While the ladies were thus employed, our brave adventurer entertained them with a strain of high-flown gallantry, seasoned with scraps from the old ballads and romances which he had read. Not understanding a word of what he said, they simply asked him, when they had finished, if he wanted anything to eat. "A slight refection would not be ill-timed," answered Don Quixote, and learning that there was nothing to be had but a "little trout," he bade them bring it with all speed. "Many little trouts," he added jestingly, "will serve my turn as well as one big one. Only let it be brought at once, for I begin to be conscious of a wondrous void within the compass of my sword-belt."

The "little trout" proved to be neither more nor less than a dish of stockfish, Poor John, or in plain English, salted cod, and that of the rankest. An odor the reverse of savory heralded its approach, and Don Quixote sat down at the table, which had been set, for coolness, before the door, and applied himself to his lenten fare. But being much incommoded by his helmet, he could not find the way to his mouth, and remained staring in dismay at the reeking mess and the filthy black bread which accompanied it, until one of the damsels, perceiving his distress, came to his relief and fed him with small morsels, which she deftly conveyed to their proper destination through the opening of his helmet. To give him drink was a harder matter, but this problem was solved with great ingenuity by the landlord, who brought a hollow cane, and placing one end in his mouth, poured the wine in at the other.

And so in solemn silence, broken now and then by the stifled laughter of the onlookers, the strange meal proceeded; and when it was nearly at an end, a clownish fellow passed by, blowing on a rustic pipe. But for Don Quixote, who had transformed the inn into a castle, the fat publican into a powerful governor, and the vagabond damsels into high-born ladies, it was an easy matter to find in those rude notes a strain of rare music, provided for his delectation while he sat at table; and he concluded his repast in a state of high satisfaction with his first day's adventures.

IV. THE KNIGHTLY VIGIL

But one uncomfortable thought chilled the heat of his enthusiasm--he had not yet been dubbed a knight and was therefore still unqualified to engage in any chivalrous adventure. Accordingly, as soon as he had finished his scanty and sordid meal, he took the landlord aside, and shutting himself up with him in the stable and falling on his knees before him, said: "I will never rise from this posture, valiant knight, until thou hast granted me of thy courtesy the favor which I desire, and which shall redound to thine honor and to the benefit of the human race."

Dumbfoundered at the strange attitude and still stranger language of his guest, the landlord stared at him, not knowing what to do or say. He begged him to rise, but Don Quixote steadily refused, so that at last he was obliged to give the promise required.

"I expected no less from your High Mightiness," answered Don Quixote. "And now hear what I desire: to-morrow at dawn you shall dub me knight, and to that end I will this night keep the vigil of arms in the chapel of your castle, so that I may be ready to receive the order of chivalry in the morning and forthwith set out on the path of toil and glory which awaits those who follow the perilous profession of knight-errant."

By this time the landlord began to perceive that Don Quixote was not right in his wits, and being somewhat of a wag he resolved to make matter for mirth by humoring his whim; and so he replied that such ambition was most laudable, and just what he would have looked for in a gentleman of his gallant presence. He had himself, he said, been a cavalier of fortune in his youth--which in a certain sense was true, for he had been a notorious thief and rogue, known to every magistrate in Spain--and now, in his declining years, he was living in the retirement of his castle, where his chief pleasure was to entertain wandering knights; which, being interpreted, meant that he was a rascally landlord and grew fat by cheating the unfortunate travelers who stayed at his inn.

Then he went on to say that, with regard to the vigil of arms, it could be held in the courtyard of the castle, as the chapel had been pulled down to make place for a new one. "And to-morrow," he concluded, "you shall be dubbed a knight--a full knight, and a perfect knight, so that none shall be more so in all the world."

Having thanked the landlord for his kindness, and promised to obey him, as his adoptive father, in all things, Don Quixote at once prepared to perform the vigil of arms. Collecting his armor, he laid the several pieces in a horse-trough which stood in the center of the inn-yard, and then, taking his shield on his arm and grasping his lance, he began to pace up and down with high-bred dignity before the trough.

The landlord had lost no time in informing those who were staying at the inn of the mad freaks of his guest, and a little crowd was gathered to watch his proceedings from a distance, which they were the better able to do as the moon was shining with unusual brightness. Sometimes they saw him stalking to and fro, with serene composure, and sometimes he would pause in his march and stand for a good while leaning on his lance and scanning his armor with a fixed and earnest gaze.

While this was going on, one of the mule-drivers took it into his head to water his team, and approaching the horse-trough prepared to remove Don Quixote's armor, which was in his way. Perceiving his intentions, Don Quixote cried to him in a loud voice, saying: "O thou, whoever thou art, audacious knight who drawest near to touch the armor of the bravest champion that ever girt on sword, look what thou doest, and touch it not, if thou wouldst not pay for thy rashness with thy life!"

The valiant defiance was thrown away on the muleteer, whose thick head needed other arguments, and taking the armor by the straps, he flung it a good way from him. Which when Don Quixote saw, he raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts (as may be supposed) on his lady Dulcinea, he exclaimed: "Shine on me, light of my life, now, when the first insult is offered to my devoted heart! Let not thy countenance and favor desert me in this, my first adventure."

As he put up this pious appeal he let go his shield, and lifting his lance in both hands, brought it down with such force on the muleteer's head that he fell senseless to the ground; and if the blow had been followed by another, he would have needed no physician to cure him. Having done this, Don Quixote collected his armor, and began pacing up and down again, with the same tranquility as before.

Presently another muleteer, knowing nothing of what had happened, came up to the trough with the same intention as the first and was about to lay hands on the armor when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or asking favor of any one, once more lifted his lance and dealt the fellow two smart strokes, which made two cross gashes on his crown.

Meanwhile the alarm had been raised in the house, and the whole troop of muleteers now came running to avenge their comrades. Seeing himself threatened by a general assault, Don Quixote drew his sword, and thrusting his arm into his shield cried: "Queen of Beauty, who givest power and might to this feeble heart, now let thine eyes be turned upon thy slave, who stands on the threshold of so great a peril."

His words were answered by the muleteers with a shower of stones, which he kept off as well as he could with his shield. At the noise of the fray the innkeeper came puffing up, and called upon the muleteers to desist. "The man is mad," said he, "as I told you before, and the law cannot touch him, though he should kill you all."

"Ha! art thou there, base and recreant knight?" shouted Don Quixote in a voice of thunder. "Is this thy hospitality to knights-errant? 'Tis well for thee that I have not yet received the order of knighthood, or I would have paid thee home for this outrage. As to you, base and sordid pack, I care not for you a straw. Come one, come all, and take the wages of your folly and presumption."

His tones were so threatening, and his aspect was so formidable, that he struck terror into the hearts of his assailants, who drew back and left off throwing stones; and, after some further parley, he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and returned with unruffled dignity to the vigil of arms.

The landlord was now thoroughly tired of his guest's wild antics, and, resolving to make an end of the business, lest worse should come of it, he went up to Don Quixote and asked pardon for the violence of that low-born rabble, who had acted, he said, without his knowledge, and had been properly chastised for their temerity. He added that the ceremony of conferring knighthood might be performed in any place, and that two hours sufficed for the vigil of arms, so that Don Quixote had fulfilled this part of his duty twice over, as he had now been watching for double that time.

All this was firmly believed by Don Quixote, and he requested that he might be made a knight without further delay; for if, he said, he were attacked again, after receiving the order of chivalry, he was determined not to leave a soul alive in the castle, excepting those to whom he might show mercy at the governor's desire.

The landlord, whose anxiety was increased by this alarming threat, went and fetched a book in which he kept his accounts, and came back, attended by a boy who carried a stump of candle, and by the two damsels aforesaid. Then, bidding Don Quixote to kneel before him, he began to murmur words from his book, in the tone of one who was saying his prayers, and in the midst of his reading he raised his hand and gave Don Quixote a smart blow on the neck, and then taking the sword laid it gently on his shoulder, muttering all the time between his teeth with the same air of devotion. Then he directed one of the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with equal liveliness and discretion--and she had much need of the latter quality to prevent an explosion of laughter--; however, the specimen which the new knight had just given of his prowess kept their merriment in check.

When his spurs had been buckled on by the other damsel, the ceremony was completed, and after some further compliments Don Quixote saddled Rozinante and rode forth, a new-made knight, ready to astonish the world with feats of arms and chivalry. The innkeeper, who was glad to see the last of him, let him go without making any charge for what he had consumed.

V. ON HONOR'S FIELD

On leaving the inn Don Quixote turned his horse's steps homewards, being resolved to obtain a supply of money, and, above all, to provide himself with a squire before seeking more distant scenes of adventure. Presently he came to a cross-road, and after hesitating a moment, he resolved to imitate his favorite heroes by leaving the direction to his steed, who immediately took the nearest way to his stable. After advancing about two leagues, our knight came in view of a great troop of people, who, as it afterwards turned out, were merchants of Toledo, on their way to Murcia to buy silk. There were six of them jogging comfortably along under their umbrellas, with four servants on horseback, and three mule-drivers walking and leading their beasts.

Here was a new opportunity, as Don Quixote thought, of displaying his knightly valor, so he settled himself firmly in his stirrups, grasped his lance, covered his breast with his shield, and stood waiting for the arrival of those knights-errant,--for such he judged them to be; and when they were come within hearing, he raised his voice and cried with an air of proud defiance: "Halt, every mother's son of you, and confess that in all the world there is no damsel more beautiful than the empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso!"

Hearing the strange words and seeing the extravagant figure of him who uttered them, the merchants drew up, and one of them, who was of a waggish disposition, answered for the whole company and said: "Sir Knight, we do not know the good lady of whom you speak; let us see her, and if she is of such beauty as you describe, we will most gladly make the confession which you require."

"If you were to see her," replied Don Quixote, "you must needs be convinced that what I say is true, and that would be a poor triumph for me. No, on the faith of my word alone, you must believe it, confess it, assert it, swear to it, and maintain it! If not, I defy you to battle, ye sons of lawlessness and arrogance! Here I stand ready to receive you, whether ye come singly, as the rule of knighthood demands, or all together, as is the custom with churls like you."

"Sir Knight," answered the merchant, "I entreat you in the name of all this noble company, that you constrain us not to lay perjury to our souls by swearing to a thing which we have neither seen nor heard. Show us, at least, some portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a grain of wheat, that our scruples may be satisfied. For so strongly are we disposed in favor of the fair dame, that even if the picture should exhibit her squinting with one eye, and dropping brimstone and vermilion from the other, for all that we will vow and profess that she is as lovely as you say."

"There drops not from her," shouted Don Quixote, aflame with fury, "there drops not, I say, that which thou namest, but only sweet perfumes and pearly dew. Neither is she cross-eyed nor hunch-backed, but straight and slender as a peak of Guadarrama. But ye shall pay for the monstrous blasphemy which ye have spoken against the angelic beauty of my lady and queen."

With these words he leveled his lance and hurled himself upon the speaker with such vigor and frenzy that if Rozinante had not chanced to stumble and fall in mid career, the rash merchant would have paid dear for his jest. Down went Rozinante, and his master rolled over and over for some distance across the plain. Being brought up at last by a projecting rock, he made frantic efforts to rise, but was kept down by the weight of his armor and lay plunging and kicking on his back, but ceased not for a moment to hurl threats and defiances at his laughing foes. "Fly not, ye cowards, ye dastards! Wait awhile! Tis not by my fault, but by the fault of my horse that I lie prostrate here."

One of the mule-drivers, who was somewhat hot-tempered, was so provoked by the haughty language of the poor fallen knight, that he resolved to give him the answer on his ribs, and running up he snatched the lance from Don Quixote's hands, broke it in pieces, and taking one of them began to beat him with such good-will that in spite of the armor he bruised him like wheat in a mill-hopper. And he found the exercise so much to his liking that he continued it until he had shivered every fragment of the broken lance into splinters. Nevertheless he could not stop the mouth of our valiant knight, who during all that tempest of blows went on defying heaven and earth and shouting menaces against those bandits, as he now supposed them to be.

At length the mule-driver grew weary, and the whole party rode off, leaving the battered champion on the ground. When they were gone he made another attempt to rise. But if he failed when he was sound and whole, how much less could he do it now that he was almost hammered to pieces! Notwithstanding, his heart was light and gay, for in his own fancy he was a hero of romance, lying covered with wounds on honor's field.

VI. THE RETURN HOME

Two days had passed since Don Quixote left his home, and his niece and his housekeeper were growing very anxious about him. More than once they had heard him declare his intention to turn knight-errant, and they began to fear that he had carried out his mad design. On the evening of the second day, a few hours after he had been so roughly handled by the muleteer, they heard a loud voice calling outside the street door: "Open to Sir Baldwin and the Lord Marquis of Mantua, who is brought to your gates grievously wounded." They made haste to unbar the door, and when it was opened they saw a strange sight: mounted on an ass, whose head was held by a laboring man of the village, sat Don Quixote, huddled together in a most uncavalier-like posture, his armor all battered and his face begrimed with dirt. Hard by stood Rozinante, a woeful object, crooking his knees and drooping his head; and tied in a bundle on his back were the splintered fragments of Don Quixote's lance.

When they saw who it was, they gathered round him with eager questions and cries of welcome; but he checked them with a gesture and said: "Control yourselves, all of you! I am grievously hurt, and if it be possible let some one go and fetch Urganda the wise woman, that she may examine and heal my wounds."

"Alack-a-day!" cried the housekeeper, lifting up her hands. "Did I not tell you, gentlemen, that I knew on which foot my master halted? Come, dear sir, and we will cure you, without the help of Urganda or anyone else." And with many maledictions against the books of chivalry which had done the kind gentleman so ill a turn, she assisted him to dismount, and amongst them they carried him to his room, took off his armor, and laid him on his bed. Then they inquired where he was hurt, and Don Quixote exclaimed that he was bruised from head to foot, having been thrown from his horse in an encounter with ten giants, the most outrageous and ferocious in the world.

VII. THE BATTLE WITH THE WINDMILLS

For two weeks Don Quixote remained peacefully at home, and many were the pleasant discussions which passed between him and his old friends, the priest and barber, on his favorite theme--the pressing need of reviving the profession of knight-errantry, and his own peculiar fitness for rendering this great service to the world. All this time he was secretly negotiating with a certain peasant, a neighbor of his, whose name was Sancho Panza, an honest, poor man, not much better furnished with wits than the knight himself. This simple fellow lent a ready ear to his grand tales of glory and conquest, and at last consented to follow him as his squire, being especially tempted by certain mysterious hints which Don Quixote let fall concerning an "Isle," of which his new master promised to make him governor at the first opportunity.

This matter being arranged Don Quixote patched up his armor, obtained a new lance, and having provided himself with a sum of money, gave notice to his squire of the day on which he proposed to start. Sancho, who was short and fat and little used to traveling on foot, asked leave to bring his ass, remarking that it was a very good one. This proposal gave the knight pause, for, try as he would, he could remember no authority for a squire on a long-eared charger; but finally he gave the required permission, resolving to furnish him with a worthier steed as soon as possible, by taking the horse of the first discourteous knight whom he met.

When all was ready they set off together one night, without taking leave of their families, and rode steadily on, so that by daybreak they were beyond the reach of pursuit. Sancho Panza sat his ass like a patriarch, carrying with him his saddle-bags and leather bottle; and all his thoughts were of the Isle which his master had promised him. Don Quixote was lost in loftier meditations until he was roused from his reverie by the voice of his squire, who said: "I hope your Grace has not forgotten the Isle which I was to have, for I shall know well how to govern it, however big it may be."

"As to that," replied Don Quixote "thou needest have no fear; I shall only be complying with an ancient and honorable custom of knights-errant, and, indeed, I purpose to improve on their practice, for, instead of waiting, as they often did, until thou art worn out in my service, I shall seek the first occasion to bestow on thee this gift; and it may be that before a week has passed thou wilt be crowned king of that Isle."

"Well," said Sancho, "if this miracle should come to pass, my good wife Joan will be a queen and my sons young princes."

"Who doubts it?" answered Don Quixote.

"I do," rejoined Sancho. "My Joan a queen! Nay, if it rained crowns, I don't believe that one would ever settle on my dame's head. Believe me, your honor, she's not worth three farthings as a queen; she might manage as a countess, though that would be hard enough."

"Think not so meanly of thyself, Sancho," said Don Quixote, gravely. "Marquis is the very least title which I intend for thee, if thou wilt be content with that."

"That I will, and heaven bless your honor," said Sancho heartily. "I will take what you give and be thankful, knowing that you will not make the burden too heavy for my back."

Chatting thus, they reached the top of rising ground and saw before them thirty or forty windmills in the plain below; and as soon as Don Quixote set eyes on them he said to his squire: "Friend Sancho, we are in luck to-day! See, there stands a troop of monstrous giants, thirty or more, and with them I will forthwith do battle and slay them every one. With their spoils we will lay the foundation of our fortune, as is the victor's right; moreover it is doing heaven good service to sweep this generation of vipers from off the face of the earth."

"What giants do you mean?" asked Sancho Panza.

"Those whom thou seest yonder," answered his master, "with the long arms, which in such creatures are sometimes two leagues in length."

"What is your honor thinking of?" cried Sancho. "Those are not giants, but windmills, and their arms, as you call them, are the sails, which, being driven by the wind, set the millstones going."

"'Tis plain," said Don Quixote, "that thou hast still much to learn in our school of adventures. I tell thee they are giants, and if thou art afraid, keep out of the way and pass the time in prayer while I am engaged with them in fierce and unequal battle."

Saying this, he set spurs to Rozinante, and turning a deaf ear to the cries of Sancho, who kept repeating that the supposed giants were nothing but windmills, he thundered across the plain, shouting at the top of his voice: "Fly not, ye cowardly loons, for it is only a single knight who is coming to attack you!"

Just at this moment there came a puff of wind, which set the sails in motion; seeing which, Don Quixote cried: "Ay, swing your arms! If ye had more of them than Briareos himself, I would make you pay for it." Then, with a heartfelt appeal to his lady Dulcinea, he charged full gallop at the nearest mill, and pierced the descending sail with his lance. The weapon was shivered to pieces, and horse and rider, caught by the sweep of the sail, were sent rolling with great violence across the plain.

"Heaven preserve us!" cried Sancho, who had followed as fast as his ass could trot, and found his master lying very still by the side of his steed. "Did I not warn your honor that those things were windmills and not giants at all? Surely none could fail to see it, unless he had such another whirligig in his own pate!"

"Be silent, good Sancho!" replied Don Quixote, "and know that the things of war, beyond all others, are subject to continual mutation. Moreover, in the present case I think, nay, I am sure, that an alien power has been at work, even that wicked enchanter Friston; he it is who has changed those giants into windmills to rob me of the honor of their defeat. But in the end all his evil devices shall be baffled by my good sword."

"Heaven grant that it may be so!" said Sancho, assisting him to rise; and the knight then remounted Rozinante, whose shoulders were almost splayed by his fall, and turned his face towards the Puerto Lapice, a rugged mountain pass through which ran the main road from Madrid to Andalusia; for such a place, he thought, could not fail to afford rich and varied matter for adventures.

412

One of the best of Mr. Scudder's many fine compilations for children is his _Book of Legends_ from which the following story is taken. It is the same story that Longfellow tells in his _Tales of a Wayside Inn_ under the title of "King Robert of Sicily." ("The Proud King" is used here by permission of and special arrangement with the publishers, The Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.)

THE PROUD KING

HORACE E. SCUDDER

There was once a king who ruled over many lands; he went to war, and added one country after another to his kingdom. At last he came to be emperor, and that is as much as any man can be. One night, after he was crowned emperor, he lay awake and thought about himself.

"Surely," he said, "no one can be greater than I am, on earth or in heaven."

The proud king fell asleep with these thoughts. When he awoke, the day was fair, and he looked out on the pleasant world.

"Come," he said to the men about him; "to-day we will go a-hunting."

The horses were brought, the dogs came leaping, the horns sounded, and the proud king with his courtiers rode off to the sport. They had hunted all the morning, and were now in a deep wood. In the fields the sun had beat upon their heads, and they were glad of the shade of the trees; but the proud king wished for something more. He saw a lake not far off, and he said to his men:

"Bide ye here, while I bathe in the lake and cool myself."

Then he rode apart till he came to the shore of the lake. There he got down from his horse, laid aside his clothes, and plunged into the cool water. He swam about, and sometimes dived beneath the surface, and so was once more cool and fresh.

Now while the proud king was swimming away from the shore and diving to the bottom, there came one who had the same face and form as the king. He drew near the shore, dressed himself in the king's clothes, mounted the king's horse and rode away. So when the proud king was once more cool and fresh, and came to the place where he had left his clothes and his horse, there were no clothes to be seen, and no horse.

The proud king looked about, but saw no man. He called, but no one heard him. The air was mild, but the wood was dark, and no sunshine came through to warm him after his cool bath. He walked by the shore of the lake and cast about in his mind what he should do.

"I have it," he cried at last. "Not far from here lives a knight. It was but a few days ago that I made him a knight and gave him a castle. I will go to him, and he will be glad enough to clothe his king."

The proud king wove some reeds into a mat and bound the mat about him, and then he walked to the castle of the knight. He beat loudly at the gate of the castle and called for the porter. The porter came and stood behind the gate. He did not draw the bolt at once, but asked:--

"Who is there?"

"Open the gate," said the proud king, "and you will see who I am."

The porter opened the gate, and was amazed at what he saw.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Wretch!" said the proud king; "I am the emperor. Go to your master. Bid him come to me with clothes. I have lost both clothes and horse."

"A pretty emperor!" the porter laughed. "The great emperor was here not an hour ago. He came with his court from a hunt. My master was with him and sat at meat with him. But stay you here. I will call my master. Oh, yes! I will show him the emperor," and the porter wagged his beard and laughed, and went within.

He came forth again with the knight and pointed at the proud king.

"There is the emperor!" he said. "Look at him! look at the great emperor!"

"Draw near," said the proud king to the knight, "and kneel to me. I gave thee this castle. I made thee knight. I give thee now a greater gift. I give thee the chance to clothe thy emperor with clothes of thine own."

"You dog!" cried the knight. "You fool! I have just ridden with the emperor, and have come back to my castle. Here!" he shouted to his servants, "beat this fellow and drive him away from the gate."

The porter looked on and laughed.

"Lay on well," he said to the other servants. "It is not every day that you can flog an emperor."

Then they beat the proud king, and drove him from the gate of the castle.

"Base knight!" said the proud king. "I gave him all he has, and this is how he repays me. I will punish him when I sit on my throne again. I will go to the duke who lives not far away. Him I have known all my days. He will know me. He will know his emperor."

So he came to the gate of the duke's great hall, and knocked three times. At the third knock the porter opened the gate, and saw before him a man clad only in a mat of reeds, and stained and bleeding.

"Go, I pray you, to the duke," said the proud king, "and bid him come to me. Say to him that the emperor stands at the gate. He has been robbed of his clothes and of his horse. Go quickly to your master."

The porter closed the gate between them, and went within to the duke.

"Your Grace," said he, "there is a madman at the gate. He is unclad and wild. He bade me come to you and tell you that he was the emperor."

"Here is a strange thing indeed," said the duke; "I will see it for myself."

So he went to the gate, followed by his servants, and when the porter opened it there stood the proud king. The proud king knew the duke, but the duke saw only a bruised and beaten madman.

"Do you not know me?" cried the proud king. "I am your emperor. Only this morning you were on the hunt with me. I left you that I might bathe in the lake. While I was in the water, some wretch took both my clothes and my horse, and I--I have been beaten by a base knight."

"Put him in chains," said the duke to his servants. "It is not safe to have such a man free. Give him some straw to lie on, and some bread and water."

The duke turned away and went back to his hall, where his friends sat at table.

"That was a strange thing," he said. "There was a madman at the gate. He must have been in the wood this morning, for he told me that I was on the hunt with the emperor, and so I was; and he told me that the emperor went apart to bathe in the lake, and so he did. But he said that some one stole the clothes and the horse of the emperor, yet the emperor rode back to us cool and fresh, and clothed and on his horse. And he said"--And the duke looked around on his guests.

"What did he say?"

"He said that he was the emperor."

Then the guests fell to talking and laughing, and soon forgot the strange thing. But the proud king lay in a dark prison, far even from the servants of the duke. He lay on straw, and chains bound his feet.

"What is this that has come upon me?" he said. "Am I brought so low? Am I so changed that even the duke does not know me? At least there is one who will know me, let me wear what I may."

Then, by much labor, he loosed the chains that bound him, and fled in the night from the duke's prison. When the morning came, he stood at the door of his own palace. He stood there awhile; perhaps some one would open the door and let him in. But no one came, and the proud king lifted his hand and knocked; he knocked at the door of his own palace. The porter came at last and looked at him.

"Who are you?" he asked, "and what do you want?"

"Do you not know me?" cried the proud king. "I am your master. I am the king. I am the emperor. Let me pass"; and he would have thrust him aside. But the porter was a strong man; he stood in the doorway, and would not let the proud king enter.

"You my master! you the emperor! poor fool, look here!" and he held the proud king by the arm while he pointed to a hall beyond. There sat the emperor on his throne, and by his side was the queen.

"Let me go to her! she will know me," cried the proud king, and he tried to break away from the porter. The noise without was heard in the hall. The nobles came out, and last of all came the emperor and the queen. When the proud king saw these two, he could not speak. He was choked with rage and fear, and he knew not what.

"You know me!" at last he cried. "I am your lord and husband."

The queen shrank back.

"Friends," said the man who stood by her, "what shall be done to this wretch?"

"Kill him," said one.

"Put out his eyes," said another.

"Beat him," said a third.

Then they all hustled the proud king out of the palace court. Each one gave him a blow, and so he was thrust out, and the door was shut behind him.

The proud king fled, he knew not whither. He wished he were dead. By and by he came to the lake where he had bathed. He sat down on the shore. It was like a dream, but he knew he was awake, for he was cold and hungry and faint. Then he knelt on the ground and beat his breast, and said:

"I am no emperor. I am no king. I am a poor, sinful man. Once I thought there was no one greater than I, on earth or in heaven. Now I know that I am nothing, and there is no one so poor and so mean. God forgive me for my pride."

As he said this, tears stood in his eyes. He wiped them away and rose to his feet. Close by him he saw the clothes which he had once laid aside. Near at hand was his horse, eating the soft grass. The king put on his clothes; he mounted his horse and rode to his palace. As he drew near, the door opened and servants came forth. One held his horse; another helped him dismount. The porter bowed low.

"I marvel I did not see thee pass out, my lord," he said.

The king entered, and again saw the nobles in the great hall. There stood the queen also, and by her side was the man who called himself emperor. But the queen and the nobles did not look at him; they looked at the king, and came forward to meet him.

This man also came forward, but he was clad in shining white, and not in the robes of the emperor. The king bowed his head before him.

"I am thy angel," said the man. "Thou wert proud, and made thyself to be set on high. Therefore thou hast been brought low. I have watched over thy kingdom. Now I give it back to thee, for thou art once again humble, and the humble only are fit to rule."

Then the angel disappeared. No one else heard his voice, and the nobles thought the king had bowed to them. So the king once more sat on the throne, and ruled wisely and humbly ever after.

413

Eva March Tappan (1854--) has compiled many books for children, including the popular collection in ten volumes called _The Children's Hour_. Among her most delightful books is _Robin Hood: His Book_, from which the following story is taken, (by permission of the publishers, Little, Brown & Co., Boston). Some few moralists have been distressed about giving stories of an outlaw to children, but Robin Hood was really the champion of the people against tyrannous oppression and injustice. This is the fact that children never miss, and the thing that endears Robin and his followers in Lincoln green. There is, of course, the further interesting fact that these stories take place out in the open and have the charm that comes from adventures and wanderings through the secrecies of ancient Sherwood Forest. Against this outdoor background are displayed the good old "virtues of courage, forbearance, gentleness, courtesy, justice, and championship."

ROBIN AND THE MERRY LITTLE OLD WOMAN

EVA MARCH TAPPAN

"Monday I wash and Tuesday I iron, Wednesday I cook and I mend; Thursday I brew and Friday I sweep, And baking day brings the end."

So sang the merry little old woman as she sat at her wheel and spun; but when she came to the last line she really could not help pushing back the flax-wheel and springing to her feet. Then she held out her skirt and danced a gay little jig as she sang,--

"Hey down, down, an a down!"

She curtseyed to one side of the room and then to another, and before she knew it she was curtseying to a man who stood in the open door.

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried the merry little old woman. "Whatever shall I do? An old woman ought to sit and spin and not be dancing like a young girl. Oh, but it's Master Robin! Glad am I to set eyes on you, Master Robin. Come in, and I'll throw my best cloak over the little stool for a cushion. Don't be long standing on the threshold, Master Robin."

"It'll mayhap come to pass that I'll wish I had something to stand on," said Robin, grimly, "for the proud bishop is in the forest, and he's after me with all his men. It's night and day that he's been following me, and now he's caught me surely. You've no meal chest, have you, and you've no press, and you've no feather-bed that'll hide me? There's but the one wee bit room, and there's not even a mousehole."

The little woman's heart beat fast. What could she do?

"I mind me well of a Saturday night," said she, "when I'd but little firewood and it was bitter cold, that you and your men brought me such fine logs as the great folks at the hall don't have; and then you came in yourself and gave me a pair of shoon and some brand-new hosen, all soft and fine and woolly--I don't believe the king himself has such a pair--oh, Master Robin, I've thought of something. Give me your mantle of green and your fine gray tunic, and do you put on my kirtle and jacket and gown, and tie my red and blue kerchief over your head--you gave it to me yourself, you did; it was on Easter Day in the morning--and do you sit down at the wheel and spin. See, you put your foot on the treadle _so_, to turn the wheel, and you twist the flax with your fingers _so_. Don't you get up, but just turn the wheel and grumble and mumble to yourself."

It was not long before the bishop and all his men came riding up to the little old woman's house. The bishop thrust open the door and called:--

"Old woman, what have you done with Robin Hood?" but Robin sat grumbling and mumbling at the wheel and answered never a word to the proud bishop.

"She's mayhap daft," said one of the bishop's men. "We'll soon find him"; and in a minute he had looked up the chimney and behind the dresser and under the wooden bedstead. Then he turned to the corner cupboard.

"You're daft yourself," said the bishop, "to look in that little place for a strong man like Robin." And all the time the spinner at the wheel sat grumbling and mumbling. It was a queer thread that was wound on the spool, but no one thought of that. It was Robin that they wanted, and they cared little what kind of thread an old woman in a cottage was a-spinning.

"He's here, your Reverence," called a man who had opened the lower door of the corner cupboard.

"Bring him out and set him on the horse," ordered the bishop, "and see to it that you treat him like a wax candle in the church. The king's bidden that the thief and outlaw be brought to him, and I well know he'll hang the rogue on a gallows so high that it will show over the whole kingdom; but he has given orders that no one shall have the reward if the rascal has but a bruise on his finger, save that it came in a fair fight."

So the merry little old woman in Robin's tunic and Robin's green cloak was set gently on a milk-white steed. The bishop himself mounted a dapple-gray, and down the road they went.

It was the cheeriest party that one can imagine. The bishop went laughing all the way for pure delight that he had caught Robin Hood. He told more stories than one could make up in an age of leap-years, and they were all about where he went and what he did in the days before he became bishop. The men were so happy at the thought of having the great reward the king had offered that they laughed at the bishop's stories louder than any one had ever laughed at them before. And as for the merry little old woman, she had the gayest time of all, though she had to keep her face muffled in her hood, and couldn't laugh aloud the least bit, and couldn't jump down from the great white horse and dance the gay little jig that her feet were fairly aching to try.

While the merry little old woman was riding off with the bishop and his men, Robin sat at the flax-wheel and spun and spun till he could no longer hear the beat of the horses' hoofs on the hard ground. No time had he to take off the kirtle and the jacket and the kerchief of red and blue, for no one knew when the proud bishop might find out that he had the wrong prisoner, and would come galloping back to the cottage on the border of the forest.

"If I can only get to my good men and true!" thought Robin; and he sprang up from the little flax-wheel with the distaff in his hand, and ran out of the open door.

All the long day had Robin been away from his bowmen, and as the twilight time drew near, they were more and more fearful of what might have befallen him. They went to the edge of the forest, and there they sat with troubled faces.

"I've heard that the sheriff was seen but two days ago on the eastern side of the wood," said Much the miller's son.

"And the proud bishop's not in his palace," muttered Will Scarlet. "Where he's gone I know not, but may the saints keep Master Robin from meeting him. He hates us men of the greenwood worse than the sheriff does, and he'd hang any one of us to the nearest oak."

"He'd not hang Master Robin," declared Much the miller's son, "for the bishop likes good red gold, and the king's offered a great reward for him alive and unhurt." The others laughed, but in a moment they were grave again, and peered anxiously through the trees in one way and then in another, while nearer came the twilight.

"There are folks who say the forest is haunted," said Little John. "I never saw anything, but one night when I was close to the little black pond that lies to the westward, I heard a cry that wasn't from bird or beast; I know that."

"And didn't you see anything?" asked Much the miller's son.

"No," answered Little John, "but where there's a cry, there's something to make the cry, and it wasn't bird or beast; I'm as sure of that as I am that my name is Little John."

"But it isn't," declared Friar Tuck. "You were christened John Little." No one smiled, for they were too much troubled about Robin.

"When I was a youngster," said William Scarlet, "I had an old nurse, and she told me that a first cousin of hers knew a woman whose husband was going through the forest by night, and he saw a witch carry a round bundle under her arm. It was wrapped up in a brown kerchief; and while he looked, the wind blew the kerchief away, and he saw that the round bundle was a man's head. The mouth of it opened and called, 'Help! help!' He shot an arrow through the old witch, and then he said to the head, 'Where do you want to go? Whose head are you?' The head answered, 'I'm your head, and I want to go on your shoulders.' Then he put up his hand, and, sure enough, his own head was gone, and there it lay on the ground beside the dead witch with the arrow sticking through her. He took up the head and set it on his shoulders. This was the story that he told when he came back in the morning, but no one knew whether really to believe it all or not. After that night he always carried his head a bit on one side, and some said it was because he hadn't set it back quite straight: but there are some folks that won't believe anything unless they see it themselves, and they said he had had a drink or two more than he should and that he took cold in his neck from sleeping with his head on the wet moss."

"Everybody knows there are witches," said Will Scarlet, "and folks say that wherever they may be through the day, they run to the forest when the sun begins to sink, and while they're running they can't say any magic words to hurt a man if he shoots them."

"What's that?" whispered Much the miller's son softly, and he fitted an arrow to the string.

"Wait; make a cross on it first," said Little John.

Something was flitting over the little moor. The soft gray mist hid the lower part of it, but the men could see what looked like the upper part of a woman's body, scurrying along through the fog in some mysterious fashion. Its arms were tossing wildly about, and it seemed to be beckoning. The head was covered with what might have been a kerchief, but it was too dusky to see clearly.

"Don't shoot till it's nearer," whispered William Scarlet. "They say if you hurt a witch and don't kill her outright, you'll go mad forever after."

Nearer came the witch, but still Much the miller's son waited with his bow bent and the arrow aimed. The witch ran under the low bough of a tree, the kerchief was caught on a broken limb, and--

"Why, it's Master Robin!" shouted Much the miller's son. "It's Master Robin himself"; and so it was. No time had he taken to throw off the gray kirtle and the black jacket and the blue and red kerchief about his head; for as soon as ever he could no longer hear the tramp of the horses's hoofs, he had run with the distaff still in his hand to the shelter of the good greenwood and the help of his own faithful men and true.

Meanwhile the bishop was still telling stories of what he did before he was a bishop, and the men were laughing at them, and the merry little old woman was having the gayest time of all, even though she dared not laugh out loud.

Now that the bishop had caught Robin Hood he had no fear of the greenwood rangers; and as the forest road was much nearer than the highway, down the forest road the happy company went. The merry little old woman had sometimes sat on a pillion and ridden a farm beast from the plough; but to be on a great horse like this, one that held his head so high and stepped so carefully where it was rough, and galloped so lightly and easily where it was smooth--why, she had never even dreamed of such a magnificent ride. Not a word did she speak, not even when the bishop began to tell her that no gallows would be high enough to hang such a wicked outlaw. "You've stolen gold from the knights," said he, "you've stolen from the sheriff of Nottingham, and you've even stolen from me. Glad am I to see Robin Hood--but what's that?" the bishop cried. "Who are those men, and who is their leader? And who are you?" he demanded of the merry little old woman.

Now the little woman had been taught to order herself lowly and reverently to all her betters, so before she answered the bishop she slipped down from the tall white horse and made a deep curtsey to the great man.

"If you please, sir," said she, "I think it's Robin Hood and his men."

"And who are you?" he demanded again.

"Oh, I'm nobody but a little old woman that lives in a cottage alone and spins," and then she sang in a lightsome little chirrup of a voice:--

"Monday I wash and Tuesday I iron, Wednesday I cook and I mend; Thursday I brew and Friday I sweep, And baking day brings the end."

I fear that the bishop did not hear the little song, for the arrows were flying thick and fast. The little old woman slipped behind a big tree, and there she danced her

"Hey down, down, an a down!"

to her heart's content, while the fighting went on.

It was not long before the great bishop was Robin's prisoner, and ere he could go free, he had to open his strong leather wallet and count out more gold than the moon had shone on in the forest for many and many a night. He laid down the goldpieces one by one, and at every piece he gave a groan that seemed to come from the very bottom of his boots.

"That's for all the world like the cry I heard from the little black pond to the westward," said Little John. "It wasn't like bird and it wasn't like beast, and now I know what it was; it was the soul of a stingy man, and he had to count over and over the money that he ought to have given away when he was alive."

As for the merry little old woman, she was a prisoner too, and such a time as she had! First there was a bigger feast than she had ever dreamed of before, and every man of Robin's followers was bound that she should eat the bit that he thought was nicest. They made her a little throne of soft green moss, and on it they laid their hunting cloaks. They built a shelter of fresh boughs over her head, and then they sang songs to her. They set up great torches all round about the glade. They wrestled and they vaulted and they climbed. They played every game that could be played by torchlight, and it was all to please the kind little woman who had saved the life of their master.

The merry little woman sat and clapped her hands at all their feats, and she laughed until she cried. Then she wiped her eyes and sang them her one little song.

The men shouted and cheered, and cheered and shouted, and the woods echoed so long and so loud that one would have thought they, too, were trying to shout.

By and by the company all set out together to carry the little old woman to her cottage. She was put upon their very best and safest horse, and Robin Hood would have none lead it but himself. After the horse came a long line of good bowmen and true. One carried a new cloak of the finest wool. Another bore a whole armful of silken kerchiefs to make up for the one that Robin had worn away. There were "shoon and hosen," and there was cloth of scarlet and of blue, and there were soft, warm blankets for her bed. There were so many things that when they were all piled up in the little cottage, there was no chance for one tenth of the men to get into the room. Those that were outside pushed up to the window and stretched their heads in at the door: and they tried their best to pile up the great heap of things so she could have room to go to bed that night and to cook her breakfast in the morning.

"And to-morrow's sweeping day," cried Robin. "'Thursday I brew and Friday I sweep,' and how'll she sweep if she has no floor?"

"We'll have to make her a floor," declared Friar Tuck.

"So we will," said Robin. "There's a good man not far away who can work in wood, and he shall come in the morning and build her another room."

"Oh, oh!" cried the merry little old woman with delight, "I never thought I should have a house with two rooms; but I'll always care for this room the most, for there's just where Master Robin stood when he came in at the door, and there's where he sat when he was spinning the flax. But, Master Robin, Master Robin, did any one ever see such a thread as you've left on the spool!"

It was so funny that the merry little old woman really couldn't help jumping up and dancing.

"Hey down, down, an a down!"

And then the brave men and true all said good-night and went back to the forest.

414

All attempts to prove the historical existence of Robin Hood have been unsuccessful. His story has come down to us in a group of old folk ballads, about forty in number, dating from about the beginning of the fifteenth century. One of these old ballads is given below. They were sung to a recurrent melody, which was as much a part of them as the words of the story. Other ballads in the group that are likely to be very interesting to children are "Robin Hood and Little John," "Robin Hood and Maid Marian," "Robin Hood Rescuing the Three Squires," "Robin Hood's Death and Burial." The best source for these ballads is Child's _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_ (ed. Sargent and Kittredge). Tennyson dramatized the Robin Hood story in _The Foresters_, as did Alfred Noyes in _Sherwood_. Reginald De Koven made a very successful comic opera out of it, while Thomas Love Peacock's _Maid Marian_ is an interesting novelization of the theme.

ALLEN-A-DALE

Come listen to me, you gallants so free, All you that love mirth for to hear, And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, That lived in Nottinghamshire.

As Robin Hood in the forest stood, All under the greenwood tree, There was he ware of a brave young man, As fine as fine might be.

The youngster was clothed in scarlet red, In scarlet fine and gay, And he did frisk it over the plain, And chanted a roundelay.

As Robin Hood next morning stood, Amongst the leaves so gay, There did he spy the same young man Come drooping along the way.

The scarlet he wore the day before, It was clean cast away; And every step he fetched a sigh, "Alack! and well-a-day!"

Then stepped forth brave Little John. And Nick, the miller's son, Which made the young man bend his bow, When as he saw them come.

"Stand off! stand off!" the young man said; "What is your will with me?" "You must come before our master straight, Under yon greenwood tree."

And when he came bold Robin before, Robin asked him courteously, "O hast thou any money to spare For my merry men and me?"

"I have no money," the young man said, "But five shillings and a ring; And that I have kept this seven long years, To have it at my wedding.

"Yesterday I should have married a maid, But she is now from me ta'en, And chosen to be an old knight's delight, Whereby my poor heart is slain."

"What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood; "Come tell me without any fail." "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, "My name it is Allen-a-Dale."

"What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, "In ready gold or fee, To help thee to thy truelove again, And deliver her unto thee?"

"I have no money," then quoth the young man, "No ready gold nor fee, But I will swear upon a book Thy true servant for to be."

"How many miles is it to thy truelove? Come tell me without any guile:" "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, "It is but five little mile."

Then Robin he hasted over the plain, He did neither stint nor lin, Until he came unto the church Where Allen should keep his wedding.

"What dost thou here?" the bishop he said, "I prithee now tell to me" "I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, "And the best in the north country."

"O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said. "That music best pleaseth me." "You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, "Till the bride and bridegroom I see."

With that came in a wealthy knight, Which was both grave and old, And after him a finikin lass, Did shine like glistering gold.

"This is no fit match," quoth bold Robin Hood, "That you do seem to make here; For since we are come unto the church, The bride she shall choose her own dear."

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, And blew blasts two or three; When four and twenty bowmen bold Came leaping over the lea.

And when they came into the churchyard, Marching all in a row, The first man was Allen-a-Dale, To give bold Robin his bow.

"This is thy truelove," Robin he said, "Young Allen, as I hear say; And you shall be married at this same time, Before we depart away."

"That shall not be," the bishop he said, "For thy word shall not stand; They shall be three times asked in the church, As the law is of our land."

Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat, And put it upon Little John; "By the faith of my body," then Robin said, "This cloth doth make thee a man."

When Little John went into the choir, The people began for to laugh; He asked them seven times in the church, Lest three times should not be enough.

"Who gives me this maid?" then said Little John; Quoth Robin, "That do I, And he that doth take her from Allen-a-Dale Full dearly he shall her buy."

And thus having ended this merry wedding, The bride looked as fresh as a queen, And so they returned to the merry greenwood, Amongst the leaves so green.

SECTION XI

BIOGRAPHY AND HERO STORIES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Abbott, J. S. C., _Christopher Carson_. _David Crockett._

Antin, Mary, _The Promised Land_.

Baldwin, James, _Four Great Americans_. [Washington, Franklin, Webster, Lincoln.] _An American Book of Golden Deeds._

Bolton, Sarah K., _Lives of Girls Who Became Famous_. _Lives of Poor Boys Who Became Famous._

Boutet de Monvel, Louis Maurice, _Joan of Arc_.

Brooks, Elbridge S., _True Story of Christopher Columbus_.

Cody, Col. W. F., _Adventures of Buffalo Bill_.

Franklin, Benjamin, _Autobiography_.

Golding, V., _Story of David Livingston_.

Gould, F. J., _The Children's Plutarch_. [2 vols., one of Greeks, the other of Romans.]

Hathaway, Esse V., _Napoleon, the Little Corsican_.

Hughes, Thomas, _Alfred the Great_.

Jefferson, Joseph, _Autobiography_.

Jenks, Tudor, _Captain John Smith_.

Keller, Helen, _The Story of My Life_.

Larcom, Lucy, _A New England Girlhood_.

Mabie, Hamilton W., _Heroines Every Child Should Know_.

Moores, Charles W., _Life of Abraham Lincoln for Boys and Girls_.

Muir, John, _Story of My Boyhood and Youth_.

Nicolay, Helen, _Boy's Life of Abraham Lincoln_.

Page, Thomas Nelson, _Robert E. Lee: Man and Soldier_.

Paine, Albert Bigelow, _Boy's Life of Mark Twain_.

Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, _Roll Call of Honor_. [Bolivar, John Brown, Abraham Lincoln, Garibaldi, David Livingston, Florence Nightingale, Pasteur, Gordon, Father Damien.]

Richards, Laura E., _Florence Nightingale_.

Riis, Jacob, _Making of an American_.

Roosevelt, Theodore, and Lodge, Henry Cabot, _Hero Tales from American History_.

Scudder, Horace E., _George Washington_.

Shaw, Anna Howard, _The Story of a Pioneer_.

Tarbell, Ida M., _Life of Abraham Lincoln_.

Thwaites, Reuben G., _Daniel Boone_.

Washington, Booker T., _Up from Slavery_.

White, John S., _Boys' and Girls' Plutarch_. [Preserves parallel arrangement.]

Yonge, Charlotte M., _A Book of Golden Deeds_.

SECTION XI. BIOGRAPHY AND HERO STORIES

INTRODUCTORY

_Biography and its value._ The great charm of biography for both young and old is in its perfect concreteness. Nothing fascinates like the story of a real person at grips with realities. Nothing inspires like the story of a hard-won victory over difficulties. Here are instances of men and women, our own kindred, facing great crises in the physical or moral realm with the calm courage and the clear mind of which we have dreamed. Here are others who have fought the brave fight in opposition to the stupidities and long-entrenched prejudices of their fellows. Here are still others who have wrested from nature her innermost secrets, who have won for us immunity against lurking diseases and dangers, who have labored successfully against great odds to make life more safe, more comfortable, or more beautiful. All these records of real accomplishment appeal to the youthful spirit of emulation, and there can be no stronger inspiration in facing the unsolved problems of the future. "What men have done men can still do."

_The material and its presentation._ Most teachers will find the biographical or historical story easier to handle than the imaginative story, because there is a definite outline of fact from which to work. Only those life stories with which the teacher is in sympathy can be handled satisfactorily. For that reason no definite list of suitable material is worth much, except as illustrating the wide range of choice. Keeping these limitations in mind, we may venture a few practical hints:

1. There is a large list of heroic figures hovering on the border line between reality and legend of whose stories children never tire. In such a list are the names of Leonidas, who held the pass at Thermopylae, William Tell and Arnold von Winkelried, favorite heroes of Switzerland, Robert Bruce of Scotland, and that pair of immortally faithful friends, Damon and Pythias.

2. With Marco Polo we may visit the wonderlands of the East, we may go with Captain Cook through the islands of the southern seas, with Stanley through darkest Africa, with the brave Scott in his tragic dash for the South Pole. Best of all, perhaps, we may, with Columbus, discover another America.

3. How Elihu Burritt became the "learned blacksmith," how Hugh Miller brought himself to be an authority on the old red sandstone, are always inspiring stories to the ambitious student. And in any list of achievements by those bound in by untoward circumstance must be placed that of Booker T. Washington as told by himself in _Up from Slavery_.

4. From our earlier history we may draw upon such lives as those of Franklin, Washington, and Patrick Henry. There are numberless stirring episodes from the careers of Francis Marion, Israel Putnam, Nathan Hale, and others that will occur to any reader of our history. Lincoln's life history offers an almost inexhaustible treasure. Grant, grimly silent and persevering, and Lee, kindly gentleman and military genius, belong in any course that stresses our national achievements.

5. Stories of men who have mastered the secrets of the forces of nature never fail of interest. Stephenson and the locomotive engine, Sir Humphry Davy and the safety lamp, Whitney and the cotton gin, Marconi and the wonders of wireless communication, the Wright brothers and the airplane, Edison and the incandescant light and the motion picture, Luther Burbank and his marvelous work with plants--these are only a few to place near the head of any list.

6. Especially interesting for work in the grades are the stories of the pioneer and plainsman days, of Kit Carson, Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone, and Buffalo Bill.

7. We must not neglect stories of achievement by those who have been handicapped by great physical disability, such as are found in the careers of Henry Fawcett, the blind statesman of England, and of our own Helen Keller, whose _Story of My Life_ has become a classic source of material.

8. The life of Joan of Arc has long been a supreme favorite for biographical story. Its simple directness, its fiery patriotism, its pathetic and tragic close, give it all the force of some great consciously designed masterpiece. The events of such a life can be arranged in a series or cycle of stories. Of very different type, but of almost equally strong appeal, is the story of the work of Florence Nightingale, whose efforts among the British soldiers in the terrible scenes of the Crimean War set in motion those humanitarian enterprises so splendidly exemplified in the work of the Red Cross organizations.

9. Finally, no teacher should fail to make use of many modern careers that impress upon children the devotion of lives spent in bettering the conditions under which people live. Among some of these may be mentioned Colonel George E. Waring, the sanitary engineer who really cleaned the streets of New York; General W. C. Gorgas, who led in the conquest of the great yellow fever plague; Dr. Wilfred Grenfell, still spending his life for the natives of bleak Labrador; and the famous French scientist, Louis Pasteur, who found out for us how to preserve milk and how to escape the dread hydrophobia. Such careers devoted to ameliorating the evils incident to civilization are of great value in stirring into active existence the latent spirit of service in every pupil.

10. Wide-awake teachers will constantly find in the periodicals of the day many episodes of achievement by men and women working in various fields of helpfulness. Such present-day accomplishments should be emphasized. We live in the present, and the duties and opportunities of the present are to furnish the inspirations and indicate the fields of possible achievement for us.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

For a very practical discussion of biographical stories see Lyman, _Story Telling_, chap. v. The great classic sources of inspiration on the subject are Carlyle, _Heroes and Hero Worship_, and Emerson, _Representative Men_. Of special value is the opening chapter in the latter book, "Uses of Great Men."

415

Elbridge S. Brooks (1846-1902) was a well-known American writer of juvenile books on history, government, and biography. His _True Story of Christopher Columbus_, from which the following selection was taken, is a well-written book that pupils in the fifth and sixth grades read with pleasure. _The Century Book for Young Americans_ is a story of our government. Other books by the same author are _The True Story of George Washington_, _The True Story of Lafayette_, and _The True Story of U. S. Grant_. ("How Columbus Got His Ships" is used here by permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Boston.)

HOW COLUMBUS GOT HIS SHIPS

ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS

When Columbus was at school he had studied about a certain man named Pythagoras, who had lived in Greece thousands of years before he was born, and who had said that the earth was round "like a ball or an orange." As Columbus grew older and made maps and studied the sea, and read books and listened to what other people said, he began to believe that this man named Pythagoras might be right, and that the earth was round, though everybody declared it was flat. "If it is round," he said to himself, "what is the use of trying to sail around Africa to get to Cathay? Why not just sail west from Italy or Spain and keep going right around the world until you strike Cathay? I believe it could be done," said Columbus.

By this time Columbus was a man. He was thirty years old and was a great sailor. He had been captain of a number of vessels; he had sailed north and south and east; he knew all about a ship and all about the sea. But, though he was a good sailor, when he said that he believed the earth was round, everybody laughed at him and said that he was crazy. "Why, how can the earth be round?" they cried. "The water would all spill out if it were, and the men who live on the other side would all be standing on their heads with their feet waving in the air." And then they laughed all the harder.

But Columbus did not think it was anything to laugh at. He believed it so strongly and felt so sure that he was right, that he set to work to find some king or prince or great lord to let him have ships and sailors and money enough to try to find a way to Cathay by sailing out into the West and across the Atlantic Ocean.

Now this Atlantic Ocean, the western waves of which break upon our rocks and beaches, was thought in Columbus's day to be a dreadful place. People called it the Sea of Darkness, because they did not know what was on the other side of it, or what dangers lay beyond that distant blue rim where the sky and water seem to meet, and which we call the horizon. They thought the ocean stretched to the end of a flat world, straight away to a sort of "jumping-off place," and that in this jumping-off place were giants and goblins and dragons and monsters and all sorts of terrible things that would catch the ships and destroy them and the sailors.

So when Columbus said that he wanted to sail away toward this dreadful jumping-off place, the people said that he was worse than crazy. They said he was a wicked man and ought to be punished.

But they could not frighten Columbus. He kept on trying. He went from place to place trying to get the ships and sailors he wanted and was bound to have. As you will see later, he tried to get help wherever he thought it could be had. He asked the people of his own home, the city of Genoa, where he had lived and played when a boy; he asked the people of the beautiful city that is built in the sea--Venice; he tried the king of Portugal, the king of England, the king of France, the king and queen of Spain. But for a long time nobody cared to listen to such a wild and foolish and dangerous plan--to go to Cathay by the way of the Sea of Darkness and the jumping-off place. "You would never get there alive," they said.

And so Columbus waited. And his hair grew white while he waited, though he was not yet an old man. He had thought and worked and hoped so much that he began to look like an old man when he was forty years old. But still he would never say that perhaps he was wrong, after all. He said he knew he was right, and that some day he should find the Indies and sail to Cathay.

I do not wish you to think that Columbus was the first man to say that the earth was round, or the first to sail to the West over the Atlantic Ocean. He was not. Other men had said that they believed the earth was round; other men had sailed out into the Atlantic Ocean. But no sailor who believed the earth was round had ever tried to prove that it was by crossing the Atlantic. So, you see, Columbus was really the first man to say, I believe the earth is round and I will show you that it is by sailing to the lands that are on the other side of the earth.

He even figured out how far it was around the world. Your geography, you know, tells you now that what is called the circumference of the earth--that is, a straight line drawn right around it--is nearly twenty-five thousand miles. Columbus had figured it up pretty carefully and he thought it was about twenty thousand miles. "If I could start from Genoa," he said, "and walk straight ahead until I got back to Genoa again, I should walk about twenty thousand miles." Cathay, he thought, would take up so much land on the other side of the world that, if he went west instead of east, he would only need to sail about twenty-five hundred or three thousand miles.

If you have studied your geography carefully you will see what a mistake he made.

It is really about twelve thousand miles from Spain to China (or Cathay as he called it). But America is just about three thousand miles from Spain, and if you read all this story you will see how Columbus's mistake really helped him to discover America.

I have told you that Columbus had a longing to do something great from the time when, as a little boy, he had hung around the wharves in Genoa and looked at the ships sailing east and west and talked with the sailors and wished that he could go to sea. Perhaps what he had learned at school--how some men said that the earth was round--and what he had learned on the wharves about the wonders of Cathay set him to thinking and dreaming that it might be possible for a ship to sail around the world without falling off. At any rate, he kept on thinking and dreaming and longing until, at last, he began doing.

Some of the sailors sent out by Prince Henry of Portugal, of whom I have told you, in their trying to sail around Africa discovered two groups of islands out in the Atlantic that they called the Azores, or Isles of Hawks, and the Canaries, or Isles of Dogs. When Columbus was in Portugal in 1470 he became acquainted with a young woman whose name was Philippa Perestrelo. In 1473 he married her.

Now Philippa's father, before his death, had been governor of Porto Santo, one of the Azores, and Columbus and his wife went off there to live. In the governor's house Columbus found a lot of charts and maps that told him about parts of the ocean that he had never before seen, and made him feel certain that he was right in saying that if he sailed away to the West he should find Cathay.

At that time there was an old man who lived in Florence, a city of Italy. His name was Toscanelli. He was a great scholar and studied the stars and made maps, and was a very wise man. Columbus knew what a wise old scholar Toscanelli was, for Florence is not very far from Genoa. So while he was living in the Azores he wrote to this old scholar asking him what he thought about his idea that a man could sail around the world until he reached the land called the Indies and at last found Cathay.

Toscanelli wrote to Columbus saying that he believed his idea was the right one, and he said it would be a grand thing to do, if Columbus dared to try it. "Perhaps," he said, "you can find all those splendid things that I know are in Cathay--the great cities with marble bridges, the houses of marble covered with gold, the jewels and the spices and the precious stones, and all the other wonderful and magnificent things. I do not wonder you wish to try," he said, "for if you find Cathay it will be a wonderful thing for you and for Portugal."

That settled it with Columbus. If this wise old scholar said he was right, he must be right. So he left his home in the Azores and went to Portugal. This was in 1475, and from that time on, for seventeen long years he was trying to get some king or prince to help him sail to the West to find Cathay.

But not one of the people who could have helped him, if they had really wished to, believed in Columbus. As I told you, they said that he was crazy. The king of Portugal, whose name was John, did a very unkind thing--I am sure you would call it a mean trick. Columbus had gone to him with his story and asked for ships and sailors. The king and his chief men refused to help him; but King John said to himself, "Perhaps there is something in this worth looking after and, if so, perhaps I can have my own people find Cathay and save the money that Columbus will want to keep for himself as his share of what he finds." So one day he copied off the sailing directions that Columbus had left with him, and gave them to one of his own captains without letting Columbus know anything about it. The Portuguese captain sailed away to the West in the direction Columbus had marked down, but a great storm came up and so frightened the sailors that they turned around in a hurry. Then they hunted up Columbus and began to abuse him for getting them into such a scrape. "You might as well expect to find land in the sky," they said, "as in those terrible waters."

And when, in this way, Columbus found out that King John had tried to use his ideas without letting him know anything about it, he was very angry. His wife had died in the midst of this mean trick of the Portuguese king, and so, taking with him his little five-year-old son, Diego, he left Portugal secretly and went over into Spain.

Near the little town of Palos, in western Spain, is a green hill looking out toward the Atlantic. Upon this hill stands an old building that, four hundred years ago, was used as a convent or home for priests. It was called the Convent of Rabida, and the priest at the head of it was named the Friar Juan Perez. One autumn day, in the year 1484, Friar Juan Perez saw a dusty traveler with a little boy talking with the gate-keeper of the convent. The stranger was so tall and fine-looking, and seemed such an interesting man, that Friar Juan went out and began to talk with him. This man was Columbus.

As they talked, the priest grew more and more interested in what Columbus said. He invited him into the convent to stay for a few days, and he asked some other people--the doctors of Palos and some of the sea captains and sailors of the town--to come and talk with this stranger who had such a singular idea about sailing across the Atlantic.

It ended in Columbus's staying some months in Palos, waiting for a chance to go and see the king and queen. At last, in 1485, he set out for the Spanish court with a letter to a priest who was a friend of Friar Juan's, and who could help him to see the king and queen.

At that time the king and queen of Spain were fighting to drive out of Spain the people called the Moors. These people came from Africa, but they had lived in Spain for many years and had once been a very rich and powerful nation. They were not Spaniards; they were not Christians. So all Spaniards and all Christians hated them and tried to drive them out of Europe.

The king and queen of Spain who were fighting the Moors were named Ferdinand and Isabella. They were pretty good people as kings and queens went in those days, but they did a great many very cruel and very mean things, just as the kings and queens of those days were apt to do. I am afraid we should not think they were very nice people nowadays. We certainly should not wish our American boys and girls to look up to them as good and true and noble.

When Columbus first came to them, they were with the army in the camp near the city of Cordova. The king and queen had no time to listen to what they thought were crazy plans, and poor Columbus could get no one to talk with him who could be of any help. So he was obliged to go back to drawing maps and selling books to make enough money to support himself and his little Diego.

But at last, through the friend of good Friar Juan Perez of Rabida, who was a priest at the court, and named Talavera, and to whom he had a letter of introduction, Columbus found a chance to talk over his plans with a number of priests and scholars in the city of Salamanca where there was a famous college and many learned men.

Columbus told his story. He said what he wished to do, and asked these learned men to say a good word for him to Ferdinand and Isabella so that he could have the ships and sailors to sail to Cathay. But it was of no use.

"What! sail away around the world?" those wise men cried in horror. "Why, you are crazy! The world is not round; it is flat. Your ships would tumble off the edge of the world and all the king's money and all the king's men would be lost. No, no; go away; you must not trouble the queen or even mention such a ridiculous thing again."

So the most of them said. But one or two thought it might be worth trying. Cathay was a very rich country, and if this foolish fellow were willing to run the risk and did succeed, it would be a good thing for Spain, as the king and queen would need a great deal of money after the war with the Moors was over. At any rate, it was a chance worth thinking about.

And so, although Columbus was dreadfully disappointed, he thought that if he had only a few friends at Court who were ready to say a good word for him he must not give up, but must try, try again. And so he stayed in Spain.

When you wish very much to do a certain thing, it is dreadfully hard to be patient: it is harder still to have to wait. Columbus had to do both. The wars against the Moors were of much greater interest to the king and queen of Spain than was the finding of a new and very uncertain way to get to Cathay. If it had not been for the patience and what we call the persistence of Columbus, America would never have been discovered--at least not in his time.

He stayed in Spain. He grew poorer and poorer. He was almost friendless. It seemed as if his great enterprise must be given up. But he never lost hope. He never stopped trying. Even when he failed, he kept on hoping and kept on trying. He felt certain that sometime he should succeed.

As we have seen, he tried to interest the rulers of different countries, but without success. He tried to get help from his old home-town of Genoa and failed; he tried Portugal and failed; he tried the Republic of Venice and failed; he tried the king and queen of Spain and failed; he tried some of the richest and most powerful of the nobles of Spain and failed; he tried the king of England (whom he got his brother, Bartholomew Columbus, to see) and failed. There was still left the king of France. He would make one last attempt to win the king and queen of Spain to his side and if he failed with them he would try the last of the rulers of Western Europe, the king of France.

He followed the king and queen of Spain as they went from place to place fighting the Moors. He hoped that some day, when they wished to think of something besides fighting, they might think of him and the gold and jewels and spices of Cathay.

The days grew into months, the months into years, and still the war against the Moors kept on; and still Columbus waited for the chance that did not come. People grew to know him as "the crazy explorer" as they met him in the streets or on the church steps of Seville or Cordova, and even ragged little boys of the town, sharp-eyed and shrill-voiced as such ragged little urchins are, would run after this big man with the streaming white hair and the tattered cloak, calling him names or tapping their brown little foreheads with their dirty fingers to show that even they knew that he was "as crazy as a loon."

At last he decided to make one more attempt before giving it up in Spain. His money was gone; his friends were few; but he remembered his acquaintances at Palos and so he journeyed back to see once more his good friend Friar Juan Perez at the Convent of Rabida on the hill that looked out upon the Atlantic he was so anxious to cross.

It was in the month of November, 1491, that he went back to the Convent of Rabida. If he could not get any encouragement there, he was determined to stay in Spain no longer but to go away and try the king of France.

Once more he talked over the finding of Cathay with the priests and the sailors of Palos. They saw how patient he was; how persistent he was; how he would never give up his ideas until he had tried them. They were moved by his determination. They began to believe in him more and more. They resolved to help him. One of the principal sea captains of Palos was named Martin Alonso Pinzon. He became so interested that he offered to lend Columbus money enough to make one last appeal to the king and queen of Spain, and if Columbus should succeed with them, this Captain Pinzon said he would go into partnership with Columbus and help him out when it came to getting ready to sail to Cathay.

This was a move in the right direction. At once a messenger was sent to the splendid Spanish camp before the city of Granada, the last unconquered city of the Moors of Spain. The king and queen of Spain had been so long trying to capture Granada that this camp was really a city, with gates and walls and houses. It was called Santa Fé. Queen Isabella, who was in Santa Fé, after some delay, agreed to hear more about the crazy scheme of this persistent Genoese sailor, and the Friar Juan Perez was sent for. He talked so well in behalf of his friend Columbus that the queen became still more interested. She ordered Columbus to come and see her, and sent him sixty-five dollars to pay for a mule, a new suit of clothes, and the journey to court.

About Christmas time, in the year 1491, Columbus, mounted upon his mule, rode into the Spanish camp before the city of Granada. But even now, when he had been told to come, he had to wait. Granada was almost captured; the Moors were almost conquered. At last the end came. On the second of January, 1492, the Moorish king gave up the keys of his beloved city, and the great Spanish banner was hoisted on the highest tower of the Alhambra--the handsomest building in Granada and one of the most beautiful in the world. The Moors were driven out of Spain and Columbus's chance had come.

So he appeared before Queen Isabella and her chief men and told them again of all his plans and desires. The queen and her advisers sat in a great room in that splendid Alhambra I have told you of. King Ferdinand was not there. He did not believe in Columbus and did not wish to let him have money, ships, or sailors to lose in such a foolish way. But as Columbus stood before her and talked so earnestly about how he expected to find the Indies and Cathay and what he hoped to bring away from there, Queen Isabella listened and thought the plan worth trying.

Then a singular thing happened. You would think if you wished for something very much that you would be willing to give up a good deal for the sake of getting it. Columbus had worked and waited for seventeen years. He had never got what he wanted. He was always being disappointed. And yet, as he talked to the queen and told her what he wished to do, he said he must have so much as a reward for doing it that the queen and her chief men were simply amazed at his--well, what the boys to-day call "cheek"--that they would have nothing to do with him. This man really is crazy, they said. This poor Genoese sailor comes here without a thing except his very odd ideas and almost "wants the earth" as a reward. This is not exactly what they said, but it is what they meant.

His few friends begged him to be more modest. "Do not ask so much," they said, "or you will get nothing." But Columbus was determined. "I have worked and waited all these years," he replied. "I know just what I can do and just how much I can do for the king and queen of Spain. They must pay me what I ask and promise what I say, or I will go somewhere else." "Go, then!" said the queen and her advisers. And Columbus turned his back on what seemed almost his last hope, mounted his mule, and rode away.

Then something else happened. As Columbus rode off to find the French king, sick and tired of all his long and useless labor at the Spanish court, his few firm friends there saw that, unless they did something right away, all the glory and all the gain of this enterprise Columbus had taught them to believe in would be lost to Spain. So two of them, whose names were Santangel and Quintanilla, rushed into the queen's room and begged her, if she wished to become the greatest queen in Christendom, to call back this wandering sailor, agree to his terms, and profit by his labors.

What if he does ask a great deal? they said. He has spent his life thinking his plan out; no wonder he feels that he ought to have a good share of what he finds. What he asks is really small compared with what Spain will gain. The war with the Moors has cost you ever so much; your money chests are empty; Columbus will fill them up. The people of Cathay are heathen; Columbus will help you make them Christian men. The Indies and Cathay are full of gold and jewels; Columbus will bring you home shiploads of treasures. Spain has conquered the Moors; Columbus will help you conquer Cathay.

In fact, they talked to Queen Isabella so strongly and so earnestly, that she, too, became excited over this chance for glory and riches that she had almost lost. "Quick! send for Columbus. Call him back!" said she. "I agree to his terms. If King Ferdinand cannot or will not take the risk, I, the queen, will do it all. Quick! do not let the man get into France. After him. Bring him back!"

And without delay a royal messenger, mounted on a swift horse, was sent at full gallop to bring Columbus back.

All this time poor Columbus felt bad enough. Everything had gone wrong. Now he must go away into a new land and do it all over again. Kings and queens, he felt, were not to be depended upon, and he remembered a place in the Bible where it said: "Put not your trust in princes." Sad, solitary, and heavy-hearted, he jogged slowly along toward the mountains, wondering what the king of France would say to him, and whether it was really worth trying.

Just as he was riding across the little bridge called the Bridge of Pinos, some six miles from Granada, he heard the quick hoof-beats of a horse behind him. It was a great spot for robbers, and Columbus felt of the little money he had in his traveling pouch, and wondered whether he must lose it all. The hoof-beats came nearer. Then a voice hailed him. "Turn back, turn back!" the messenger cried out. "The queen bids you return to Granada. She grants you all you ask."

Columbus hesitated. Ought he to trust this promise, he wondered. Put not your trust in princes, the verse in the Bible had said. If I go back I may only be put off and worried as I have been before. And yet, perhaps she means what she says. At any rate, I will go back and try once more.

So, on the little Bridge of Pinos, he turned his mule around and rode back to Granada. And, sure enough, when he saw Queen Isabella she agreed to all that he asked. If he found Cathay, Columbus was to be made admiral for life of all the new seas and oceans into which he might sail; he was to be chief ruler of all the lands he might find; he was to keep one tenth part of all the gold and jewels and treasures he should bring away, and was to have his "say" in all questions about the new lands. For his part (and this was because of the offer of his friend at Palos, Captain Pinzon) he agreed to pay one eighth of all the expenses of this expedition and of all new enterprises, and was to have one eighth of all the profits from them.

So Columbus had his wish at last. The queen's men figured up how much money they could let him have; they called him "Don Christopher Columbus," "Your Excellency," and "Admiral," and at once he set about getting ready for his voyage.

416

Most children who read public library books know something about the work of Horace E. Scudder (1838-1902). For eight years he was editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_, but he is more widely known as a writer and compiler of books for children. The entertaining and informing _Bodley Books_ were widely read by a former generation and are still decidedly worth reading. Perhaps his most popular work is _The Children's Book_, a collection of literature suitable for the first four grades. Pupils in the third, fourth, and fifth grades read with pleasure _The Book of Fables_, _The Book of Folk Stories_, _Fables and Folk Stories_, and _The Book of Legends_. Mr. Scudder was the leading advocate of introducing literature into the schools at a time when such advocacy was uphill work, and he edited a great number of literary classics for school use. He wrote a number of historical and biographical works of value. _George Washington_, from which the next selection is taken, is considered by many to be the best biography of Washington that has been written for children. (The chapter below is used by permission of and special arrangement with The Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.)

THE BOYHOOD OF WASHINGTON

HORACE E. SCUDDER

It was near the shore of the Potomac River, between Pope's Creek and Bridge's Creek, that Augustine Washington lived when his son George was born. The land had been in the family ever since Augustine's grandfather, John Washington, had bought it, when he came over from England in 1657. John Washington was a soldier and a public-spirited man, and so the parish in which he lived--for Virginia was divided into parishes as some other colonies into townships--was named Washington. It is a quiet neighborhood; not a sign remains of the old house, and the only mark of the place is a stone slab, broken and overgrown with weeds and brambles, which lies on a bed of bricks taken from the remnants of the old chimney of the house. It bears the inscription:--

Here The 11th of February, 1732 (old style) George Washington was born

The English had lately agreed to use the calendar of Pope Gregory, which added eleven days to the reckoning, but people still used the old style as well as the new. By the new style, the birthday was February 22, and that is the day which is now observed. The family into which the child was born consisted of the father and mother, Augustine and Mary Washington, and two boys, Lawrence and Augustine. These were sons of Augustine Washington by a former wife who had died four years before. George Washington was the eldest of the children of Augustine and Mary Washington; he had afterward three brothers and two sisters, but one of the sisters died in infancy.

It was not long after George Washington's birth that the house in which he was born was burned, and as his father was at the time especially interested in some iron-works at a distance, it was determined not to rebuild upon the lonely place. Accordingly Augustine Washington removed his family to a place which he owned in Stafford County, on the banks of the Rappahannock River opposite Fredericksburg. The house is not now standing, but a picture was made of it before it was destroyed. It was, like many Virginia houses of the day, divided into four rooms on a floor, and had great outside chimneys at either end.

Here George Washington spent his childhood. He learned to read, write, and cipher at a small school kept by Hobby, the sexton of the parish church. Among his playmates was Richard Henry Lee, who was afterward a famous Virginian. When the boys grew up, they wrote to each other of grave matters of war and state, but here is the beginning of their correspondence, written when they were nine years old:--

"Richard Henry Lee to George Washington:

"Pa brought me two pretty books full of pictures he got them in Alexandria they have pictures of dogs and cats and tigers and elefants and ever so many pretty things cousin bids me send you one of them it has a picture of an elefant and a little Indian boy on his back like uncle jo's sam pa says if I learn my tasks good he will let uncle jo bring me to see you will you ask your ma to let you come to see me.

"Richard henry Lee."

"George Washington to Richard Henry Lee:

"Dear Dickey I thank you very much for the pretty picturebook you gave me. Sam asked me to show him the pictures and I showed him all the pictures in it; and I read to him how the tame elephant took care of the master's little boy, and put him on his back and would not let anybody touch his master's little son. I can read three or four pages sometimes without missing a word. Ma says I may go to see you, and stay all day with you next week if it be not rainy. She says I may ride my pony Hero if Uncle Ben will go with me and lead Hero. I have a little piece of poetry about the picture book you gave me, but I mustn't tell you who wrote the poetry.

"G. W.'s compliments to R. H. L., And likes his book full well, Henceforth will count him his friend, And hopes many happy days he may spend.

"Your good friend, "George Washington.

"I am going to get a whip top soon, and you may see it and whip it."

It looks very much as if Richard Henry sent his letter off just as it was written. I suspect that his correspondent's letter was looked over, corrected, and copied before it was sent. Very possibly Augustine Washington was absent at the time on one of his journeys; but at any rate the boy owed most of his training to his mother, for only two years after this his father died, and he was left to his mother's care.

She was a woman born to command, and since she was left alone with a family and an estate to care for, she took the reins into her own hands, and never gave them up to any one else. She used to drive about in an old-fashioned open chaise, visiting the various parts of her farm, just as a planter would do on horseback. The story is told that she had given an agent directions how to do a piece of work, and he had seen fit to do it differently, because he thought his way a better one. He showed her the improvement.

"And pray," said the lady, "who gave you any exercise of judgment in the matter? I command you, sir; there is nothing left for you but to obey."

In those days, more than now, a boy used very formal language when addressing his mother. He might love her warmly, but he was expected to treat her with a great show of respect. When Washington wrote to his mother, even after he was of age, he began his letter, "Honored Madam," and signed it, "Your dutiful son." This was a part of the manners of the time. It was like the stiff dress which men wore when they paid their respects to others; it was put on for the occasion, and one would have been thought very unmannerly who did not make a marked difference between his every-day dress and that which he wore when he went into the presence of his betters. So Washington, when he wrote to his mother, would not be so rude as to say, "Dear Mother."

Such habits as this go deeper than mere forms of speech. I do not suppose that the sons of this lady feared her, but they stood in awe of her, which is quite a different thing.

"We were all as mute as mice, when in her presence," says one of Washington's companions; and common report makes her to have been very much such a woman as her son afterward was a man.

I think that George Washington owed two strong traits to his mother--a governing spirit and a spirit of order and method. She taught him many lessons and gave him many rules; but, after all, it was her character shaping his which was most powerful. She taught him to be truthful, but her lessons were not half so forcible as her own truthfulness.

There is a story told of George Washington's boyhood--unfortunately there are not many stories--which is to the point. His father had taken a great deal of pride in his blooded horses, and his mother afterward took pains to keep the stock pure. She had several young horses that had not yet been broken, and one of them in particular, a sorrel, was extremely spirited. No one had been able to do anything with it, and it was pronounced thoroughly vicious, as people are apt to pronounce horses which they have not learned to master. George was determined to ride this colt, and told his companions that if they would help him catch it, he would ride and tame it.

Early in the morning they set out for the pasture, where the boys managed to surround the sorrel and then to put a bit into its mouth. Washington sprang upon its back, the boys dropped the bridle, and away flew the angry animal. Its rider at once began to command; the horse resisted, backing about the field, rearing and plunging. The boys became thoroughly alarmed, but Washington kept his seat, never once losing his self-control or his mastery of the colt. The struggle was a sharp one; when suddenly, as if determined to rid itself of its rider, the creature leaped into the air with a tremendous bound. It was its last. The violence burst a blood-vessel, and the noble horse fell dead.

Before the boys could sufficiently recover to consider how they should extricate themselves from the scrape, they were called to breakfast; and the mistress of the house, knowing that they had been in the fields, began to ask after her stock.

"Pray, young gentlemen," said she, "have you seen my blooded colts in your rambles? I hope they are well taken care of. My favorite, I am told, is as large as his sire."

The boys looked at one another, and no one liked to speak. Of course the mother repeated her question.

"The sorrel is dead, madam," said her son. "I killed him!"

And then he told the whole story. They say that his mother flushed with anger, as her son often used to, and then, like him, controlled herself, and presently said, quietly:--

"It is well; but while I regret the loss of my favorite, I rejoice in my son who always speaks the truth."

The story of Washington's killing the blooded colt is of a piece with other stories less particular, which show that he was a very athletic fellow. Of course, when a boy becomes famous, every one likes to remember the wonderful things he did before he was famous; and Washington's playmates, when they grew up, used to show the spot by the Rappahannock, near Fredericksburg, where he stood and threw a stone to the opposite bank; and at the celebrated Natural Bridge, the arch of which is two hundred feet above the ground, they always tell the visitor that George Washington threw a stone in the air the whole height. He undoubtedly took part in all the sports which were the favorites of his country at that time--he pitched heavy bars, tossed quoits, ran, leaped, and wrestled; for he was a powerful, large-limbed young fellow, and he had a very large and strong hand.

417

The _Autobiography_ by Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) has become a classic in American literature. Its simple style, practical doctrine of industry and economy, and pleasing revelation of the character of one of America's greatest statesmen make it appropriate for use in the seventh and eighth grades. (See also note to No. 250.)

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

At ten years old I was taken home to assist my father in his business, which was that of a tallow-chandler and soap-boiler, a business he was not bred to, but had assumed on his arrival in New England, and on finding his dyeing trade would not maintain his family, being in little request. Accordingly, I was employed in cutting wick for the candles, filling the dipping mold and the molds for cast candles, attending the shop, going of errands, etc.

I continued thus employed in my father's business for two years, that is, till I was twelve years old; and my brother John, who was bred to that business, having left my father, married, and set up for himself at Rhode Island, there was all appearance that I was destined to supply his place, and become a tallow-chandler. But my dislike to the trade continuing, my father was under apprehensions that if he did not find one for me more agreeable, I should break away and get to sea, as his son Josiah had done, to his great vexation. He therefore sometimes took me to walk with him, and see joiners, bricklayers, turners, braziers, etc., at their work, that he might observe my inclination, and endeavor to fix it on some trade or other on land. It has ever since been a pleasure to me to see good workmen handle their tools; and it has been useful to me, having learned so much by it as to be able to do little jobs myself in my house when a workman could not readily be got, and to construct little machines for my experiments, while the intention of making the experiment was fresh and warm in my mind. My father at last fixed upon the cutler's trade, and my uncle Benjamin's son Samuel, who was bred to that business in London, being about that time established in Boston, I was sent to be with him some time on liking. But his expectations of a fee with me displeasing my father, I was taken home again.

From a child I was fond of reading, and all the little money that came into my hands was ever laid out in books. Pleased with the _Pilgrim's Progress_, my first collection was of John Bunyan's works in separate little volumes. I afterward sold them to enable me to buy R. Burton's _Historical Collections_. They were small chapmen's books, and cheap, 40 or 50 in all. My father's little library consisted chiefly of books in polemic divinity, most of which I read, and have since often regretted that, at a time when I had such a thirst for knowledge, more proper books had not fallen in my way, since it was now resolved I should not be a clergyman. Plutarch's _Lives_ there was in which I read abundantly, and I still think that time spent to great advantage. There was also a book of De Foe's, called an _Essay on Projects_, and another of Dr. Mather's, called _Essays to do Good_, which perhaps gave me a turn of thinking that had an influence on some of the principal future events of my life.

This bookish inclination at length determined my father to make me a printer, though he had already one son (James) of that profession. In 1717 my brother James returned from England with a press and letters to set up his business in Boston. I liked it much better than that of my father, but still had a hankering for the sea. To prevent the apprehended effect of such an inclination, my father was impatient to have me bound to my brother. I stood out some time, but at last was persuaded, and signed the indentures when I was yet but twelve years old. I was to serve as an apprentice till I was twenty-one years of age, only I was to be allowed journeyman's wages during the last year. In a little time I made great proficiency in the business, and became a useful hand to my brother. I now had access to better books. An acquaintance with the apprentices of booksellers enabled me sometimes to borrow a small one, which I was careful to return soon and clean. Often I sat up in my room reading the greatest part of the night, when the book was borrowed in the evening and to be returned early in the morning, lest it should be missed or wanted.

And after some time an ingenious tradesman, Mr. Matthew Adams, who had a pretty collection of books, and who frequented our printing-house, took notice of me, invited me to his library, and very kindly lent me such books as I chose to read. I now took a fancy to poetry, and made some little pieces; my brother, thinking it might turn to account, encouraged me, and put me on composing occasional ballads. One was called _The Lighthouse Tragedy_, and contained an account of the drowning of Captain Worthilake, with his two daughters: the other was a sailor's song, on the taking of _Teach_ (or Blackbeard) the pirate. They were wretched stuff, in the Grub-street-ballad style; and when they were printed he sent me about the town to sell them. The first sold wonderfully, the event being recent, having made a great noise. This flattered my vanity; but my father discouraged me by ridiculing my performances, and telling me verse-makers were generally beggars. So I escaped being a poet, most probably a very bad one; but as prose writing has been of great use to me in the course of my life, and was a principal means of my advancement, I shall tell you how, in such a situation, I acquired what little ability I have in that way.

There was another bookish lad in the town, John Collins by name, with whom I was intimately acquainted. We sometimes disputed, and very fond we were of argument, and very desirous of confuting one another, which disputatious turn, by the way, is apt to become a very bad habit, making people often extremely disagreeable in company by the contradiction that is necessary to bring it into practice; and thence, besides souring and spoiling the conversation, is productive of disgusts and, perhaps, enmities where you may have occasion for friendship. I had caught it by reading my father's books of dispute about religion. Persons of good sense, I have since observed, seldom fall into it, except lawyers, university men, and men of all sorts that have been bred at Edinburgh.

A question was once, somehow or other, started between Collins and me, of the propriety of educating the female sex in learning, and their abilities for study. He was of opinion that it was improper, and that they were naturally unequal to it. I took the contrary side, perhaps a little for dispute's sake. He was naturally more eloquent, had a ready plenty of words; and sometimes, as I thought, bore me down more by his fluency than by the strength of his reasons. As we parted without settling the point, and were not to see one another again for some time, I sat down to put my arguments in writing, which I copied fair and sent to him. He answered, and I replied. Three or four letters of a side had passed, when my father happened to find my papers and read them. Without entering into the discussion, he took occasion to talk to me about the manner of my writing; observed that, though I had the advantage of my antagonist in correct spelling and pointing (which I owed to the printing-house), I fell far short in elegance of expression, in method and in perspicuity, of which he convinced me by several instances. I saw the justice of his remarks, and thence grew more attentive to the manner in writing, and determined to endeavor at improvement.

About this time I met with an odd volume of the _Spectator_. It was the third. I had never before seen any of them. I bought it, read it over and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing excellent, and wished, if possible, to imitate it. With this view I took some of the papers, and, making short hints of the sentiment in each sentence, laid them by a few days, and then, without looking at the book, tried to complete the papers again, by expressing each hinted sentiment at length, and as fully as it had been expressed before, in any suitable words that should come to hand. Then I compared my _Spectator_ with the original, discovered some of my faults, and corrected them. But I found I wanted a stock of words, or a readiness in recollecting and using them, which I thought I should have acquired before that time if I had gone on making verses; since the continual occasion for words of the same import, but of different length, to suit the measure, or of different sound for the rhyme, would have laid me under a constant necessity of searching for variety, and also have tended to fix that variety in my mind, and make me master of it. Therefore I took some of the tales and turned them into verse; and, after a time, when I had pretty well forgotten the prose, turned them back again. I also sometimes jumbled my collections of hints into confusion, and after some weeks endeavored to reduce them into the best order, before I began to form the full sentences and complete the paper. This was to teach me method in the arrangement of thoughts. By comparing my work afterwards with the original, I discovered many faults and amended them; but I sometimes had the pleasure of fancying that, in certain particulars of small import, I had been lucky enough to improve the method or the language, and this encouraged me to think I might possibly in time come to be a tolerable English writer, of which I was extremely ambitious. My time for these exercises and for reading was at night, after work or before it began in the morning, or on Sundays, when I contrived to be in the printing-house alone, avoiding as much as I could the common attendance on public worship which my father used to exact of me when I was under his care, and which indeed I still thought a duty, though I could not, as it seemed to me, afford time to practice it.

When about 16 years of age I happened to meet with a book, written by one Tryon, recommending a vegetable diet. I determined to go into it. My brother, being yet unmarried, did not keep house, but boarded himself and his apprentices in another family. My refusing to eat flesh occasioned an inconveniency, and I was frequently chid for my singularity. I made myself acquainted with Tryon's manner of preparing some of his dishes, such as boiling potatoes or rice, making hasty pudding, and a few others, and then proposed to my brother, that if he would give me, weekly, half the money he paid for my board, I would board myself. He instantly agreed to it, and I presently found that I could save half what he paid me. This was an additional fund for buying books. But I had another advantage in it. My brother and the rest going from the printing-house to their meals, I remained there alone, and, dispatching presently my light repast, which often was no more than a biscuit or a slice of bread, a handful of raisins or a tart from the pastry-cook's, and a glass of water, had the rest of the time till their return for study, in which I made the greater progress, from that greater clearness of head and quicker apprehension which usually attend temperance in eating and drinking.

And now it was that, being on some occasion made ashamed of my ignorance in figures, which I had twice failed in learning when at school, I took Cocker's book of arithmetic, and went through the whole by myself with great ease. I also read Seller's and Shermy's books of navigation, and became acquainted with the little geometry they contain; but never proceeded far in that science. And I read about this time Locke _On Human Understanding_, and the _Art of Thinking_, by Messrs. du Port Royal.

While I was intent on improving my language, I met with an English grammar (I think it was Greenwood's), at the end of which there were two little sketches of the arts of rhetoric and logic, the latter finishing with a specimen of a dispute in the Socratic method; and soon after I procured Xenophon's _Memorable Things of Socrates_, wherein there are many instances of the same method. I was charmed with it, adopted it, dropped my abrupt contradiction and positive argumentation, and put on the humble inquirer and doubter. And being then, from reading Shaftesbury and Collins, become a real doubter in many points of our religious doctrine, I found this method safest for myself and very embarrassing to those against whom I used it; therefore I took a delight in it, practiced it continually, and grew very artful and expert in drawing people, even of superior knowledge, into concessions, the consequences of which they did not foresee, entangling them in difficulties out of which they could not extricate themselves, and so obtaining victories that neither myself nor my cause always deserved. I continued this method some few years, but gradually left it, retaining only the habit of expressing myself in terms of modest diffidence; never using, when I advanced any thing that may possibly be disputed, the words _certainly_, _undoubtedly_, or any others that give the air of positiveness to an opinion; but rather say, I conceive or apprehend a thing to be so and so; it appears to me, or _I should think it so or so_, for such and such reasons; or _I imagine it to be so_; or _it is so, if I am not mistaken_. This habit, I believe, has been of great advantage to me when I have had occasion to inculcate my opinion, and persuade men into measures that I have been from time to time engaged in promoting; and, as the chief ends of conversation are to _inform_ or to be _informed_, to _please_ or to _persuade_, I wish well-meaning, sensible men would not lessen their power of doing good by a positive, assuming manner, that seldom fails to disgust, tends to create opposition, and to defeat every one of those purposes for which speech was given to us, to wit, giving or receiving information or pleasure. For, if you would inform, a positive and dogmatical manner in advancing your sentiments may provoke contradiction and prevent a candid attention. If you wish information and improvement from the knowledge of others, and yet at the same time express yourself as firmly fixed in your present opinions, modest, sensible men, who do not love disputation, will probably leave you undisturbed in the possession of your error. And by such a manner, you can seldom hope to recommend yourself in _pleasing_ your hearers, or to persuade those whose concurrence you desire. Pope says, judiciously:

"Men should be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown propos'd as things forgot";

farther recommending to us

"To speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence."

And he might have coupled with this line that which he has coupled with another, I think, less properly:

"For want of modesty is want of sense."

If you ask, Why less properly? I must repeat the lines:

"Immodest words admit of no defense, For want of modesty is want of sense."

Now, is not _want of sense_ (where a man is so unfortunate as to want it) some apology for his _want of modesty_? and would not the lines stand more justly thus?

"Immodest words admit _but_ this defense, That want of modesty is want of sense."

This, however, I should submit to better judgments.

My brother had, in 1720 or 1721, begun to print a newspaper. It was the second that appeared in America, and was called the _New England Courant_. The only one before it was the _Boston News-Letter_. I remember his being dissuaded by some of his friends from the undertaking, as not likely to succeed, one newspaper being, in their judgment, enough for America. At this time (1771) there are not less than five-and-twenty. He went on, however, with the undertaking, and after having worked in composing the types and printing off the sheets, I was employed to carry the papers through the streets to the customers.

He had some ingenious men among his friends, who amused themselves by writing little pieces for this paper, which gained it credit and made it more in demand, and these gentlemen often visited us. Hearing their conversations, and their accounts of the approbation their papers were received with, I was excited to try my hand among them; but, being still a boy, and suspecting that my brother would object to printing any thing of mine in his paper if he knew it to be mine, I contrived to disguise my hand, and, writing an anonymous paper, I put it in at night under the door of the printing-house. It was found in the morning, and communicated to his writing friends when they called in as usual. They read it, commented on it in my hearing, and I had the exquisite pleasure of finding it met with their approbation, and that, in their different guesses at the author, none were named but men of some character among us for learning and ingenuity. I suppose now that I was rather lucky in my judges and that perhaps they were not really so very good ones as I then esteemed them.

* * * * *

I then thought of going to New York, as the nearest place where there was a printer; and I was rather inclined to leave Boston when I reflected that I had already made myself a little obnoxious to the governing party, and, from the arbitrary proceedings of the Assembly in my brother's case, it was likely I might, if I stayed, soon bring myself into scrapes; and farther, that my indiscrete disputations about religion began to make me pointed at with horror by good people as an infidel or atheist. I determined on the point, but my father now siding with my brother, I was sensible that, if I attempted to go openly, means would be used to prevent me. My friend Collins, therefore, undertook to manage a little for me. He agreed with the captain of a New York sloop for my passage, under the notion of my being a young acquaintance of his, that had got into trouble, and therefore could not appear or come away publicly. So I sold some of my books to raise a little money, was taken on board privately, and as we had a fair wind, in three days I found myself in New York, near 300 miles from home, a boy of but 17, without the least recommendation to, or knowledge of any person in the place, and with very little money in my pocket.

My inclinations for the sea were by this time worn out, or I might now have gratified them. But, having a trade, and supposing myself a pretty good workman, I offered my service to the printer in the place, old Mr. William Bradford, who had been the first printer in Pennsylvania, but removed from thence upon the quarrel of George Keith. He could give me no employment, having little to do, and help enough already; but says he, "My son at Philadelphia has lately lost his principal hand, Aquila Rose, by death; if you go thither, I believe he may employ you." Philadelphia was a hundred miles further; I set out, however, in a boat for Amboy, leaving my chest and things to follow me round by sea.

In crossing the bay, we met with a squall that tore our rotten sails to pieces, prevented our getting into the Kill, and drove us upon Long Island. On our way, a drunken Dutchman, who was a passenger too, fell overboard; when he was sinking, I reached through the water to his shock pate, and drew him up, so that we got him in again. His ducking sobered him a little, and he went to sleep, taking first out of his pocket a book, which he desired I would dry for him. It proved to be my old favorite author, Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_, in Dutch, finely printed on good paper, with copper cuts, a dress better than I had ever seen it wear in its own language. I have since found that it has been translated into most of the languages of Europe, and suppose it has been more generally read than any other book, except perhaps the Bible. Honest John was the first that I know of who mixed narration and dialogue; a method of writing very engaging to the reader, who in the most interesting parts finds himself, as it were, brought into the company and present at the discourse. De Foe in his _Crusoe_, his _Moll Flanders_, _Religious Courtship_, _Family Instructor_, and other pieces, has imitated it with success; and Richardson has done the same in his _Pamela_, etc.

When we drew near the island, we found it was at a place where there could be no landing, there being a great surf on the stony beach. So we dropped anchor, and swung around towards the shore. Some people came down to the water edge and hallooed to us, as we did to them; but the wind was so high, and the surf so loud, that we could not hear so as to understand each other. There were canoes on the shore, and we made signs, and hallooed that they should fetch us; but they either did not understand us, or thought it impracticable, so they went away, and night coming on, we had no remedy but to wait till the wind should abate; and, in the meantime, the boatman and I concluded to sleep, if we could; and so crowded into the scuttle, with the Dutchman, who was still wet, and the spray beating over the head of our boat, leaked through to us, so that we were soon almost as wet as he. In this manner we lay all night, with very little rest; but, the wind abating the next day, we made a shift to reach Amboy before night, having been thirty hours on the water, without victuals, or any drink but a bottle of filthy rum, the water we sailed on being salt.

In the evening I found myself very feverish, and went in to bed; but, having read somewhere that cold water drunk plentifully was good for a fever, I followed the prescription, sweat plentifully most of the night, my fever left me, and in the morning, crossing the ferry, I proceeded on my journey on foot, having fifty miles to Burlington, where I was told I should find boats that would carry me the rest of the way to Philadelphia.

It rained very hard all the day; I was thoroughly soaked, and by noon a good deal tired; so I stopped at a poor inn, where I stayed all night, beginning now to wish that I had never left home. I cut so miserable a figure, too, that I found, by the questions asked me, I was suspected to be some runaway servant, and in danger of being taken up on that suspicion. However, I proceeded the next day, and got in the evening to an inn, within eight or ten miles of Burlington, kept by one Dr. Brown. He entered into conversation with me while I took some refreshment, and, finding I had read a little, became very sociable and friendly. Our acquaintance continued as long as he lived. He had been, I imagine, an itinerant doctor, for there was no town in England, or country in Europe, of which he could not give a very particular account. He had some letters, and was ingenious, but much of an unbeliever, and wickedly undertook, some years after, to travesty the Bible in doggerel verse, as Cotton had done Virgil. By this means he set many of the facts in a very ridiculous light, and might have hurt weak minds if his work had been published; but it never was.

At his house I lay that night, and the next morning reached Burlington, but had the mortification to find that the regular boats were gone a little before my coming, and no other expected to go before Tuesday, this being Saturday; wherefore I returned to an old woman in the town, of whom I had bought gingerbread to eat on the water, and asked her advice. She invited me to lodge at her house till a passage by water should offer; and being tired with my foot traveling, I accepted the invitation. She understanding I was a printer, would have had me stay at that town and follow my business, being ignorant of the stock necessary to begin with. She was very hospitable, gave me a dinner of ox-cheek with great good will, accepting only of a pot of ale in return; and I thought myself fixed till Tuesday should come. However, walking in the evening by the side of the river, a boat came by, which I found was going towards Philadelphia, with several people in her. They took me in, and, as there was no wind, we rowed all the way; and about midnight, not having yet seen the city, some of the company were confident we must have passed it, and would row no farther; the others knew not where we were; so we put toward the shore, got into a creek, landed near an old fence, with the rails of which we made a fire, the night being cold, in October, and there we remained till daylight. Then one of the company knew the place to be Cooper's Creek, a little above Philadelphia, which we saw as soon as we got out of the creek, and arrived there about eight or nine o'clock on the Sunday morning, and landed at the Market Street wharf.

I have been the more particular in this description of my journey, and shall be so of my first entry into that city, that you may in your mind compare such unlikely beginnings with the figure I have since made there. I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to come round by sea. I was dirty from my journey; my pockets were stuffed out with shirts and stockings, and I knew no soul nor where to look for lodging. I was fatigued with traveling, rowing, and want of rest; I was very hungry; and my whole stock of cash consisted of a Dutch dollar and about a shilling in copper. The latter I gave the people of the boat for my passage, who at first refused it, on account of my rowing; but I insisted on their taking it. A man being sometimes more generous when he has but a little money than when he has plenty, perhaps through fear of being thought to have but little.

Then I walked up the street, gazing about till near the market-house I met a boy with bread. I had made many a meal on bread, and, inquiring where he got it, I went immediately to the baker's he directed me to, in Second Street, and asked for biscuit, intending such as we had in Boston; but they, it seems, were not made in Philadelphia. Then I asked for a three-penny loaf, and was told they had none such. So not considering or knowing the difference of money, and the greater cheapness nor the names of his bread, I bade him give me three-penny worth of any sort. He gave me, accordingly, three great puffy rolls. I was surprised at the quantity, but took it, and, having no room in my pockets, walked off with a roll under each arm, and eating the other. Thus I went up Market Street as far as Fourth Street, passing by the door of Mr. Read, my future wife's father; when she, standing at the door, saw me, and thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward, ridiculous appearance. Then I turned and went down Chestnut Street and part of Walnut Street, eating my roll all the way, and, coming round, found myself again at Market Street wharf, near the boat I came in, to which I went for a draught of the river water; and, being filled with one of my rolls, gave the other two to a woman and her child that came down the river in the boat with us, and were waiting to go farther.

Thus refreshed, I walked again up the street, which by this time had many clean-dressed people in it, who were all walking the same way. I joined them, and thereby was led into the great meeting-house of the Quakers near the market. I sat down among them, and, after looking round awhile and hearing nothing said, being very drowsy through labor and want of rest the preceding night, I fell fast asleep, and continued so till the meeting broke up, when one was kind enough to rouse me. This was, therefore, the first house I was in, or slept in, in Philadelphia.

Walking down again toward the river, and, looking in the faces of people, I met a young Quaker man, whose countenance I liked, and, accosting him, requested he would tell me where a stranger could get lodging. We were then near the sign of the Three Mariners. "Here," says he, "is one place that entertains strangers, but it is not a reputable house; if thee wilt walk with me I'll show thee a better." He brought me to the Crooked Billet, in Water Street. Here I got a dinner; and, while I was eating it, several sly questions were asked me, as it seemed to be suspected from my youth and appearance that I might be some runaway.

After dinner my sleepiness returned, and being shown to a bed, I lay down without undressing, and slept till six in the evening, was called to supper, went to bed again very early, and slept soundly till next morning. Then I made myself as tidy as I could, and went to Andrew Bradford the printer's. I found in the shop the old man his father, whom I had seen at New York, and who, traveling on horseback, had got to Philadelphia before me. He introduced me to his son, who received me civilly, gave me a breakfast, but told me he did not at present want a hand, being lately supplied with one; but there was another printer in town, lately set up, one Keimer, who, perhaps, might employ me; if not, I should be welcome to lodge at his house, and he would give me a little work to do now and then till fuller business should offer.

The old gentleman said he would go with me to the new printer; and when we found him, "Neighbor," says Bradford, "I have brought to see you a young man of your business; perhaps you may want such a one." He asked me a few questions, put a composing stick in my hand to see how I worked, and then said he would employ me soon, though he had just then nothing for me to do; and, taking old Bradford, whom he had never seen before, to be one of the townspeople that had a good will for him, entered into a conversation on his present undertaking and prospects; while Bradford, not discovering that he was the other printer's father, on Keimer's saying he expected soon to get the greatest part of the business into his own hands, drew him on by artful questions, and starting little doubts, to explain all his views, what interest he relied on, and in what manner he intended to proceed. I, who stood by and heard all, saw immediately that one of them was a crafty old sophister, and the other a mere novice. Bradford left me with Keimer, who was greatly surprised when I told him who the old man was.

Keimer's printing-house, I found, consisted of an old shattered press and one small, worn-out font of English, which he was then using himself, composing an Elegy on Aquila Rose, before mentioned, an ingenious young man, of excellent character, much respected in the town, clerk of the Assembly, and a pretty poet. Keimer made verses too, but very indifferently. He could not be said to write them, for his manner was to compose them in the types directly out of his head. So there being no copy, but one pair of cases, and the Elegy likely to require all the letters, no one could help him. I endeavored to put his press (which he had not yet used and of which he understood nothing) into order fit to be worked with; and, promising to come and print off his Elegy as soon as he should have got it ready, I returned to Bradford's, who gave me a little job to do for the present, and there I lodged and dieted. A few days after, Keimer sent for me to print off the Elegy. And now he had got another pair of cases, and a pamphlet to reprint, on which he set me to work.

These two printers I found poorly qualified for their business. Bradford had not been bred to it, and was very illiterate; and Keimer, though something of a scholar, was a mere compositor, knowing nothing of presswork. He had been one of the French prophets, and could act their enthusiastic agitations. At this time he did not profess any particular religion, but something of all on occasion; was very ignorant of the world, and had, as I afterward found, a good deal of the knave in his composition. He did not like my lodging at Bradford's while I worked with him. He had a house, indeed, but without furniture, so he could not lodge me; but he got me a lodging at Mr. Read's, before mentioned, who was the owner of his house; and, my chest and clothes being come by this time, I made rather a more respectable appearance in the eyes of Miss Read than I had done when she first happened to see me eating my roll in the street.

418

Of the numerous biographies of Abraham Lincoln, none seems better suited for use in the grades than _The Boy's Life of Abraham Lincoln_, by Helen Nicolay (1866--), from which the next selection was taken. John George Nicolay, father of Helen Nicolay, was private secretary to Abraham Lincoln from 1860 to 1865, and later he wrote an excellent biography of Lincoln. (The following selection is used by permission of the Century Company, New York.)

LINCOLN'S EARLY DAYS

HELEN NICOLAY

The story of this wonderful man begins and ends with a tragedy, for his grandfather, also named Abraham, was killed by a shot from an Indian's rifle while peaceably at work with his three sons on the edge of their frontier clearing. Eighty-one years later the President himself met death by an assassin's bullet. The murderer of one was a savage of the forest; the murderer of the other that far more cruel thing, a savage of civilization.

When the Indian's shot laid the pioneer farmer low, his second son, Josiah, ran to a neighboring fort for help, and Mordecai, the eldest, hurried to the cabin for his rifle. Thomas, a child of six years, was left alone beside the dead body of his father; and as Mordecai snatched the gun from its resting-place over the door of the cabin, he saw, to his horror, an Indian in his war-paint, just stooping to seize the child. Taking quick aim at a medal on the breast of the savage, he fired, and the Indian fell dead. The little boy, thus released, ran to the house, where Mordecai, firing through the loopholes, kept the Indians at bay until help arrived from the fort.

It was this child Thomas who grew up to be the father of President Abraham Lincoln. After the murder of his father the fortunes of the little family grew rapidly worse, and doubtless because of poverty, as well as by reason of the marriage of his older brothers and sisters, their home was broken up, and Thomas found himself, long before he was grown, a wandering laboring boy. He lived for a time with an uncle as his hired servant, and later he learned the trade of carpenter. He grew to manhood entirely without education, and when he was twenty-eight years old could neither read nor write. At that time he married Nancy Hanks, a good-looking young woman of twenty-three, as poor as himself, but so much better off as to learning that she was able to teach her husband to sign his own name. Neither of them had any money, but living cost little on the frontier in those days, and they felt that his trade would suffice to earn all that they should need. Thomas took his bride to a tiny house in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where they lived for about a year, and where a daughter was born to them.

Then they moved to a small farm thirteen miles from Elizabethtown, which they bought on credit, the country being yet so new that there were places to be had for mere promises to pay. Farms obtained on such terms were usually of very poor quality, and this one of Thomas Lincoln's was no exception to the rule. A cabin ready to be occupied stood on it, however; and not far away, hidden in a pretty clump of trees and bushes, was a fine spring of water, because of which the place was known as Rock Spring Farm. In the cabin on this farm the future President of the United States was born on February 12, 1809, and here the first four years of his life were spent. Then the Lincolns moved to a much bigger and better farm on Knob Creek, six miles from Hodgensville, which Thomas Lincoln bought, again on credit, selling the larger part of it soon afterward to another purchaser. Here they remained until Abraham was seven years old.

About this early part of his childhood almost nothing is known. He never talked of these days, even to his most intimate friends. To the pioneer child a farm offered much that a town lot could not give him--space; woods to roam in; Knob Creek with its running water and its deep, quiet pools for a playfellow; berries to be hunted for in summer and nuts in autumn; while all the year round birds and small animals pattered across his path to people the solitude in place of human companions. The boy had few comrades. He wandered about playing his lonesome little games, and, when these were finished, returned to the small and cheerless cabin. Once, when asked what he remembered about the War of 1812 with Great Britain, he replied: "Only this: I had been fishing one day and had caught a little fish, which I was taking home. I met a soldier in the road, and having always been told at home that we must be good to soldiers, I gave him my fish." It is only a glimpse into his life, but it shows the solitary, generous child, and the patriotic household.

It was while living on this farm that Abraham and his sister Sarah first began going to A-B-C schools. Their earliest teacher was Zachariah Riney, who taught near the Lincoln cabin; the next was Caleb Hazel, four miles away.

In spite of the tragedy that darkened his childhood, Thomas Lincoln seems to have been a cheery, indolent, good-natured man. By means of a little farming and occasional jobs at his trade, he managed to supply his family with the absolutely necessary food and shelter, but he never got on in the world. He found it much easier to gossip with his friends, or to dream about rich new lands in the West, than to make a thrifty living in the place where he happened to be. The blood of the pioneer was in his veins too--the desire to move westward; and hearing glowing accounts of the new territory of Indiana, he resolved to go and see it for himself. His skill as a carpenter made this not only possible but reasonably cheap, and in the fall of 1816 he built himself a little flatboat, launched it half a mile from his cabin, at the mouth of Knob Creek on the waters of the Rolling Fork, and floated on it down that stream to Salt River, down Salt River to the Ohio, and down the Ohio to a landing called Thompson's Ferry on the Indiana shore.

Sixteen miles out from the river, near a small stream known as Pigeon Creek, he found a spot in the forest that suited him; and as his boat could not be made to float upstream, he sold it, stored his goods with an obliging settler, and trudged back to Kentucky, all the way on foot, to fetch his wife and children--Sarah, who was now nine years old, and Abraham, seven. This time the journey to Indiana was made with two horses, used by the mother and children for riding, and to carry their little camping outfit for the night. The distance from their old home was, in a straight line, little more than fifty miles, but they had to go double that distance because of the very few roads it was possible to follow.

Reaching the Ohio River and crossing to the Indiana shore, Thomas Lincoln hired a wagon which carried his family and their belongings the remaining sixteen miles through the forest to the spot he had chosen--a piece of heavily wooded land, one and a half miles east of what has since become the village of Gentryville in Spencer County. The lateness of the autumn made it necessary to put up a shelter as quickly as possible, and he built what was known on the frontier as a half-faced camp, about fourteen feet square. This differed from a cabin in that it was closed on only three sides, being quite open to the weather on the fourth. A fire was usually made in front of the open side, and thus the necessity for having a chimney was done away with. Thomas Lincoln doubtless intended this only for a temporary shelter, and as such it would have done well enough in pleasant summer weather; but it was a rude provision against the storms and winds of an Indiana winter. It shows his want of energy that the family remained housed in this poor camp for nearly a whole year; but, after all, he must not be too hastily blamed. He was far from idle. A cabin was doubtless begun, and there was the very heavy work of clearing away the timber--cutting down large trees, chopping them into suitable lengths, and rolling them together into great heaps to be burned, or of splitting them into rails to fence the small field upon which he managed to raise a patch of corn and other things during the following summer.

Though only seven years old, Abraham was unusually large and strong for his age, and he helped his father in all this heavy labor of clearing the farm. In after years, Mr. Lincoln said that an ax "was put into his hands at once, and from that till within his twenty-third year he was almost constantly handling that most useful instrument--less, of course, in ploughing and harvesting seasons." At first the Lincolns and their seven or eight neighbors lived in the unbroken forest. They had only the tools and household goods they brought with them, or such things as they could fashion with their own hands. There was no sawmill to saw lumber. The village of Gentryville was not even begun. Breadstuff could be had only by sending young Abraham seven miles on horseback with a bag of corn to be ground in a hand grist-mill.

About the time the new cabin was ready relatives and friends followed from Kentucky, and some of these in turn occupied the half-faced camp. During the autumn a severe and mysterious sickness broke out in their little settlement, and a number of people died, among them the mother of young Abraham. There was no help to be had beyond what the neighbors could give each other. The nearest doctor lived fully thirty miles away. There was not even a minister to conduct the funerals. Thomas Lincoln made the coffins for the dead out of green lumber cut from the forest trees with a whip-saw, and they were laid to rest in a clearing in the woods. Months afterward, largely through the efforts of the sorrowing boy, a preacher who chanced to come that way was induced to hold a service and preach a sermon over the grave of Mrs. Lincoln.

Her death was indeed a serious blow to her husband and children. Abraham's sister, Sarah, was only eleven years old, and the tasks and cares of the little household were altogether too heavy for her years and experience. Nevertheless they struggled bravely through the winter and following summer; then in the autumn of 1819 Thomas Lincoln went back to Kentucky and married Sarah Bush Johnston, whom he had known, and it is said courted, when she was only Sally Bush. She had married about the time Lincoln married Nancy Hanks, and her husband had died, leaving her with three children. She came of a better station in life than Thomas, and was a woman with an excellent mind as well as a warm and generous heart. The household goods that she brought with her to the Lincoln home filled a four-horse wagon, and not only were her own children well clothed and cared for, but she was able at once to provide little Abraham and Sarah with comforts to which they had been strangers during the whole of their young lives. Under her wise management all jealousy was avoided between the two sets of children; urged on by her stirring example, Thomas Lincoln supplied the yet unfinished cabin with floor, door, and windows, and life became more comfortable for all its inmates, contentment if not happiness reigning in the little home.

The new stepmother quickly became very fond of Abraham, and encouraged him in every way in her power to study and improve himself. The chances for this were few enough. Mr. Lincoln has left us a vivid picture of the situation. "It was," he once wrote, "a wild region, with many bears and other wild animals still in the woods. There I grew up. There were some schools, so-called, but no qualification was ever required of a teacher beyond readin', writin', and cipherin' to the Rule of Three. If a straggler supposed to understand Latin happened to sojourn in the neighborhood, he was looked upon as a wizard."

The school-house was a low cabin of round logs, with split logs or "puncheons" for a floor, split logs roughly leveled with an ax and set up on legs for benches, and holes cut out in the logs and the space filled in with squares of greased paper for window-panes. The main light came in through the open door. Very often Webster's "Elementary Spelling-book" was the only text-book. This was the kind of school most common in the Middle West during Mr. Lincoln's boyhood, though already in some places there were schools of a more pretentious character. Indeed, back in Kentucky, at the very time that Abraham, a child of six, was learning his letters from Zachariah Riney, a boy only a year older was attending a Catholic seminary in the very next county. It is doubtful if they ever met, but the destinies of the two were strangely interwoven, for the older boy was Jefferson Davis, who became head of the Confederate government shortly after Lincoln was elected President of the United States.

As Abraham was only seven years old when he left Kentucky, the little beginnings he learned in the schools kept by Riney and Hazel in that state must have been very slight, probably only his alphabet, or at most only three or four pages of Webster's "Elementary Spelling-book." The multiplication-table was still a mystery to him, and he could read or write only the words he spelled. His first two years in Indiana seem to have passed without schooling of any sort, and the school he attended shortly after coming under the care of his stepmother was of the simplest kind, for the Pigeon Creek settlement numbered only eight or ten poor families, and they lived deep in the forest, where, even if they had had the money for such luxuries, it would have been impossible to buy books, slates, pens, ink, or paper. It is worthy of note, however, that in our western country, even under such difficulties, a school-house was one of the first buildings to rise in every frontier settlement. Abraham's second school in Indiana was held when he was fourteen years old, and the third in his seventeenth year. By that time he had more books and better teachers, but he had to walk four or five miles to reach them. We know that he learned to write, and was provided with pen, ink, and a copy-book, and a very small supply of writing paper, for copies have been printed of several scraps on which he carefully wrote down tables of long measure, land measure, and dry measure, as well as examples in multiplication and compound division, from his arithmetic. He was never able to go to school again after this time, and though the instruction he received from his five teachers--two in Kentucky and three in Indiana--extended over a period of nine years, it must be remembered that it made up in all less than one twelvemonth; "that the aggregate of all his schooling did not amount to one year."

The fact that he received this instruction, as he himself said, "by littles," was doubtless an advantage. A lazy or indifferent boy would of course have forgotten what was taught him at one time before he had opportunity at another; but Abraham was neither indifferent nor lazy, and these widely separated fragments of instruction were precious steps to self-help. He pursued his studies with very unusual purpose and determination not only to understand them at the moment, but to fix them firmly in his mind. His early companions all agree that he employed every spare moment in keeping on with some one of his studies. His stepmother tells us that "When he came across a passage that struck him, he would write it down on boards if he had no paper, and keep it there until he did get paper. Then he would rewrite it, look at it, repeat it. He had a copy-book, a kind of scrap-book, in which he put down all things, and thus preserved them." He spent long evenings doing sums on the fire-shovel. Iron fire-shovels were a rarity among pioneers. Instead they used a broad, thin clapboard with one end narrowed to a handle, arranging with this the piles of coals upon the hearth, over which they set their "skillet" and "oven" to do their cooking. It was on such a wooden shovel that Abraham worked his sums by the flickering firelight, making his figures with a piece of charcoal, and, when the shovel was all covered, taking a drawing-knife and shaving it off clean again.

The hours that he was able to devote to his penmanship, his reading, and his arithmetic were by no means many; for, save for the short time that he was actually in school, he was, during all these years, laboring hard on his father's farm, or hiring his youthful strength to neighbors who had need of help in the work of field or forest. In pursuit of his knowledge he was on an up-hill path; yet in spite of all obstacles he worked his way to so much of an education as placed him far ahead of his schoolmates and quickly abreast of his various teachers. He borrowed every book in the neighborhood. The list is a short one: "Robinson Crusoe," "Aesop's Fables," Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," Weems's "Life of Washington," and a "History of the United States." When everything else had been read, he resolutely began on the "Revised Statutes of Indiana," which Dave Turnham, the constable, had in daily use, but permitted him to come to his house and read.

Though so fond of his books, it must not be supposed that he cared only for work and serious study. He was a social, sunny-tempered lad, as fond of jokes and fun as he was kindly and industrious. His stepmother said of him: "I can say, what scarcely one mother in a thousand can say, Abe never gave me a cross word or look, and never refused . . . to do anything I asked him . . . I must say . . . that Abe was the best boy I ever saw or expect to see."

He and John Johnston, his stepmother's son, and John Hanks, a relative of his own mother's, worked barefoot together in the fields, grubbing, plowing, hoeing, gathering and shucking corn, and taking part, when occasion offered, in the practical jokes and athletic exercises that enlivened the hard work of the pioneers. For both work and play Abraham had one great advantage. He was not only a tall, strong country boy; he soon grew to be a tall, strong, sinewy man. He early reached the unusual height of six feet four inches, and his long arms gave him a degree of power as an axman that few were able to rival. He therefore usually led his fellows in efforts of muscle as well as of mind. That he could outrun, outlift, outwrestle his boyish companions, that he could chop faster, split more rails in a day, carry a heavier log at a "raising," or excel the neighborhood champion in any feat of frontier athletics, was doubtless a matter of pride with him; but stronger than all else was his eager craving for knowledge. He felt instinctively that the power of using the mind rather than the muscles was the key to success. He wished not only to wrestle with the best of them, but to be able to talk like the preacher, spell and cipher like the school-master, argue like the lawyer, and write like the editor. Yet he was as far as possible from being a prig. He was helpful, sympathetic, cheerful. In all the neighborhood gatherings, when settlers of various ages came together at corn-huskings or house-raisings, or when mere chance brought half a dozen of them at the same time to the post-office or the country store, he was able, according to his years, to add his full share to the gaiety of the company. By reason of his reading and his excellent memory, he soon became the best story-teller among his companions; and even the slight training gained from his studies greatly broadened and strengthened the strong reasoning faculty with which he had been gifted by nature. His wit might be mischievous, but it was never malicious, and his nonsense was never intended to wound or to hurt the feelings. It is told of him that he added to his fund of jokes and stories humorous imitations of the sermons of eccentric preachers.

Very likely too much is made of all these boyish pranks. He grew up very like his fellows. In only one particular did he differ greatly from the frontier boys around him. He never took any pleasure in hunting. Almost every youth of the backwoods early became an excellent shot and a confirmed sportsman. The woods still swarmed with game, and every cabin depended largely upon this for its supply of food. But to his strength was added a gentleness which made him shrink from killing or inflicting pain, and the time the other boys gave to lying in ambush, he preferred to spend in reading or in efforts at improving his mind.

Only twice during his life in Indiana was the routine of his employment changed. When he was about sixteen years old he worked for a time for a man who lived at the mouth of Anderson's Creek, and here part of his duty was to manage a ferry-boat which carried passengers across the Ohio River. It was very likely this experience which, three years later, brought him another. Mr. Gentry, the chief man of the village of Gentryville that had grown up a mile or so from his father's cabin, loaded a flatboat on the Ohio River with the produce his store had collected--corn, flour, pork, bacon, and other miscellaneous provisions--and putting it in charge of his son Allen Gentry and of Abraham Lincoln, sent them with it down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, to sell its cargo at the plantations of the lower Mississippi, where sugar and cotton were the principal crops, and where other food supplies were needed to feed the slaves. No better proof is needed of the reputation for strength, skill, honesty, and intelligence that this tall country boy had already won for himself, than that he was chosen to navigate the flatboat a thousand miles to the "sugar-coast" of the Mississippi River, sell its load, and bring back the money. Allen Gentry was supposed to be in command, but from the record of his after life we may be sure that Abraham did his full share both of work and management. The elder Gentry paid Lincoln eight dollars a month and his passage home on a steamboat for this service. The voyage was made successfully, although not without adventure; for one night, after the boat was tied up to the shore, the boys were attacked by seven negroes, who came aboard intending to kill and rob him. There was a lively scrimmage, in which, though slightly hurt, they managed to beat off their assailants, and then, hastily cutting their boat adrift, swung out on the stream. The marauding band little dreamed that they were attacking the man who in after years was to give their race its freedom; and though the future was equally hidden from Abraham, it is hard to estimate the vistas of hope and ambition that this long journey opened to him. It was his first look into the wide, wide world.

419

Anna Howard Shaw (1847-1919) was national lecturer for the National American Woman Suffrage Association from 1886 to 1904, and was president of that association from 1904 to 1915. She was known as a lecturer rather than as an author, but her autobiography, entitled _The Story of a Pioneer_, is a charming book that will help us realize some of the tragedy and humor of pioneer days and some of the difficulties that had to be overcome by a woman who was determined to follow a career practically closed to women. (The selection below is from the early part of _The Story of a Pioneer_, and is used here by permission of the publishers, Harper & Brothers, New York.)

IN THE WESTERN WILDERNESS

ANNA HOWARD SHAW

My father was one of a number of Englishmen who took up tracts in the northern forests of Michigan, with the old dream of establishing a colony there. None of these men had the least practical knowledge of farming. They were city men or followers of trades which had no connection with farm life. They went straight into the thick timber-land, instead of going to the rich and waiting prairies, and they crowned this initial mistake by cutting down the splendid timber instead of letting it stand. Thus bird's-eye maple and other beautiful woods were used as fire-wood and in the construction of rude cabins, and the greatest asset of the pioneer was ignored.

Father preceded us to the Michigan woods, and there, with his oldest son, James, took up a claim. They cleared a space in the wilderness just large enough for a log cabin, and put up the bare walls of the cabin itself. Then father returned to Lawrence and his work, leaving James behind. A few months later (this was in 1859), my mother, my two sisters, Eleanor and Mary, my youngest brother, Henry, eight years of age, and I, then twelve, went to Michigan to work on and hold down the claim while father, for eighteen months longer, stayed on in Lawrence, sending us such remittances as he could. His second and third sons, John and Thomas, remained in the East with him.

Every detail of our journey through the wilderness is clear in my mind. At that time the railroad terminated at Grand Rapids, Michigan, and we covered the remaining distance--about one hundred miles--by wagon, riding through a dense and often trackless forest. My brother James met us at Grand Rapids with what, in those days, was called a lumber-wagon, but which had a horrible resemblance to a vehicle from the health department. My sisters and I gave it one cold look and turned from it; we were so pained by its appearance that we refused to ride in it through the town. Instead, we started off on foot, trying to look as if we had no association with it, and we climbed into the unwieldy vehicle only when the city streets were far behind us. Every available inch of space in the wagon was filled with bedding and provisions. As yet we had no furniture; we were to make that for ourselves when we reached our cabin; and there was so little room for us to ride that we children walked by turns, while James, from the beginning of the journey to its end, seven days later, led our weary horses.

To my mother, who was never strong, the whole experience must have been a nightmare of suffering and stoical endurance. For us children there were compensations. The expedition took on the character of a high adventure, in which we sometimes had shelter and sometimes failed to find it, sometimes were fed, but often went hungry. We forded innumerable streams, the wheels of the heavy wagon sinking so deeply into the stream-beds that we often had to empty our load before we could get them out again. Fallen trees lay across our paths, rivers caused long detours, while again and again we lost our way or were turned aside by impenetrable forest tangles.

Our first day's journey covered less than eight miles, and that night we stopped at a farm-house which was the last bit of civilization we saw. Early the next morning we were off again, making the slow progress due to the rough roads and our heavy load. At night we stopped at a place called Thomas's Inn, only to be told by the woman who kept it that there was nothing in the house to eat. Her husband, she said, had gone "outside" (to Grand Rapids) to get some flour, and had not returned--but she added that we could spend the night, if we chose, and enjoy shelter, if not food. We had provisions in our wagon, so we wearily entered, after my brother had got out some of our pork and opened a barrel of flour. With this help the woman made some biscuits, which were so green that my poor mother could not eat them. She had admitted to us that the one thing she had in the house was saleratus, and she had used this ingredient with an unsparing hand. When the meal was eaten she broke the further news that there were no beds.

"The old woman can sleep with me," she suggested, "and the girls can sleep on the floor. The boys will have to go to the barn."

She and her bed were not especially attractive, and mother decided to lie on the floor with us. We had taken our bedding from the wagon, and we slept very well; but though she was usually superior to small annoyances, I think my mother resented being called an "old woman." She must have felt like one that night, but she was only about forty-eight years of age.

At dawn the next morning we resumed our journey, and every day after that we were able to cover the distance demanded by the schedule arranged before we started. This meant that some sort of shelter usually awaited us at night. But one day we knew there would be no houses between the place we left in the morning and that where we were to sleep. The distance was about twenty miles, and when twilight fell we had not made it. In the back of the wagon my mother had a box of little pigs, and during the afternoon these had broken loose and escaped into the woods. We had lost much time in finding them, and we were so exhausted that when we came to a hut made of twigs and boughs we decided to camp in it for the night, though we knew nothing about it. My brother had unharnessed the horses, and my mother and sister were cooking dough-god--a mixture of flour, water, and soda, fried in a pan--when two men rode up on horseback and called my brother to one side. Immediately after the talk which followed James harnessed his horses again and forced us to go on, though by that time darkness had fallen. He told mother, but did not tell us children until long afterward, that a man had been murdered in the hut only the night before. The murderer was still at large in the woods, and the new-comers were members of a posse who were searching for him. My brother needed no urging to put as many miles as he could between us and the sinister spot.

In that fashion we made our way to our new home. The last day, like the first, we traveled only eight miles, but we spent the night in a house I shall never forget. It was beautifully clean, and for our evening meal its mistress brought out loaves of bread which were the largest we had ever seen. She cut great slices of this bread for us and spread maple sugar on them, and it seemed to us that never before had anything tasted so good.

The next morning we made the last stage of our journey, our hearts filled with the joy of nearing our new home. We all had an idea that we were going to a farm, and we expected some resemblance at least to the prosperous farms we had seen in New England. My mother's mental picture was, naturally, of an English farm. Possibly she had visions of red barns and deep meadows, sunny skies and daisies. What we found awaiting us were the four walls and the roof of a good-sized log-house, standing in a small cleared strip of the wilderness, its doors and windows represented by square holes, its floor also a thing of the future, its whole effect achingly forlorn and desolate. It was late in the afternoon when we drove up to the opening that was its front entrance, and I shall never forget the look my mother turned upon the place. Without a word she crossed its threshold, and, standing very still, looked slowly around her. Then something within her seemed to give way, and she sank upon the ground. She could not realize even then, I think, that this was really the place father had prepared for us, that here he expected us to live. When she finally took it in she buried her face in her hands, and in that way she sat for hours without moving or speaking. For the first time in her life she had forgotten us; and we, for our part, dared not speak to her. We stood around her in a frightened group, talking to one another in whispers. Our little world had crumbled under our feet. Never before had we seen our mother give way to despair.

Night began to fall. The woods became alive with night creatures, and the most harmless made the most noise. The owls began to hoot, and soon we heard the wildcat, whose cry--a screech like that of a lost and panic-stricken child--is one of the most appalling sounds of the forest. Later the wolves added their howls to the uproar, but though darkness came and we children whimpered around her, our mother still sat in her strange lethargy.

At last my brother brought the horses close to the cabin and built fires to protect them and us. He was only twenty, but he showed himself a man during those early pioneer days. While he was picketing the horses and building his protecting fires my mother came to herself, but her face when she raised it was worse than her silence had been. She seemed to have died and to have returned to us from the grave, and I am sure she felt that she had done so. From that moment she took up again the burden of her life, a burden she did not lay down until she passed away; but her face never lost the deep lines those first hours of her pioneer life had cut upon it.

That night we slept on boughs spread on the earth inside the cabin walls, and we put blankets before the holes which represented our doors and windows, and kept our watch-fires burning. Soon the other children fell asleep, but there was no sleep for me. I was only twelve years old, but my mind was full of fancies. Behind our blankets, swaying in the night wind, I thought I saw the heads and pushing shoulders of animals and heard their padded footfalls.

We faced our situation with clear and unalarmed eyes the morning after our arrival. The problem of food, we knew, was at least temporarily solved. We had brought with us enough coffee, pork, and flour to last for several weeks; and the one necessity father had put inside the cabin walls was a great fireplace, made of mud and stones, in which our food could be cooked. The problem of our water-supply was less simple, but my brother James solved it for the time by showing us a creek a long distance from the house, and for months we carried from this creek, in pails, every drop of water we used, save that which we caught in troughs when the rain fell.

We held a family council after breakfast, and in this, though I was only twelve, I took an eager and determined part. I loved work--it has always been my favorite form of recreation--and my spirit rose to the opportunities of it which smiled on us from every side. Obviously the first thing to do was to put doors and windows into the yawning holes father had left for them, and to lay a board flooring over the earth inside our cabin walls, and these duties we accomplished before we had occupied our new home a fortnight. There was a small saw-mill nine miles from our cabin, on the spot that is now Big Rapids, and there we bought our lumber. The labor we supplied ourselves, and though we put our hearts into it and the results at the time seemed beautiful to our partial eyes, I am forced to admit, in looking back upon them, that they halted this side of perfection. We began by making three windows and two doors; then, inspired by these achievements, we ambitiously constructed an attic and divided the ground floor with partitions, which gave us four rooms.

The general effect was temperamental and sketchy. The boards which formed the floor were never even nailed down; they were fine, wide planks without a knot in them, and they looked so well that we merely fitted them together as closely as we could and light-heartedly let them go at that. Neither did we properly chink the house. Nothing is more comfortable than a log cabin which has been carefully built and finished; but for some reason--probably because there seemed always a more urgent duty calling to us around the corner--we never plastered our house at all. The result was that on many future winter mornings we awoke to find ourselves chastely blanketed by snow, while the only warm spot in our living-room was that directly in front of the fireplace, where great logs burned all day. Even there our faces scorched while our spines slowly congealed, until we learned to revolve before the fire like a bird upon a spit. No doubt we would have worked more thoroughly if my brother James, who was twenty years old and our tower of strength, had remained with us; but when we had been in our new home only a few months he fell ill and was forced to go East for an operation. He was never able to return to us, and thus my mother, we three young girls, and my youngest brother--Harry, who was only eight years old--made our fight alone until father came to us, more than a year later.

Mother was practically an invalid. She had a nervous affection which made it impossible for her to stand without the support of a chair. But she sewed with unusual skill, and it was due to her that our clothes, notwithstanding the strain to which we subjected them, were always in good condition. She sewed for hours every day, and she was able to move about the house, after a fashion, by pushing herself around on a stool which James made for her as soon as we arrived. He also built for her a more comfortable chair with a high back.

The division of labor planned at the first council was that mother should do our sewing, and my older sisters, Eleanor and Mary, the housework, which was far from taxing, for of course we lived in the simplest manner. My brothers and I were to do the work out of doors, an arrangement that suited me very well, though at first, owing to our lack of experience, our activities were somewhat curtailed. It was too late in the season for plowing or planting, even if we had possessed anything with which to plow, and, moreover, our so-called "cleared" land was thick with sturdy tree-stumps. Even during the second summer plowing was impossible; we could only plant potatoes and corn, and follow the most primitive method in doing even this. We took an ax, chopped up the sod, put the seed under it, and let the seed grow. The seed did grow, too--in the most gratifying and encouraging manner. Our green corn and potatoes were the best I have ever eaten. But for the present we lacked these luxuries.

We had, however, in their place, large quantities of wild fruit--gooseberries, raspberries, and plums--which Harry and I gathered on the banks of our creek. Harry also became an expert fisherman. We had no hooks or lines, but he took wires from our hoop-skirts and made snares at the ends of poles. My part of this work was to stand on a log and frighten the fish out of their holes by making horrible sounds, which I did with impassioned earnestness. When the fish hurried to the surface of the water to investigate the appalling noises they had heard, they were easily snared by our small boy, who was very proud of his ability to contribute in this way to the family table.

During our first winter we lived largely on cornmeal, making a little journey of twenty miles to the nearest mill to buy it; but even at that we were better off than our neighbors, for I remember one family in our region who for an entire winter lived solely on coarse-grained yellow turnips, gratefully changing their diet to leeks when these came in the spring.

Such furniture as we had we made ourselves. In addition to my mother's two chairs and the bunks which took the place of beds, James made a settle for the living-room, as well as a table and several stools. At first we had our tree-cutting done for us, but we soon became expert in this gentle art, and I developed such skill that in later years, after father came, I used to stand with him and "heart" a log.

On every side, and at every hour of the day, we came up against the relentless limitations of pioneer life. There was not a team of horses in our entire region. The team with which my brother had driven us through the wilderness had been hired at Grand Rapids for that occasion, and, of course, immediately returned. Our lumber was delivered by ox-teams, and the absolutely essential purchases we made "outside" (at the nearest shops, forty miles away) were carried through the forest on the backs of men. Our mail was delivered once a month by a carrier who made the journey in alternate stages of horseback riding and canoeing. But we had health, youth, enthusiasm, good appetites, and the wherewithal to satisfy them, and at night in our primitive bunks we sank into abysses of dreamless slumber such as I have never known since. Indeed, looking back upon them, those first months seem to have been a long-drawn-out and glorious picnic, interrupted only by occasional hours of pain or panic, when we were hurt or frightened.

Naturally, our two greatest menaces were wild animals and Indians, but as the days passed the first of these lost the early terrors with which we had associated them. We grew indifferent to the sounds that had made our first night a horror to us all--there was even a certain homeliness in them--while we regarded with accustomed, almost blase eyes the various furred creatures of which we caught distant glimpses as they slunk through the forest. Their experience with other settlers had taught them caution; it soon became clear that they were as eager to avoid us as we were to shun them, and by common consent we gave each other ample elbow-room. But the Indians were all around us, and every settler had a collection of hair-raising tales to tell of them. It was generally agreed that they were dangerous only when they were drunk; but as they were drunk whenever they could get whisky, and as whisky was constantly given them in exchange for pelts and game, there was a harrowing doubt in our minds whenever they approached us.

In my first encounter with them I was alone in the woods at sunset with my small brother Harry. We were hunting a cow James had bought, and our young eyes were peering eagerly among the trees, on the alert for any moving object. Suddenly, at a little distance, coming directly toward us, we saw a party of Indians. There were five of them, all men, walking in single file, as noiselessly as ghosts, their moccasined feet causing not even a rustle among the dry leaves that carpeted the woods. All the horrible stories we had heard of Indian cruelty flashed into our minds, and for a moment we were dumb with terror. Then I remembered having been told that the one thing one must not do before them is to show fear. Harry was carrying a rope with which we had expected to lead home our reluctant cow, and I seized one end of it and whispered to him that we would "play horse," pretending he was driving me. We pranced toward the Indians on feet that felt like lead, and with eyes so glazed by terror that we could see nothing save a line of moving figures; but as we passed them they did not give to our little impersonation of care-free children even the tribute of a side-glance. They were, we realized, headed straight for our home; and after a few moments we doubled on our tracks and, keeping at a safe distance from them among the trees, ran back to warn our mother that they were coming.

As it happened, James was away, and mother had to meet her unwelcome guests supported only by her young children. She at once prepared a meal, however, and when they arrived she welcomed them calmly and gave them the best she had. After they had eaten they began to point at and demand objects they fancied in the room--my brother's pipe, some tobacco, a bowl, and such trifles--and my mother, who was afraid to annoy them by refusal, gave them what they asked. They were quite sober, and though they left without expressing any appreciation of her hospitality, they made her a second visit a few months later, bringing a large quantity of venison and a bag of cranberries as a graceful return. These Indians were Ottawas; and later we became very friendly with them and their tribe, even to the degree of attending one of their dances, which I shall describe later.

Our second encounter with Indians was a less agreeable experience. There were seven "Marquette warriors" in the next group of callers, and they were all intoxicated. Moreover, they had brought with them several jugs of bad whisky--the raw and craze-provoking product supplied them by the fur-dealers--and it was clear that our cabin was to be the scene of an orgy. Fortunately, my brother James was at home on this occasion, and as the evening grew old and the Indians, grouped together around the fire, became more and more irresponsible, he devised a plan for our safety. Our attic was finished, and its sole entrance was by a ladder through a trap-door. At James's whispered command my sister Eleanor slipped up into the attic, and from the back window let down a rope, to which he tied all the weapons we had--his gun and several axes. These Eleanor drew up and concealed in one of the bunks. My brother then directed that as quietly as possible, and at long intervals, one member of the family after another was to slip up the ladder and into the attic, going quite casually, that the Indians might not realize what we were doing. Once there, with the ladder drawn up after us and the trap-door closed, we would be reasonably safe, unless our guests decided to burn the cabin.

The evening seemed endless, and was certainly nerve-racking. The Indians ate everything in the house, and from my seat in a dim corner I watched them while my sisters waited on them. I can still see the tableau they made in the firelit room and hear the unfamiliar accents of their speech as they talked together. Occasionally one of them would pull a hair from his head, seize his scalping-knife, and cut the hair with it--a most unpleasant sight! When either of my sisters approached them some of the Indians would make gestures, as if capturing and scalping her. Through it all, however, the whisky held their close attention, and it was due to this that we succeeded in reaching the attic unobserved, James coming last of all and drawing the ladder after him. Mother and the children were then put to bed; but through that interminable night James and Eleanor lay flat upon the floor, watching through the cracks between the boards the revels of the drunken Indians, which grew wilder with every hour that crawled toward sunrise. There was no knowing when they would miss us or how soon their mood might change. At any moment they might make an attack upon us or set fire to the cabin. By dawn, however, their whisky was all gone, and they were in so deep a stupor that, one after the other, the seven fell from their chairs to the floor, where they sprawled unconscious. When they awoke they left quietly and without trouble of any kind. They seemed a strangely subdued and chastened band; probably they were wretchedly ill after their debauch on the adulterated whisky the traders had given them.

That autumn the Ottawa tribe had a great corn celebration, to which we and the other settlers were invited. James and my older sisters attended it, and I went with them, by my own urgent invitation. It seemed to me that as I was sharing the work and the perils of our new environment, I might as well share its joys; and I finally succeeded in making my family see the logic of this position. The central feature of the festivity was a huge kettle, many feet in circumference, into which the Indians dropped the most extraordinary variety of food we had ever seen combined. Deer heads went into it whole, as well as every kind of meat and vegetable the members of the tribe could procure. We all ate some of this agreeable mixture, and later, with one another, and even with the Indians, we danced gaily to the music of a tom-tom and a drum. The affair was extremely interesting until the whisky entered and did its unpleasant work. When our hosts began to fall over in the dance and slumber where they lay, and when the squaws began to show the same ill effects of their refreshments, we unostentatiously slipped away.

During the winter, life offered us few diversions and many hardships. Our creek froze over, and the water problem became a serious one, which we met with increasing difficulty as the temperature steadily fell. We melted snow and ice, and existed through the frozen months, but with an amount of discomfort which made us unwilling to repeat at least that special phase of our experience. In the spring, therefore, I made a well. Long before this, James had gone, and Harry and I were now the only out-door members of our working-force. Harry was still too small to help with the well; but a young man, who had formed the neighborly habit of riding eighteen miles to call on us, gave me much friendly aid. We located the well with a switch, and when we had dug as far as we could reach with our spades, my assistant descended into the hole and threw the earth up to the edge, from which I in turn removed it. As the well grew deeper we made a halfway shelf, on which I stood, he throwing the earth on the shelf, and I shoveling it up from that point. Later, as he descended still farther into the hole we were making, he shoveled the earth into buckets and passed them up to me, I passing them on to my sister, who was now pressed into service. When the excavation was deep enough we made the wall of slabs of wood, roughly joined together. I recall that well with calm content. It was not a thing of beauty, but it was a thoroughly practical well, and it remained the only one we had during the twelve years the family occupied the cabin.

The second spring after our arrival Harry and I extended our operations by tapping the sugar-bushes, collecting all the sap, and carrying it home in pails slung from our yoke-laden shoulders. Together we made one hundred and fifty pounds of sugar and a barrel of syrup, but here again, as always, we worked in primitive ways. To get the sap we chopped a gash in the tree and drove in a spile. Then we dug out a trough to catch the sap. It was no light task to lift these troughs full of sap and empty the sap into buckets, but we did it successfully, and afterward built fires and boiled it down. By this time we had also cleared some of our ground, and during the spring we were able to plow, dividing the work in a way that seemed fair to us both. These were strenuous occupations for a boy of nine and a girl of thirteen, but, though we were not inordinately good children, we never complained; we found them very satisfactory substitutes for more normal bucolic joys. Inevitably, we had our little tragedies. Our cow died, and for an entire winter we went without milk. Our coffee soon gave out, and as a substitute we made and used a mixture of browned peas and burnt rye. In the winter we were always cold, and the water problem, until we had built our well, was ever with us.

When I was fifteen years old I was offered a situation as school-teacher. By this time the community was growing around us with the rapidity characteristic of these Western settlements, and we had nearer neighbors whose children needed instruction. I passed an examination before a school-board consisting of three nervous and self-conscious men whose certificate I still hold, and I at once began my professional career on the modest salary of two dollars a week and my board. The school was four miles from my home, so I "boarded round" with the families of my pupils, staying two weeks in each place, and often walking from three to six miles a day to and from my little log school-house in every kind of weather. During the first year I had about fourteen pupils, of varying ages, sizes, and temperaments, and there was hardly a book in the schoolroom except those I owned. One little girl, I remembered, read from an almanac, while a second used a hymn-book.

In winter the school-house was heated by a wood-stove to which the teacher had to give close personal attention. I could not depend on my pupils to make the fires or carry in the fuel; and it was often necessary to fetch the wood myself, sometimes for long distances through the forest. Again and again, after miles of walking through winter storms, I reached the school-house with my clothing wet through, and in these soaked garments I taught during the day. In "boarding round" I often found myself in one-room cabins, with bunks at the end and the sole partition a sheet or a blanket, behind which I slept with one or two of the children. It was the custom on these occasions for the man of the house to delicately retire to the barn while we women got to bed, and to disappear again in the morning while we dressed. In some places the meals were so badly cooked that I could not eat them, and often the only food my poor little pupils brought to school for their noonday meal was a piece of bread or a bit of raw pork.

420

Hero stories have a special place in the literature of childhood, and of all such stories none has ever surpassed that of Leonidas and his brave Spartans. The account of that famous event is given from Miss Yonge's _A Book of Golden Deeds_ (1864), which is yet one of the best storehouses of hero stories. It is published in a variety of editions by different publishers, and teachers will find it an excellent source for usable material.

THE PASS OF THERMOPYLAE

CHARLOTTE M. YONGE

_B. C. 430_

There was trembling in Greece. "The Great King," as the Greeks called the chief potentate of the East, whose domains stretched from the Indian Caucasus to the Aegæus, from the Caspian to the Red Sea, was marshaling his forces against the little free states that nestled amid the rocks and gulfs of the Eastern Mediterranean. Already had his might devoured the cherished colonies of the Greeks on the eastern shore of the Archipelago, and every traitor to home institutions found a ready asylum at that despotic court, and tried to revenge his own wrongs by whispering incitements to invasion. "All people, nations, and languages," was the commencement of the decrees of that monarch's court; and it was scarcely a vain boast, for his satraps ruled over subject kingdoms, and among his tributary nations he counted the Chaldean, with his learning and old civilization, the wise and steadfast Jew, the skillful Ph[oe]nician, the learned Egyptian, the wild freebooting Arab of the desert, the dark-skinned Ethiopian, and over all these ruled the keen witted, active native Persian race, the conquerors of all the rest, and led by a chosen band proudly called the Immortal. His many capitals--Babylon the great, Susa, Persepolis, and the like--were names of dreamy splendor to the Greeks, described now and then by Ionians from Asia Minor who had carried their tribute to the King's own feet, or by courtier slaves who had escaped with difficulty from being all too serviceable at the tyrannic court. And the lord of this enormous empire was about to launch his countless host against the little cluster of states, the whole of which together would hardly equal one province of the huge Asiatic realm! Moreover, it was a war not only on the men but on their gods. The Persians were zealous adorers of the sun and of fire, they abhorred the idol-worship of the Greeks, and defiled and plundered every temple that fell in their way. Death and desolation were almost the best that could be looked for at such hands--slavery and torture from cruelly barbarous masters would only too surely be the lot of numbers, should their land fall a prey to the conquerors.

True it was that ten years back the former Great King had sent his best troops to be signally defeated upon the coast of Attica; but the losses at Marathon had but stimulated the Persian lust of conquest, and the new King Xerxes was gathering together such myriads of men as should crush down the Greeks and overrun their country by mere force of numbers.

The muster place was at Sardis, and there Greek spies had seen the multitudes assembling and the state and magnificence of the king's attendants. Envoys had come from him to demand earth and water from each state in Greece, as emblems that land and sea were his, but each state was resolved to be free, and only Thessaly, that which lay first in his path, consented to yield the token of subjugation. A council was held at the Isthmus of Corinth, and attended by deputies from all the states of Greece to consider of the best means of defense. The ships of the enemy would coast round the shores of the Aegean sea, the land army would cross the Hellespont on a bridge of boats lashed together, and march southwards into Greece. The only hope of averting the danger lay in defending such passages as, from the nature of the ground, were so narrow that only a few persons could fight hand to hand at once, so that courage would be of more avail than numbers.

The first of these passes was called Tempe, and a body of troops was sent to guard it; but they found that this was useless and impossible, and came back again. The next was at Thermopylae. Look in your map of the Archipelago, or Aegean Sea, as it was then called, for the great island of Negropont, or by its old name, Eub[oe]a. It looks like a piece broken off from the coast, and to the north is shaped like the head of a bird, with the beak running into a gulf, that would fit over it, upon the main land, and between the island and the coast is an exceedingly narrow strait. The Persian army would have to march round the edge of the gulf. They could not cut straight across the country, because the ridge of mountains called Oeta rose up and barred their way. Indeed, the woods, rocks, and precipices came down so near the sea-shore that in two places there was only room for one single wheel track between the steeps and the impassable morass that formed the border of the gulf on its south side. These two very narrow places were called the gates of the pass, and were about a mile apart. There was a little more width left in the intervening space; but in this there were a number of springs of warm mineral water, salt and sulphurous, which were used for the sick to bathe in, and thus the place was called Thermopylae, or the Hot Gates. A wall had once been built across the westernmost of these narrow places, when the Thessalians and Phocians, who lived on either side of it, had been at war with one another; but it had been allowed to go to decay, since the Phocians had found out that there was a very steep narrow mountain path along the bed of a torrent, by which it was possible to cross from one territory to the other without going round this marshy coast road.

This was, therefore, an excellent place to defend. The Greek ships were all drawn up on the further side of Eub[oe]a to prevent the Persian vessels from getting into the strait and landing men beyond the pass, and a division of the army was sent off to guard the Hot Gates. The council at the Isthmus did not know of the mountain pathway, and thought that all would be safe as long as the Persians were kept out of the coast path.

The troops sent for this purpose were from different cities, and amounted to about 4,000 who were to keep the pass against two millions. The leader of them was Leonidas, who had newly become one of the two kings of Sparta, the city that above all in Greece trained its sons to be hardy soldiers, dreading death infinitely less than shame. Leonidas had already made up his mind that the expedition would probably be his death, perhaps because a prophecy had been given at the Temple at Delphi that Sparta should be saved by the death of one of her kings of the race of Hercules. He was allowed by law to take with him 300 men, and these he chose most carefully, not merely for their strength and courage, but selecting those who had sons, so that no family might altogether be destroyed. These Spartans, with their helots or slaves, made up his own share of the numbers, but all the army was under his generalship. It is even said that the 300 celebrated their own funeral rites before they set out lest they should be deprived of them by the enemy, since, as we have already seen, it was the Greek belief that the spirits of the dead found no rest till their obsequies had been performed. Such preparations did not daunt the spirits of Leonidas and his men, and his wife, Gorgo, was not a woman to be faint-hearted or hold him back. Long before, when she was a very little girl, a word of hers had saved her father from listening to a traitorous message from the King of Persia; and every Spartan lady was bred up to be able to say to those she best loved that they must come home from battle "with the shield or on it"--either carrying it victoriously or borne upon it as a corpse.

When Leonidas came to Thermopylae, the Phocians told him of the mountain path through the chestnut woods of Mount Oeta, and begged to have the privilege of guarding it on a spot high up on the mountain side, assuring him that it was very hard to find at the other end, and that there was every probability that the enemy would never discover it. He consented, and encamping around the warm springs, caused the broken wall to be repaired, and made ready to meet the foe.

The Persian army were seen covering the whole country like locusts, and the hearts of some of the southern Greeks in the pass began to sink. Their homes in the Peloponnesus were comparatively secure--had they not better fall back and reserve themselves to defend the Isthmus of Corinth? But Leonidas, though Sparta was safe below the Isthmus, had no intention of abandoning his northern allies, and kept the other Peloponnesians to their posts, only sending messengers for further help.

Presently a Persian on horseback rode up to reconnoiter the pass. He could not see over the wall, but in front of it and on the ramparts, he saw the Spartans, some of them engaged in active sports, and others in combing their long hair. He rode back to the king, and told him what he had seen. Now, Xerxes had in his camp an exiled Spartan Prince, named Demaratus, who had become a traitor to his country, and was serving as counselor to the enemy. Xerxes sent for him, and asked whether his countrymen were mad to be thus employed instead of fleeing away; but Demaratus made answer that a hard fight was no doubt in preparation, and that it was the custom of the Spartans to array their hair with especial care when they were about to enter upon any great peril. Xerxes would, however, not believe that so petty a force could intend to resist him, and waited four days, probably expecting his fleet to assist him, but as it did not appear, the attack was made.

The Greeks, stronger men and more heavily armed, were far better able to fight to advantage than the Persians with their short spears and wicker shields, and beat them off with great ease. It is said that Xerxes three times leapt off his throne in despair at the sight of his troops being driven backwards; and thus for two days it seemed as easy to force a way through the Spartans as through the rocks themselves. Nay, how could slavish troops, dragged from home to spread the victories of an ambitious king, fight like freemen who felt that their strokes were to defend their homes and children?

But on that evening a wretched man, named Ephialtes, crept into the Persian camp, and offered, for a great sum of money, to show the mountain path that would enable the enemy to take the brave defenders in the rear! A Persian general, named Hydarnes, was sent off at night-fall with a detachment to secure this passage, and was guided through the thick forests that clothed the hillside. In the stillness of the air, at daybreak, the Phocian guards of the path were startled by the crackling of the chestnut leaves under the tread of many feet. They started up, but a shower of arrows was discharged on them, and forgetting all save the present alarm, they fled to a higher part of the mountain, and the enemy, without waiting to pursue them, began to descend.

As day dawned, morning light showed the watchers of the Grecian camp below a glittering and shimmering in the torrent bed where the shaggy forests opened; but it was not the sparkle of water, but the shine of gilded helmets and the gleaming of silvered spears. Moreover, a Cimmerian crept over to the wall from the Persian camp with tidings that the path had been betrayed, that the enemy were climbing it, and would come down beyond the Eastern Gate. Still, the way was rugged and circuitous, the Persians would hardly descend before midday, and there was ample time for the Greeks to escape before they could thus be shut in by the enemy.

There was a short council held over the morning sacrifice. Megistias, the seer, on inspecting the entrails of the slain victim, declared, as well he might, that their appearance boded disaster. Him Leonidas ordered to retire, but he refused, though he sent home his only son. There was no disgrace to an ordinary tone of mind in leaving a post that could not be held, and Leonidas recommended all the allied troops under his command to march away while yet the way was open. As to himself and his Spartans, they had made up their minds to die at their post, and there could be no doubt that the example of such a resolution would do more to save Greece than their best efforts could ever do if they were careful to reserve themselves for another occasion.

All the allies consented to retreat, except the eighty men who came from Mycenae and the 700 Thespians, who declared that they would not desert Leonidas. There were also 400 Thebans who remained; and thus the whole number that stayed with Leonidas to confront two million of enemies were 1400 warriors, besides the helots or attendants on the 300 Spartans, whose number is not known, but there was probably at least one to each. Leonidas had two kinsmen in the camp, like himself, claiming the blood of Hercules, and he tried to save them by giving them letters and messages to Sparta; but one answered that "he had come to fight, not to carry letters"; and the other, that "his deeds would tell all that Sparta wished to know." Another Spartan, named Dienices, when told that the enemy's archers were so numerous that their arrows darkened the sun, replied, "So much the better, we shall fight in the shade." Two of the 300 had been sent to a neighboring village, suffering severely from a complaint in the eyes. One of them, called Eurytus, put on his armor, and commanded his helot to lead him to his place in the ranks; the other, called Aristodemus, was so overpowered with illness that he allowed himself to be carried away with the retreating allies. It was still early in the day when all were gone, and Leonidas gave the word to his men to take their last meal. "To-night," he said, "we shall sup with Pluto."

Hitherto, he had stood on the defensive, and had husbanded the lives of his men; but he now desired to make as great a slaughter as possible, so as to inspire the enemy with dread of the Grecian name. He therefore marched out beyond the wall, without waiting to be attacked, and the battle began. The Persian captains went behind their wretched troops and scourged them on to the fight with whips! Poor wretches, they were driven on to be slaughtered, pierced with the Greek spears, hurled into the sea, or trampled into the mud of the morass; but their inexhaustible numbers told at length. The spears of the Greeks broke under hard service, and their swords alone remained; they began to fall, and Leonidas himself was among the first of the slain. Hotter than ever was the fight over his corpse, and two Persian princes, brothers of Xerxes, were there killed; but at length word was brought that Hydarnes was over the pass, and that the few remaining men were thus enclosed on all sides. The Spartans and Thespians made their way to a little hillock within the wall, resolved to let this be the place of their last stand; but the hearts of the Thebans failed them, and they came towards the Persians holding out their hands in entreaty for mercy. Quarter was given to them, but they were all branded with the king's mark as untrustworthy deserters. The helots probably at this time escaped into the mountains; while the small desperate band stood side by side on the hill still fighting to the last, some with swords, others with daggers, others even with their hands and teeth, till not one living man remained amongst them when the sun went down. There was only a mound of slain, bristled over with arrows.

Twenty thousand Persians had died before that handful of men! Xerxes asked Demaratus if there were many more at Sparta like these, and was told there were 8,000. It must have been with a somewhat failing heart that he invited his courtiers from the fleet to see what he had done to the men who dared to oppose him, and showed them the head and arm of Leonidas set up upon a cross; but he took care that all his own slain, except 1,000, should first be put out of sight. The body of the brave king was buried where he fell, as were those of the other dead. Much envied were they by the unhappy Aristodemus, who found himself called by no name but the "Coward," and was shunned by all his fellow-citizens. No one would give him fire or water, and after a year of misery, he redeemed his honor by perishing in the forefront of the battle of Platæa, which was the last blow that drove the Persians ingloriously from Greece.

The Greeks then united in doing honor to the brave warriors who, had they been better supported, might have saved the whole country from invasion. The poet Simonides wrote the inscriptions that were engraved upon the pillars that were set up in the pass to commemorate this great action. One was outside the wall, where most of the fighting had been. It seems to have been in honor of the whole number who had for two days resisted--

"Here did four thousand men from Pelops' land Against three hundred myriads bravely stand."

In honor of the Spartans was another column--

"Go, traveler, to Sparta tell That here, obeying her, we fell."

On the little hillock of the last resistance was placed the figure of a stone lion, in memory of Leonidas, so fitly named the lion-like; and Simonides, at his own expense, erected a pillar to his friend, the seer Megistias--

"The great Megistias' tomb you here may view, Who slew the Medes, fresh from Spercheius fords; Well the wise seer the coming death foreknew, Yet scorn'd he to forsake his Spartan lords."

The names of the 300 were likewise engraven on a pillar at Sparta.

Lion, pillars, and inscriptions have all long since passed away, even the very spot itself has changed; new soil has been formed, and there are miles of solid ground between Mount Oeta and the gulf, so that the Hot Gates no longer exist. But more enduring than stone or brass--nay, than the very battle-field itself--has been the name of Leonidas. Two thousand three hundred years have sped since he braced himself to perish for his country's sake in that narrow, marshy coast road, under the brow of the wooded crags, with the sea by his side. Since that time how many hearts have glowed, how many arms have been nerved at the remembrance of the Pass of Thermopylae, and the defeat that was worth so much more than a victory!

SECTION XII

HOME READING LIST AND GENERAL INDEX

". . . Forsooth he cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner; and, pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the mind from wickedness to virtue even as the child is often brought to take most wholesome things by hiding them in such others as have a pleasant taste. . . ."

--Sir Philip Sidney, _An Apologie for Poetrie_.

SECTION XII. HOME READING LIST AND GENERAL INDEX

A HOME READING LIST

Children are such omnivorous readers that teachers and parents are constantly at their wit's end, not only in naming enough books to supply their demands, but in grouping these books according to the order of difficulty. Most public libraries can furnish such lists based upon their experience with children. In fact no modern public library can carry on its work successfully without an especially prepared librarian in charge of the books for children. The arrangement of any list by grades must at best be only approximate, but if done in the light of a wide experience may be of the greatest practical help to the young teacher or to the parent. The following list is one issued by the Chicago Public Library, and is used here through the great kindness of Miss Adah F. Whitcomb, supervisor of the children's room and director of the training class. Any well-selected collection for children will contain a large proportion of these titles, and the list is extended enough and varied enough to furnish attractive reading material for any young person. At need it may be supplemented by the more elaborate lists found in some of the guides mentioned in the General Bibliography (p. 2).

FIRST GRADE

Banta, N. Moore, and Benson, Alpha B., _Brownie Primer_.

Blaisdell, Mary Frances, _Mother Goose Children_.

Brooke, Leonard Leslie, _Johnny Crow's Garden_.

----, _Johnny Crow's Party_.

Buffum, Katharine G., _Mother Goose in Silhouettes_.

Craik, Georgiana Marion, _So-fat and Mew-mew_.

Crane, Walter, _Beauty and the Beast Picture Book_.

----, _Bluebeard's Picture Book_.

----, _Cinderella's Picture Book_.

----, _Goody Two Shoes Picture Book_.

----, _Mother Hubbard, Her Picture Book_.

----, _Red Riding Hood's Picture Book_.

----, _Song of Sixpence_.

----, _This Little Pig, His Picture Book_.

----, _Buckle My Shoe_.

Fox, Florence Cornelia, _The Indian Primer_.

Gaynor, Mrs. Jessie Love, and Riley, Alice C. D., _Songs of the Child-World_.

Greenaway, Kate, _Under the Window_.

Haaren, John Henry, _Rhymes and Fables_.

Howard, Frederick Ward, _Banbury Cross Stories_.

Lansing, Marion Florence, _The Child's World Garden_.

Le Fèvre, Felicité, _The Cock, the Mouse, and the Little Red Hen_.

Lucas, Edward Verrall, _Four and Twenty Toilers_.

Mother Goose, _The Real Mother Goose_ (illus. by Blanche Fisher Wright).

Noyes, Marion, _The Sunshine Primer_.

Saxby, Lewis, _Life of a Wooden Doll_.

Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Wild Animal Play for Children_.

Skinner, A. M., and Lawrence, L. N., _Little Dramas for Primary Grades_.

Smith, Elmer Boyd, _Chicken World_.

Varney, A. S., _The Robin Reader_.

Welsh, Charles, (ed.), _Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes_.

Wiltse, Sara E., _Folklore Stories and Proverbs_.

SECOND GRADE

Adelborg, Ottilia, _Clean Peter and the Children of Grubbylea_.

Æsopus, _Fables_ (Dalkeith ed.).

Bannerman, Mrs. Helen, _Story of Little Black Sambo_.

Bass, Florence, _Nature Stories for Young Readers: Animal Life_.

----, _Nature Stories for Young Readers: Plant Life_.

Bryce, Catherine Turner, _Stevenson Reader_.

Burgess, Gelett, _Goops, and How to Be Them_.

----, _More Goops, and How Not to Be Them_.

Caldecott, Randolph, _Come Lasses Picture Book_.

----, _Hey Diddle Diddle Picture Book_.

Coe, Ida, _Story Hour Readers_. Vols. 3, 4.

Cooke, Flora J., _Nature Myths and Stories for Little Children_.

Craik, Georgiana Marion, _Bow-wow and Mew-mew_.

Crane, Walter, _Baby's Own Æsop_.

Deming, Therese Osterheld, _Little Indian Folk_.

----, _Little Red People_.

Dodge, Mary Mapes, _Rhymes and Jingles_.

Greenaway, Kate, _Marigold Garden_.

Haaren, John Henry, _Songs and Stories_.

Hix, Melvin, _Once-upon-a-Time Stories_.

Ivimey, John William, _Three Blind Mice_.

McCullough, Annie Willis, _Little Stories for Little People_.

Moore, Annie E., _Pennies and Plans_.

Murray, Clara, _The Child at Play_.

Poulsson, Emilie, _The Runaway Donkey and Other Rhymes_.

----, _Through the Farmyard Gate_.

Smith, Elmer Boyd, _Farm Book_.

----, _Santa Claus Book_.

----, _Seashore Book_.

Smith, Gertrude, _Lovable Tales of Janey and Josey and Joe_.

----, _Roggie and Reggie Stories_.

Tileston, Mary Wilder Foote, _Sugar and Spice and All That's Nice_.

Tolman, Stella Webster Carroll, _Around the World_, Vol. 1.

Turpin, Edna Henry Lee, _Classic Fables_.

Weatherly, F. E., _The Book of Gnomes_.

THIRD GRADE

Aspinwall, Mrs. Alicia, _Short Stories for Short People_.

Bailey, Carolyn Sherwin, _Boys and Girls of Colonial Days_.

Brocks, Dorothy, _Red Children_.

Brooke, Leonard Leslie, _Golden Goose Book_.

Brown, Abbie Farwell, _Christmas Angel_.

----, _Lonesomest Doll_.

Browning, Robert, _Pied Piper of Hamelin_ (illus. by Hope Dunlap).

Chisholm, Louey, _Nursery Rhymes_.

Deming, Mrs. Therese Osterheld, _Children of the Wild_.

----, _Little Brothers of the West_.

Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes, _New Baby World_.

Field, Eugene, _Lullaby-land: Songs of Childhood_.

Foulke, Elizabeth E., _Braided Straws_.

----, _Twilight Stories_.

Francis, Joseph Greene, _Book of Cheerful Cats and Other Animated Animals_.

Gates, Mrs. Josephine Scribner, _Story of Live Dolls_.

Gerson, Virginia, _Happy Heart Family_.

Grimm, Jacob L. K., and Wilhelm, K., _Fairy Tales_ (Lucas ed.).

----, _Fairy Tales_ (Wiltse ed.).

Haaren, John Henry, _Fairy Life_.

Lang, Andrew, _Prince Darling, and Other Stories_.

Lansing, Marion Florence, _Rhymes and Stories_.

McMurry, Mrs. Lida Brown, _Classic Stories for the Little Ones_.

Morley, Margaret Warner, _Seed-Babies_.

Peary, Mrs. Josephine Diebitsch, _Snow Baby_.

Perkins, Lucy Fitch, _Dutch Twins_.

----, _Japanese Twins_.

Pierson, Clara Dillingham, _Among the Farmyard People_.

Pyle, Katharine, _Careless Jane, and Other Tales_.

Shute, Katherine H., _Land of Song_, Vol. 1.

Tappan, Eva March, _Dixie Kitten_.

----, _Golden Goose_.

Thorne-Thomsen, Mrs. Gudrun, _East o' the Sun_.

Trimmer, Mrs. Sarah K., _History of the Robins_.

Valentine, Mrs. Laura Jewry, _Aunt Louisa's Book of Fairy Tales_.

Woodward, Alice B., _Peter Pan Picture Book_.

FOURTH GRADE

Alden, Raymond Macdonald, _Why the Chimes Rang_.

Andersen, Hans Christian, _Fairy Tales_ (Lucas ed.).

Barrie, James Matthew, _Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens_.

Brown, Abbie Farwell, _John of the Woods_.

Brown, Helen Dawes, _Little Miss Phoebe Gay_.

Browne, Frances, _Granny's Wonderful Chair, and Its Tales of Fairy Times_.

Campbell, Helen LeRoy, _Story of Konrad, the Swiss Boy_.

Carryl, Charles Edward, _Davy and the Goblin_.

Craik, Mrs. Dinah Maria, _Adventures of a Brownie_.

Crichton, Mrs. F. E., _Peep-in-the-World_.

Drummond, Henry, _Monkey That Would Not Kill_.

Faulkner, Georgene, _Italian Fairy Tales_.

----, _Russian Fairy Tales_.

Grimm, Jacob L. K., and Wilhelm K., _Household Fairy Tales_, tr. by L. Crane.

Hopkins, William John, _Sandman: His Farm Stories_.

Houghton, Mrs. Louise Seymour, _Russian Grandmother's Wonder Tales_.

Ingelow, Jean, _Mopsa the Fairy_.

Lang, Andrew, _Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp_.

----, _Nursery Rhyme Book_.

----, _Pretty Goldilocks_.

----, _Snow Man_.

----, _Snow Queen_.

Lindsay, Maud, and Poulsson, Emilie, _Joyous Travelers_.

Lorenzini, Carlo, _Adventures of Pinocchio_.

Lucas, Edward Verrall, _Book of Verses for Children_.

Macdonald, George, _Princess and the Goblin_.

Morley, Margaret Warner, _Donkey John of Toy Valley_.

O'Shea, Michael Vincent, _Old World Wonder Stories_.

Paine, Albert Bigelow, _How Mr. Dog Got Even_.

----, _How Mr. Rabbit Lost His Tail_.

Peck, Harry Thurston, _Adventures of Mabel_.

Pierson, Mrs. Clara Dillingham, _Three Little Millers_.

Pyle, Katharine, _As the Goose Flies_.

----, _Christmas Angel_.

----, _Counterpane Fairy_.

Richards, Mrs. Laura E., _Joyous Story of Toto_.

----, _Toto's Merry Winter_.

Schwartz, Julia Augusta, _Five Little Strangers_.

Scudder, Horace E., _Book of Fables_.

----, _Book of Folk Stories_.

----, _Children's Book_.

Sègur, Sophie R. de, _Story of a Donkey_.

Thorne-Thomsen, Mrs. Gudrun, _Birch and the Star_.

Walker, Margaret Coulson, _Lady Hollyhock and Her Friends_.

Welsh, Charles, _Fairy Tales Children Love_.

Wette, A. H., _Hansel and Gretel_ (illus. in colors).

White, Eliza Orne, _When Molly Was Six_.

Williston, Teresa Peirce, _Japanese Fairy Tales_.

Zwilgmeyer, Dikken, _Johnny Blossom_.

FIFTH GRADE

Alden, William Livingston, _Cruise of the Canoe Club_.

----, _Cruise of the "Ghost."_

----, _Moral Pirates_.

Baldwin, James, _Old Greek Stories_.

Brown, Abbie Farwell, _In the Days of Giants_.

Burnett, Frances Hodgson, _Little Lord Fauntleroy_.

Caldwell, Frank, _Wolf, the Storm Leader_.

Coburn, Claire Martha, _Our Little Swedish Cousin_.

Colum, Padraic, _Boy Who Knew What the Birds Said_.

Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge, _Alice in Wonderland_.

Duncan, Norman, _Adventures of Billy Topsail_.

French, Allen, _Story of Rolf and the Viking's Bow_.

Golding, Vautier, _Story of David Livingstone_.

Gordy, Wilbur Fisk, _American Leaders and Heroes_.

Grinnell, George Bird, _Jack among the Indians_.

Hall, Jennie, _Viking Tales_.

Jacobs, Joseph, _Celtic Fairy Tales_.

----, _English Fairy Tales_.

Jenks, Albert Ernest, _Childhood of Ji-shib, the Ojibway_.

Kaler, James Otis, _Mr. Stubbs' Brother_.

----, _Toby Tyler_.

Kipling, Rudyard, _Just-So Stories_.

Lucas, Edward Verrall, _Book of Verses for Children_.

Mabie, Hamilton Wright, _Norse Stories_.

Mighels, Philip Verrill, _Sunnyside Tad_.

Olcott, Frances Jenkins, _Fairies and Elves_.

----, _Arabian Nights_.

Paine, Albert Bigelow, _Arkansaw Bear_.

Pendleton, Louis B., _In the Camp of the Creeks_.

Pyle, Howard, _Garden behind the Moon_.

----, _Story of King Arthur and His Knights_.

----, _Wonder Clock_.

Pyle, Katharine, _Nancy Rutledge_.

Richards, Laura E., _Captain January_.

Schultz, James Willard, _With the Indians in the Rockies_.

Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Lives of the Hunted_.

Spyri, Mrs. Johanna, _Heidi_.

Stockton, Frank R., _Fanciful Tales_.

Stoddard, William Osborn, _Little Smoke_.

Tappan, Eva March, _Robin Hood: His Book_.

Thackeray, William Makepeace, _Rose and the Ring_.

Wesselhoeft, Lily F., _Sparrow, the Tramp_.

Wiggin, Kate Douglas, _Birds' Christmas Carol_.

Wiggin, Kate Douglas, and Smith, Nora A., _Fairy Ring_.

Wyss, Johann David, _Swiss Family Robinson_.

Zollinger, Gulielma, _Widow O'Callaghan's Boys_.

SIXTH GRADE

Alcott, Louisa M., _Eight Cousins_.

----, _Jack and Jill_.

Baldwin, James, _Story of the Golden Age_.

----, _Story of Roland_.

----, _Story of Siegfried_.

Bennett, John, _Barnaby Lee_.

Bond, Alexander Russell, _Pick, Shovel and Pluck_.

Bostock, Frank Charles, _Training of Wild Animals_.

Brooks, Elbridge Streeter, _Master of the Strong Hearts_.

Brooks, Noah, _Boy Emigrants_ (illus. ed.).

Browne, Belmore, _Quest of the Golden Valley_.

Burnett, Mrs. Frances Hodgson, _Little Princess_.

Crump, Irving, _Boys' Book of Firemen_.

Daviess, Marie Thompson, _Phyllis_.

Defoe, Daniel, _Robinson Crusoe_.

Dix, Beulah Marie, _Merrylips_.

Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes, _Hans Brinker_.

DuBois, Mary Constance, _Lass of the Silver Sword_.

Eggleston, George Cary, _Last of the Flatboats_.

Ford, Sewell. _Horses Nine_.

French, Allen, _Story of Greltir the Strong_.

----, _Junior Cup_.

Greene, Frances N., and Kirk, Dolly W., _With Spurs of Gold_.

Greene, Homer, _Blind Brother_.

Gregor, Elmer Russell, _Red Arrow_.

Hamp, Sidford Frederick, _Treasure of Mushroom Rock_.

Hawkes, Clarence, _Shaggycoat: the Biography of a Beaver_.

Hudson, William Henry, _Little Boy Lost_.

Inman, Henry, _Ranche on the Oxhide_.

Irving, Washington, _Rip Van Winkle_.

Jacobs, Joseph, _Indian Fairy Tales_.

Johnston, William Allen, _Deeds of Doing and Daring_.

Kipling, Rudyard, _Jungle Book_.

Lang, Andrew, _Red True Story Book_.

Little, Francis, _Camp Jolly_.

Lothrop, Mrs. Harriet Mulford, _Five Little Peppers_.

Munroe, Kirk, _Flamingo Feather_.

Page, Thomas Nelson, _Two Little Confederates_.

Pyle, Katharine, _Theodora_.

Rankin, Mrs. Carroll Watson, _Dandelion Cottage_.

Roberts, Theodore, _Red Feathers_.

Seaman, Augusta Huiell, _Boarded-up House_.

Seawell, Molly Elliot, _Little Jarvis_.

Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Wild Animals I Have Known_.

Stockton, Frank R., _Bee-Man of Orn_.

Stoddard, William Osborn, _Red Mustang_.

Swift, Jonathan, _Gulliver's Travels_.

Wade, Mrs. Mary Hazelton B., _Wonder Workers_.

Wallace, Dillon, _Arctic Stowaways_.

Wesselhoeft, Mrs. Elizabeth Foster, _Jack, the Fire Dog_.

SEVENTH GRADE

Adams, Joseph Henry, _Harper's Indoor Book for Boys_. _Harper's Outdoor Book for Boys._

Alcott, Louisa M., _Jo's Boys_. _Old-fashioned Girl._ _Under the Lilacs._

Altsheler, Joseph Alexander, _Forest Runners_. _Free Rangers._ _Young Trailers._

Barnes, James, _Hero of Erie: Oliver Hazard Perry_. _Yankee Ships and Yankee Sailors._

Browne, Belmore, _White Blanket_.

Bullen, Frank Thomas, _Cruise of the Cachalot_.

Burton, Charles Pierce, _The Boys of Bob's Hill_.

Canavan, Michael Joseph, _Ben Comee: a Tale of Roger's Rangers_.

Day, Holman Francis, _Eagle Badge_.

Deland, Ellen Douglas, _Oakleigh_.

Dix, Beulah Marie, _Little Captive Lad_.

Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes, _Donald and Dorothy_.

Drysdale, William, _Beach Patrol_. _Cadet Standish of the "St. Louis."_ _Fast Mail._ _Young Supercargo._

Foa, Eugénie, _Boy Life of Napoleon_.

Garland, Hamlin, _Long Trail_.

Greene, Homer, _Pickett's Gap_.

Grey, Zane, _Young Forester_. _Young Pitcher._

Grinnell, George Bird, _Jack among the Indians_. _Jack in the Rockies._ _Jack, the Young Ranchman._

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, _Grandfather's Chair_.

Henley, William Ernest, _Lyra Heroica: Book of Verse for Boys_.

Hill, T., _Fighting a Fire_.

Hough, Emerson, _Young Alaskans_.

Hughes, Thomas, _Tom Brown's School Days_.

Jackson, Mrs. Helen Hunt, _Nellie's Silver Mine_.

Jacobs, Caroline Emilia, _Joan's Jolly Vacation_. _Joan of Juniper Inn._

Kieffer, Henry Martyn, _Recollections of a Drummer-Boy_.

Munroe, Kirk, _At War with Pontiac_. _Cab and Caboose._

Pyle, Howard, _Otto of the Silver Hand_.

Quirk, Leslie W., _Baby Elton, Quarterback_.

Roberts, Charles G. D., _Kindred of the Wild_.

Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Two Little Savages_.

Stockton, Frank R., _Buccaneers and Pirates of Our Coast_.

Stoddard, William Osborn, _Red Patriot_. _White Cave._ _Lost Gold of the Montezumas._

Tolman, Albert Walter, _Jim Spurling, Fisherman_.

Tomlinson, Everett Titsworth, _Search for Andrew Field._ _Three Colonial Boys._ _Red Chief._ _Marching against the Iroquois._

Wiggin, Kate Douglas, _Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm_.

Zollinger, Gulielma, _Maggie McLanehan_.

EIGHTH GRADE

Adams, Andy, _Wells Brothers: the Young Cattle Kings_.

Ashmun, Margaret Eliza, _Isabel Carlton's Year_.

Barbour, Ralph Henry, _Behind the Line_. _Crimson Sweater._

Beach, Edward Latimer, _Annapolis First Classman_.

Bennett, John, _Master Skylark_.

Catherwood, Mary Hartwell, _Story of Tonty_.

Cervantes-Saavedra M. de, _Don Quixote_.

Clemens, Samuel L., _Prince and the Pauper_.

Coffin, Charles Carleton, _Boys of '76_.

Cooper, James Fenimore, _Deerslayer_.

Dana, Richard Henry, _Two Years before the Mast_.

Doubleday, Russell, _Cattle-Ranch to College_.

Driggs, Lawrence La Tourette, _Adventures of Arnold Adair, American Ace_.

Duncan, Norman, _Adventures of Billy Topsail_.

Eggleston, George Cary, _Bale Marked Circle X_.

French, Harry W., _The Lance of Kanana_.

Gilbert, A., _More than Conquerors_.

Gordon, Charles William, _Glengarry School Days_.

Goss, Warren Lee, _Jed_.

Hamp, Sidford Frederick, _Dale and Fraser, Sheepmen_.

Hill, Frederick Trevor, _On the Trail of Grant and Lee_.

Homer, _Adventures of Odysseus_. (Colum ed.).

Hughes, Rupert, _Lakerim Athletic Club_.

Johnston, Charles Haven L., _Famous Scouts_.

Kipling, Rudyard, _Captains Courageous_.

London, Jack, _Call of the Wild_.

Macleod, Mary, _Shakespeare Story Book_.

Malory, Sir Thomas, _Book of King Arthur and His Noble Knights_.

Masefield, John, _Martin Hyde_.

Meigs, Cornelia, _Master Simon's Garden_.

Moffett, Cleveland, _Careers of Danger and Daring_.

Montgomery, Lucy Maud, _Anne of Green Gables_.

Nicolay, Helen, _Boys' Life of Abraham Lincoln_.

Ollivant, Alfred, _Bob, Son of Battle_.

Parkman, Mary, _Heroes of To-day_.

Pendleton, Louis B., _King Tom and the Runaways_.

Pyle, Howard, _Men of Iron_. _Story of Jack Ballister's Fortunes_.

Rice, Alice Caldwell H., _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_.

Richards, Laura E., _Florence Nightingale_.

Richmond, Grace L., _Round the Corner in Gay Street_.

Roberts, Charles G. D., _Heart of the Ancient Wood_.

Rolt-Wheeler, Francis William, _Boy with the U. S. Foresters_.

Schultz, James William, _Quest of the Fish-Dog Skin_.

Seaman, Augusta Huiell, _Girl Next Door_.

Singmaster, Elsie, _Emmeline_.

Tappan, Eva March, _In the Days of Queen Elizabeth_.

Thompson, Arthur Ripley, _Gold-Seeking on the Dalton Trail_.

Thompson, James Maurice, _Alice of Old Vincennes_.

Thurston, Ida Treadwell, _Bishop's Shadow_.

Trowbridge, John Townsend, _Cudjo's Cave_.

Verne, Jules, _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea_.

Verrill, Alpheus Hyatt, _Marooned in the Forest_.

Wallace, Dillon, _Wilderness Castaways_.

Wallace, Lewis, _Ben Hur_.

Waller, Mary Ella, _Daughter of the Rich_.

INDEX

(A number in blackface type refers to a page on which appears a literary selection under the title, by the author, or from the book preceding the number. Book titles are in italics; selection titles and index topics in roman type; names of authors in capitals and small capitals; and first lines of nursery rhymes within quotation marks. See Bibliography for authors and book titles not given in this Index.)

Abou Ben Adhem, =414=

"A cat came fiddling out of a barn," =23=

Accumulative story; _See_ Stories

ADDISON, J., =294=

"A diller, a dollar," =23=

ADLER, F., 53, 263

Admetus and the Shepherd, =337=

Adventures of Arthur, =598=

ÆSOP, =266-268=, =272=, =273-278=, =264=

Against Idleness and Mischief, =407=

_Age of Fable, The_, =339=, =343=, 338

AIKIN, J., =451=

ALDEN, R. M., =223=

Ali Baba, and the Forty Thieves, =579=

_Alice in Wonderland_, 405

Allegory, =292=, =294=. _See also_ Fables

Allen-a-Dale, =628=

Alnaschar, 279, 579

_Ancient Legends of Ireland_, 164

ANDERSEN, H. C., =179-203=, 79, 134, 381, 390; appreciation of, 172-173; work of, =179=

_Andersen's Best Fairy Tales_, =179=, =181=

Androcles, =269=

Androcles and the Lion, =270=

Anniversary, An, =34=

Anxious Leaf, The, =290=

Apologue, 290, =291=. _See also_ Fable

Apple of Discord, The, 332

_Arabian Nights' Entertainment, The_, =579=, 235, 578, 579

Arab to His Favorite Steed, The, =420=

Arthur and Sir Accalon, =603=

Arthur, King, =595-603=, 577, 578, 594

ASBJÖRNSEN, P., =122-128=; work of, 122

"As I was going to St. Ives," =23=

"As I was going up Pippen Hill," =23=

"As I went to Bonner," =23=

Ass in the Lion's Skin, The, =281=

"As Tommy Snooks and Bessie Brooks," =23=

"A swarm of bees in May," =23=

Autobiography; _See_ Biography

Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, The, =646=

A Was an Apple-Pie, =34=

"Baa, baa, black sheep," =23=

Babes in the Wood, The, =39=

Baby Bye, =373=

BAILEY, C. S., =59=

BAIN, R. N., =160=

Ballad, =425=, =436=, =628=, 437, 628

Ballad of Nathan Hale, The, =425=

BARBAULD, A. L., =451=

"Barber, barber, shave a pig," =23=

Battle between the Fox and the Wolf, The, =591=

_Bears of Blue River, The_, =500=

BEAUMONT, MADAME DE, =110=

Beauty and the Beast, =110=

BEECHER, H. W., =290=

_Beowulf_, 577

Beth Gêlert, =436=

Betty's Ride, A Tale of the Revolution, =496=

_Beyond the Pasture Bars_, =520=

_Bible, The_, =288=, =289=

Bibliography: (_a_). General; 2-4; Bible as literature for children, 3; collections of literature for children, 2; dramatization, 3; guides in teaching, 2-3; historical development, 2; interpretations of childhood, 4; social and psychological backgrounds, 4; story-telling, 3. (_b_). Special; biography and hero stories, 632; fables and symbolic stories, 262; fairy stories, modern fantastic tales, 170; fairy stories, traditional tales, 52; Mother Goose and nursery rhymes, 18; myths, 302; nature literature, 510; poetry, 368; realistic stories, 442; romance and legend, 576. (_c_). Special reading for teachers; biography and hero stories, 634; modern fairy stories, 173; myths, 305; nature literature, 512; nursery rhymes, 22; poetry, 370; romance and legend, 578. (_d_). Graded lists for children, 12-14, =679-686=

BIDPAI; history of, 264

Big Bear, The, =500=

Biography and hero stories, =635-676=; discussion of, 633-634; selection of, 633-634; value of, 633

Bird Habits, =549=

"Birds of a feather flock together," =23=

BLAKE, W., =400-401=

"Bless you, bless you, burnie bee," =23=

Blue Light, The, =134=, 195

Boats Sail on the Rivers, =394=

"Bobby Shafto's gone to sea," =24=

_Book of Golden Deeds, The_, =671=

_Book of Legends, The_, =620=, 578

_Book of Nursery Rhymes_ =21=

_Book of the Dun Cow_, =162=

Books for children; _See_ Bibliography

Boots and His Brothers, =125=

"Bow, wow, wow," =24=

Boyhood of Washington, The, =642=

_Boy's Life of Abraham Lincoln, The_, =655=

Boy's Song, A, =389=

BRAEKSTAD, H. L., =128=

Bramble Is Made King, The, =288=

BRANDES, G., 179, 180, 196, 203

Breathes There the Man, =424=

Brier Rose, =142=

BROOKS, E. S., =635=

BROWN, T. E., =418=

BROWNE, F., =210=, =209=

BROWNING, R., =399=, 398

Brown Thrush, The, =374=

BRYANT, S. C., 70

BRYANT, W. C., =417=, 416

_Buddhist Birth Stories_, =282=, =283=, 281

BULFINCH, T., =339=, =343=

BURGESS, T. W. =515=, 514

Burial of Poor Cock Robin, The, =44=

Butterfly's Ball, The, =397=

"Bye, baby bunting," =24=

BYRON, LORD, =416=

Camel and the Pig, The, =281=

CANBY, H. S., =496=

Can You, =398=

CARROLL, L., =405=

CARY, P., =377=, =378=

Casabianca, =400=

Cat and the Mouse, The, =60=

_Celtic Fairy Tales_, =162=

CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA, M. DE, =607=, 606

Change About, =49=

CHILD, L. M., =375=

_Children's Book, The_, 642

Children's Literature; _See_ Literature

_Child's Guide to Reading, A_, =8=

Christmas stories, 505

Cinderella, =102=

Circus-Day Parade, The, =388=

City Mouse and the Garden Mouse, The, =268=

_Classic Myths in English Literature and Art_, 340

Cock a Doodle Doo, =37=

Cock and the Fox, The, =284=

Cock Robin, 42, 44

Cock, the Cat, and the Young Mouse, The, =285=

COLE, H., =586=, =591=, 578

COLERIDGE, S. T., =178=

COLLINS, WM., =425=

COLLINS, W. L., =285=

"Come when you're called," =24=

Concord Hymn, =424=

Connla and the Fairy Maiden, =162=

COOK, E., =402=

COOLIDGE, S., =377=

_Cossack Fairy Tales_, =160=

Country Mouse and the Town Mouse, The, =269=

Course of Study, 8, 9, 10, 13-16, 512, 577, 633-634

Courtship of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren, =42=

Cow, The, =381=

Cow, The, =392=

COX, R., 112

CRAIK, D. M.; _See_ MULOCK

Croesus and Solon, =299=

Crossing the Bar, =414=

"Cross patch," =24=

Crow and the Pitcher, The, =266=

"Curly locks! curly locks!" =24=

Daffodils, =419=

Dairywoman and the Pot of Milk, The, =278=

Daisies, =385=

Dame Wiggins of Lee and Her Seven Wonderful Cats, =45=, 245

"Dance, little baby, dance up high," =24=

Darius Green and His Flying Machine, =432=, 336

DASENT, G. W., =122-125=

Day Is Done, The, =410=

DAY, T., =270=, =456=, 270

Death of Balder, The, =360=

Destruction of Sennacherib, The, =416=

Diamond, or a Coal, A, =394=

Didactic period, 443

"Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John," =24=

"Ding, dong, bell," =24=

Ding Dong! Ding Dong! =372=

Discontented Pendulum, The, =297=

"Doctor Foster," =24=

_Doctor, The_, =64=

DODGSON, C. L.; _See_ CARROLL, L.

Dog and the Shadow, The, =276=

_Don Quixote_, =607-618=, 577

DOYLE, F. H., =427=

Drakestail, =107=

Dramatization, 11-12, 190

Droll, or noodle story, =63=, =71=, =150=; defined, 67

Duel, The, =387=

DULCKEN, H. W., =190-203=, 179

EDGEWORTH, M., =459=, 458

Egg in the Nest, The, =49=

"Eggs, butter, cheese, bread," =24=

Eldorado, =415=

Elves and the Shoemaker, The, =137=

Emerald Is as Green as Grass, An, =394=

EMERSON, R. W., =424=, 423

Emperor's New Clothes, The, =181=

_English Fairy and Folk Tales_, =67=, =84=

_English Fairy Tales_, =58=, 61, 73

_Evenings at Home_, =451=

EWING, J. H., =478=, 381, 477

Eyes, and No Eyes, =451=

Fables, =266-289=; discussion of, 263-265; defined =264=; presentation of, 264-265; selection of, 264, 284; use in school, =264=; symbolistic and allegorical stories, =290-300=; Æsopic, =266 ff.=; Biblical, =288 ff.=; Buddhistic, =281 ff.=; English, =270=, =286=; French, =273=, =278=, =284=, =285=; Indian, =281=; Roman, =269=; Russian, =287=; Sanskrit, =283=; Spanish, =287=

_Fables of Æsop, The_, =266=, =267=, =269=, =278=

_Fairy Book, The_, =73=, =80=

Fairy Scene in a Wood, A, =423=

Fairy stories: (_a_) Modern fantastic tales, =174-260=; discussion of, 171-173; some qualities of, 172. (_b_) Traditional or folk tales, =56-168=; discussion of, 53-55, 56; how to use, 55; vs. myths, =303=; English, =56-92=; French, =92-122=; Gaelic, =162-164=; German, =131-150=; Indian, =150-156=; Irish, =164-168=; Japanese, =156-159=; Norse, =122-131=; Russian, =160-162=

Falcon, The, =429=

Famous Passages from Dr. Watts, =408=

_Fanciful Tales_, =234=

Farmer Went Trotting, A, =38=

FIELD, E., =385-387=

FIELD, W. T., 21

Field Mouse and the Town Mouse, The, =268=

Fir Tree, The, =190=

Fisherman and His Wife, The, =138=

Flying Kite, =385=

Folklore, 5, 10, 53, 56, 131, 171, 268, 281. _See also_ Fables, Fairy Stories, Myths, Poetry, and Romance

Folk tales; _See_ Fairy stories

FOLLEN, E. L., =371-372=

FORD, S., =527=

"For every evil under the sun," =24=

For Those Who Fail, =415=

For Want of a Nail, =40=

"Four-and-twenty tailors," =25=

Four Leaved Clover, A, =174=

_Four Million, The_, =505=

Fox and His Wife, The, =40=

Fox and the Grapes, The, =276=

FRANCE, MARIE DE, =284=

FRANCILLON, R. E., =330=, =332=

FRANKLIN, B., =250=, =291=, =293=, =646=, 263

FRERE, M., =152=, 150

Frey, =354=

Frog and the Ox, The, =267=

Frogs Desiring a King, The, =267=

GAY, J., =286=

GAYLEY, C. M., =340=

_George Washington_, =642=

Gift of the Magi, The, =505=

GILBERT, W. S., =430=

_Gods and Heroes_, =330=, =332=

GOLDSMITH, O., 19, =445=; work of, 445

Good-Natured Little Boy, The, =456=

Good-Night and Good-Morning, =396=

Good Play, A, =382=

Good Samaritan, The, =289=

Goody Two-Shoes, =445=

Goose with the Golden Eggs, The, =272=

GOSSE, E., 381, 477

Grading; _See_ Course of study

_Granny's Wonderful Chair_, =209=

Grasshopper and the Ant, The, =285=

"Great A, little a," =25=

_Green Fairy Book_, 73

GRIMM, JACOB and WILHELM, =132-146=, 89; work of, 131

_Grimm's Popular Stories_, =132-142=

HALE, S. J., =373=, 372

HALLIWELL, J. O., =23 ff.=, =60-63=, 70-71, 20, 47, 59; work of, 56

Happy Prince, The, =217=

Hardy Tin Soldier, The, =200=

Hare and the Tortoise, The, =273=

Hare with Many Friends, The, =286=

"Hark, hark," =25=

HARRIS, J. C., 511

HARRISON, I. H., =288=

HARTLAND, E. S., =67=, =84=, 89

HAVELL, H. L., =607-618=

HAWTHORNE, N., =309=, =319=, 336; work of, 309

_Hebrew Tales_, 177

HEMANS, F. D., =400=

HENDERSON, A. C., =179=

HENLEY, W. E., =429=

Henny-Penny, =58=

HENRY, O., =505=

Hen with the Golden Eggs, The, =273=

"Here sits the Lord Mayor," =25=

"Here we go up, up, up," =25=

_Heroes of Asgard, The_, =354=

Hero stories; _See_ Romance

"Hey! diddle, diddle," =25=

"Hickery, dickery, 6 and 7," =25=

"Hickory, dickory, dock," =25=

"Higgledy, Piggledy," =25=

_History of Sandford and Merton_, =270=, =456=

_Hitopadesa_, =283=

HOGG, J., =389=

"Hogs in the garden, catch 'em Towser," =25=

_Hollow Tree Nights and Days_, =516=

HOLMES, O. W., =425=, 419, 424

HORACE, =269=, 268

Horned Women, The, =164=

_Horses Nine_, =527=

"Hot-cross buns," =26=

_Household Tales_; _See Kinder und Hausmärchen_

House that Jack Built, This is the, =48=; origin of, 47

How Arthur Became King, =595=

How Bruin the Bear Sped with Reynard the Fox, =586=

How Columbus Got His Ships, =635=

HOWITT, M., =390=, 179

HOWITT, W., =391=

How Sleep the Brave, =425=

How the Fenris Wolf Was Chained, =351=

How the Leaves Came Down, =377=

"Hub a dub dub," =26=

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall," =26=

HUNT, L., =414=

HUNT, M., =144=, =146=, 132, 138

HURWITZ, H., 177

Husband Who Was To Mind the House, The, =124=

Icarus and Daedalus, =336=

"If all the sea were one sea," =26=

"If all the world was apple-pie," =26=

"If I'd as much money," =26=

"If ifs and ands," =26=

"If wishes were horses," =26=

"I had a little hobby horse," =26=

"I had a little pony," =26=

"I have a little sister," =27=

I Like Little Pussy, =393=

"I'll tell you a story," =27=

Inchcape Rock, The, =421=

_Indian Fairy Tales_, =154=

_Indian Folk Stories and Fables_, 281, 280

INGELOW, J., =227=

"In marble walls as white as milk," =27=

_Insect Stories_, =524=

In the Western Wilderness, =662=

Invictus, =429=

_Irish Fairy Tales_, =166=

ISAACS, A. S., =174=

I Saw a Ship, =36=

"I went up one pair of stairs," =27=

Jackanapes, =478=, 477

"Jack and Jill went up the hill," =27=

Jack and the Beanstalk, =73=

"Jack be nimble," =27=

"Jack Sprat could eat no fat," =27=

JACOBS, J., =89=, =154=, =162=, =266=, =267=, =269=, =278=, 73, 586; work of, 58

_Japanese Fairy Tales_, =156=, =158=

_Jataka Tales_; _See Buddhistic Birth Stories_

Jemima, =41=

Johnny Chuck Finds the Best Thing in the World, =515=

JORDAN, D. S., =556=

_Just-So Stories_, 562

KEARY, A. and E., =354=

KELLOGG, V. L., =524=

Kid and the Wolf, The, =276=

Kinder und Hausmärchen, =132-146=, 131

King Arthur; _See_ Arthur

King Arthur and His Knights, =603=

King Bell, =385=

King John and the Bishop of Canterbury, =437=

King of the Golden River, The, =245=

King O'Toole and His Goose, =166=

KINGSCOTE, MRS., =154=

_Kings in Exile_, =566=

KINGSLEY, C., =412=

KIPLING, R., =428=, =562=, 122

Knights of the Silver Shield, The, =223=

"Knock at the door," =27=

KREADY, L. F., 97, 190

KRYLOV, I. A., =288=, 287

KUPFER, G. H., =306=

"Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home," =27=

LA FONTAINE, J. DE, =273=, =278=, =284=, =285=, 272

_La Fontaine and Other French Fabulists_, =285=

Lamb, The, =401=

LAMB, C., 444

Lambikin, The, =150=

Lamplighter, The, =382=

Land of Nod, The, =382=

Land of Story-Books, The, =382=

LANG, A., =94=, =106=, 20, 21, 49, 61, 73, 93, 100

LARCOM, L., =374=

Lark and Her Young Ones, The, =275=

Last Bull, =566=

Lazy Jack, =70=

Leak in the Dyke, The, =378=

LEAR, E., =403-404=

Legend; _See_ Romance

_Le Morte D'Arthur_, =595-598=, 594

Library; improvement of, =10=

Lincoln's Early Days, =655=

Lion and the Mouse, The, =266=

Lion Tricked by a Rabbit, A, =283=

Literature for children; general discussion of, 5-16; artistic worth of, 7, 9, 19, 444; course of study in, 13-16, 633-634; cultural value of, 9, 19, 264, 577, 633; democratic origin of, 7, 20; didactic, 443; kinds, traditional vs. modern, 7, 171-172; presentation of, 8, 9, 10, 11, 14, 55, 173, 265, 369, 443, 511, 633; purpose of, 9, 21, 443, 511; selection of, 9, 264, 305, 369, 370; vs. reading, 8-9. _See also_ Poetry, Stories, etc.

Little and Great, =399=

Little Bo-Peep, =37=

"Little boy blue," =27=

"Little girl, little girl," =27=

Little Golden Hood, True History of, =94=

"Little Jack Horner," =28=

"Little Jack Jingle," =28=

"Little Johnny Pringle had a little pig," =28=

Little Kitty, The, =372=

"Little Miss Muffet," =28=

"Little Nancy Etticoat," =28=

Little Red Riding-Hood, =93=

"Little Robin Redbreast," =28=

"Little Tommy Tucker," =28=

LOCKE, J., 265

London Bridge, =36=

LONGFELLOW, H. W., =408-411=, 415, 620

"Long legs, crooked thighs," =28=

Lord Helpeth Man and Beast, The, =178=

LOVER, S., =165=

LOWELL, J. R., =429=, =430=

"Lucy Locket lost her pocket," =28=

MABIE, H. W., =348=, =360=, 348

MACCLINTOCK, P. L., 21

MACKAY, C., =399=

MACY, J., 8

MAJOR, C., =500=

MALORY, SIR T., =595-598=, 578, 594

Man and the Satyr, The, =276=

Man of Words, A, =40=

MARELLES, C., =94=, =106=

Mary Had a Little Lamb, =373=

"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," =28=

Meddlesome Mattie, =393=

Mediaeval stories; _See_ Romance

Memorizing, 370

Mercury and the Woodman, =276=

Mice in Council, The, =277=

Midas, =339=

Milking Time, =394=

Milkmaid and Her Pail, The, =278=

Milkweed Seeds, =34=

Miller, His Son, and the Ass, The, =274=

MILLER, J., =415=

MILLER, O. T., =549=, 548

MILNES, R. M., =396=

Miraculous Pitcher, The, =319=

Mirror of Matsuyama, The, =156=

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary," =28=

MOE, J.; _See_ ASBJÖRNSEN

Molly and I, =35=

Moon, The, =371=

Mother Goose, 7, 10, 19-22, 93, 171, 370; history of, 19-21. _See also_ Poetry, traditional

_Mother Goose's Melody_, 19, 20, 445

Mother Hubbard and Her Dog, =41=

Moti Guj--Mutineer, =562=

Moufflou, =535=

Mountain and the Squirrel, The, =424=

Mountebank and the Countryman, The, =277=

Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell, =516=

Mr. Vinegar, The Story of, =71=

MULOCK, MISS, =73=, =80=

"Multiplication is vexation," =28=

Musical Ass, The, =287=

My Bed Is a Boat, =383=

My Garden, =418=

My Shadow, =383=

Myths, =306-366=; discussion of, 303-305; definition of, 303; objections to, 304; use in school, 305; value of, 304; Greek and Roman, =306-343=; explanatory introduction to, 306; Norse, =343-366=; explanatory introduction to, 343, 348, 360

Narcissus, The, =330=

Nathan Hale, The Ballad of, =425=

Nature literature, =513-574=; discussion of, 511-512; place in the grades, 13, 512; some types of, 511-512; what it is, 511

"Needles and pins, needles and pins," =29=

NEWBERY, J., 19, 20, 445

NICOLAY, H., =655=

Nightingale, The, =184=

Noodle story; _See_ Droll

_Norse Stories_, =348=, =360=

NORTON, C. E., =420=

Nursery rhymes; _See_ Poetry

_Nursery Rhymes and Tales_, =59-63=, 56, 71

_Nursery Rhymes of England_, 20

_Odyssey, The_, 577

_Old Deccan Days_, =152=, 150, 151

_Old Greek Folk Stories_, =335=, =337=

Old Ironsides, =425=

"Old King Cole," =29=

Old Man and His Sons, The, =275=

_Old Mother West Wind_, =515=

Old Pipes and the Dryad, =234=

Old Woman and Her Pig, The, =56=

"Once I saw a little bird," =29=

"One for the money," =29=

"One misty, moisty morning," =29=

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5," =29=

"One, two," =29=

OUIDA, =535=, 534

Over Hill, Over Dale, =423=

Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The, =403=

PAINE, A. B., =516=

Pandora's Box, 309

Parables, =289=; defined, 289

Paradise of Children, The, =309=

PARENT'S ASSISTANT, THE, =459=

Pass of Thermopylae, The, =671=

"Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake," =29=

PEABODY, J. P., =336=, =337=, 335

"Pease-porridge hot," =29=

Peddler's Caravan, The, =395=

PERRAULT, C. =93=, =97=, =100=, =102=, 19; work of, 92

"Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater," =30=

"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers," =30=

_Peter Rabbit Books_, =513=

Phaëthon, =340=

Piper, The, =401=

Pippa's Song, =399=

Planting of the Apple-Tree, The, =417=

Poacher and the Silver Fox, The, =551=

Pobble Who Has No Toes, The, =404=

POE, E. A., =415=

Poetry: (_a_) modern, =371-437=; discussion of, 369-370; reading of, 14, 370; selection of, 14, 369; teaching of, 9, 14, 369; (_b_) traditional, or nursery rhymes, =23-50=; discussion of, 19-22; appeal to children, 7, 10, 19, 21, 34; history of, 19-22. _See also_ Mother Goose, Literature, and Course of study

Poet's Song, The, =413=

"Poor old Robinson Crusoe," =30=

_Popular Tales from the Norse_, =123-125=, 122

PORTER, W. S., _See_ HENRY

POTTER, B., =513=

Pourquoi story, 172

PRENTISS, E., =372=

Pride Goeth before a Fall, =154=

Prince's Dream, The, =227=

Prodigal Son, The, =289=

Proserpine, 354. _See also_ Story of the Springtime

Proud King, The, =620=

Psalm of Life, The, =411=

Puss-in-Boots, =97=

"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat," =30=

"Pussy sits beside the fire," =30=

Quern at the Bottom of the Sea, The, =129=

Raggedy Man, The, =389=

Rain, =381=

RAMASWAMI RAJU, P. V., =281=, 280

RAMÉE, L. DE LA; _See_ OUIDA

RANDS, W. B., =395=, =396=

Reading; distinguished from literature, 8-9; lists for various grades, (_See_ Course of study); of literature, 14, 369-370; supplemental, 10

Realistic Stories, =445-508=; discussion of, 443-444; Christmas, 505; didactic or 18th century, =445-459=, 443-444; modern, =478-508=, 444; Sunday-school, 443

Real Princess, The, =179=

Recessional, =428=

_Red Fairy Book_, =94=, =106=

Red Thread of Honor, The, =427=

_Renowned History of Little Goody Two-Shoes, The_, =445=, 443, 444

REPPLIER, A., 54

Reynard the Fox, =586=, =591=, 284, 577

Rhymes; _See_ Poetry

RHYS-DAVIDS, T. W., =281=, =282=

"Ride a cock-horse," =30=

"Ride, baby, ride," =30=

RILEY, J. W., =388-389=

ROBERTS, C. G. D., =566=

Robin and the Merry Little Old Woman, =623=

Robin Hood, =623=, =628=

_Robin Hood: His Book_, =623=

"Rock-a-bye, baby," =30=

"Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green," =30=

Romance and Legend, =579-630=; discussion of, 577-578; stories and versions recommended, 577-578; use in school, 577

ROSCOE, W., =397=

Rose-Bud, =142=

ROSSETTI, C. G., =268=, =394=

ROUSSEAU, J. J., 264, 284, 443

R. S., GENT, =97=, 93

Rumpelstiltskin, =144=

Runaway Brook, The, =372=

RUSKIN, J., =45=, =245=; work of, 245

SAINTSBURY, G. E. B., =21=, =22=

Sands of Dee, The, =412=

_Science Sketches_, =556=

SCOTT, SIR W., =424=

SCUDDER, H. E., =620=, =642=, 578; work of, 642

"See a pin and pick it up," =30=

SEEGMILLER, W., =34=

"See, saw, sacradown," =31=

Seldom or Never, =394=

SETON, E. T., =551=

SHAKESPEARE, W., =423=

SHARP, D. L., =520=

SHAW, A. H., =662=

Shepherd of King Admetus, The, =430=

Shepherd's Boy, The, =266=, 11-12

Shepherd, The, =401=

SHERMAN, F. D., =384-385=

"Shoe the little horse," =31=

Simple Simon, =38=

"Sing a song of sixpence," =31=

_Sing-Song_, =394=

SKEAT, W. W., =284=

Skeleton in Armor, The, =408=

Snow-White and Rose-Red, =146=

Solitary Reaper, The, =419=

_Songs of Innocence_, =400=

SOUTHEY, R., =421=

SPENCER, W. R., =436=

Spider and the Fly, The, =390=

Spinning Top, =384=

"Star light, star bright," =31=

Star, The, =394=

STEEL, F. A., =150=, 153

STEVENSON, R. L., =381-384=, 380

STOCKTON, F. R., =234=, 233

Stories; dramatization of, 11-12; selection of, 9, 10, 264, 284-285, 305, 577, 633; accumulative, 47, 56, 150, 160; biographical, =635-676=; Christmas, 505; didactic, 443; fable, =266-289=; fairy, =56-168=, =174-260=; hero, (_See_ biographical); legend, (_See_ romance); myth, =306-366=; nature, =513-574=; noodle, 67; pourquoi, 172; realistic, =445-508=; romance, =579-630=; _See also_ Story-telling.

_Stories and Legends of the Irish Peasantry_, =165=

_Stories from Don Quixote_, =607-618=

_Stories from the Rabbis_, =174=

_Stories of Long Ago_, =306=

_Stories of Norse Heroes_, =351=

_Stories Told to a Child_, =228=

Story of Alnaschar, The, =279=

_Story of a Pioneer, The_, =662=

Story of a Salmon, The, =556=

Story of Fairyfoot, The, =210=

Story of Mr. Vinegar, The, =71=

Story of the Springtime, A, =306=

Story-telling, 9, 55; discussion of, 10-11; Andersen's method of, 173; direct discourse in, 11; effectiveness of, 10; of fables, 265; preparation for, 11; selections for, 10; tense in, 10

Strange Wild Song, A, =406=

Straw Ox, The, =160=

Sugar-Plum Tree, The, =386=

Supplemental reading, 10. _See also_ Course of study

Swallow and the Raven, The, =229=

Swallow, The, =394=

Swan, the Pike, and the Crab, The, =288=

Sweet and Low, =413=

Swing, The, =383=

Symbolic stories; _See_ Fables

Table and the Chair, The, =404=

Taffy, =38=

Tale of Peter Rabbit, The, =513=

_Tales from the Punjab_, =150=, =153=

_Tales of Our Mother Goose, The_, =93=, =97-102=, 19, 92-93

Tales of the Sun, =154=

Talkative Tortoise, The, =282=

TAPPAN, E. M., =623=

TAYLOR, A., =392=, =393=

TAYLOR, E., =132-142=, 131

TAYLOR, J., =297=, =393=, =394=

Teeny-Tiny, =60=

TENNYSON, A., =413-414=, 628

Thanksgiving Day, =375=

"The King of France went up the hill," =31=

"The lion and the unicorn," =31=

"The man in the moon," =31=

"The north wind doth blow," =31=

"The Queen of Hearts," =31=

"There was a crooked man," 31

"There was a little boy," =32=

There Was a Little Man, =37=

"There was a little man and he had naught," =32=

"There was a man in our town," =32=

"There was an old man," =32=

There was an Old Woman, =36=

"There was an old woman," =32=

"There was an old woman lived under a hill," =32=

"There was an old woman of Leeds," =32=

"There was an old woman of Norwich," =32=

"There was an old woman tossed up in a basket," =32=

"There was an old woman who lived in a shoe," =33=

"There was an owl lived in an oak," =33=

They Didn't Think, =377=

"This is the way the ladies ride," 33

"This little pig went to market," =33=

THOMPSON, E. S., _See_ SETON

Thor's Visit to Jötunheim, =343=

Three Bears, Story of the, =65=

Three Billy-Goats Gruff, The, =123=

"Three blind mice! see, how they run," =33=

Three Fishers, The, =412=

Three Jovial Huntsmen, =37=

Three Little Kittens, The, =371=

Three Little Pigs, Story of the, =61=

Three Sillies, The, =67=

Three Things to Remember, =400=

"Three wise men of Gotham," =33=

Tiger, The, =401=

Tiger, the Brahman, and the Jackal, The, =153=

TILTON, T., =373=

Time to Rise, =381=

Tit for Tat, =152=

Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse, =63=

Toads and Diamonds, =100=

To a Waterfowl, =417=

TOLSTOI, L., =299=

"To market, to market," =33=

Tom the Piper's Son, =38=

Tom Thumb, =80=

Tom Thumb's Alphabet, =35=

Tom Tit Tot, =90=, 144

"Tom, Tom, the piper's son," =33=

Tongue-Cut Sparrow, The, =158=

Toy-books, =41=

Travelers and the Bear, The, =274=

Traveling Musicians, The, =132=

_Treasure Island_, 381

Treasures of the Wise Man, The, =388=

TROWBRIDGE, J. T., =432=

True History of Little Golden Hood, =94=

_True Story of Christopher Columbus_, =635=

Try Again, =402=

Twink! Twink! =34=

"Two-legs sat upon three-legs", =33=

Ugly Duckling, The, =203=

Vendetta, The, =524=

VILLENEUVE, MADAME DE, =110=

Vision of Mirzah, The, =294=

Walrus and the Carpenter, The, =405=

WARREN, M. R., =603=

Waste Not, Want Not, =459=

WATTS, I., =407=, =408=

WELSH, C., 21, 445

What Does Little Birdie Say, =413=

"When a twister a-twisting", =34=

When I Was a Little Boy, =38=

Where Are You Going, =35=

Where Go the Boats, =384=

Whistle, The, =291=

Whittington and His Cat, =84=

Who Has Seen the Wind, =394=

Whole Duty of Children, =381=

Who Stole the Bird's Nest, =375=

Why the Bear Is Stumpy-Tailed, =122=

_Why the Chimes Rang_, =223=

Why the Sea Is Salt, 128

Widow and the Hen, The, =276=

_Wild Animals at Home_, =551=

WILDE, LADY, =164=

WILDE, O., =217=

Wild Life in the Farm-Yard, =520=

WILLISTON, T. P., =156=, =158=

"Willy boy, Willy boy," =34=

WILMOT-BUXTON, E. M., =351=

Wind and the Sun, The, =272=

Wind in a Frolic, The, =391=

Wind, The, =384=

Windy Nights, =384=

Wolf in Sheep's Clothing, The, =273=

_Wonder Book for Girls and Boys, A_, =309=, =319=

Wonderful World, The, =396=

WOOLSEY, S. C.; _See_ COOLIDGE

WORDSWORTH, W., =419=

WRIGHT, E., =273=, =278=, =284=

Wyche, R. T., 577

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, =385=

Yarn of the Nancy Bell, The, =430=

YEATS, W. B., =166=

YONGE, C. M., =671=

YRIARTE, T. de, =287=

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. In this text the oe-ligature is represented by brackets [oe]. Bold text is represented by = and italic by _. In addition, the text used / as punctuation in one story.

Page vi, "Rocky" changed to "Rock" (83. Rock-a-bye)

Page x, "Gelert" changed to "Gêlert" (Beth Gêlert)

Page 2, "Literatary" changed to "Literary" (Literary Taste and)

Page 19, "withold" changed to "withhold" (do not withhold Mother)

Page 155, "Ta, tai tom" changed to "Tâ, tai tôm" (Tâ, tai tôm, tadingana)

Page 180, "Emporer's" changed to "Emperor's" (The Emperor's New)

Page 202, "warrier" changed to "warrior" (thou warrior brave)

Page 236, "Dyrad" changed to "Dryad" (beautiful Dryad stepped)

Page 299, "wordly" changed to "worldly" (worldly greatness; Solon)

Page 302, "Column" changed to "Colum" (Colum, Padraic, _The Children of Odin_.)

Page 437, "Lleweylln's" changed to "Llewellyn's" (Llewellyn's sorrow proved)

Page 448, "be" changed to "he" (Though ill, he began)

Footnote: Page 482 originally, added [Author's Note.] to conform to rest of text. Footnote begins: (The Mail Coach it was)

Page 487, "hair-dressser" changed to "hair-dresser" (for the hair-dresser)

Page 498, "hurridly" changed to "hurriedly" (hurriedly. "Go quickly)

Page 510, "Thorton" changed to "Thornton" (Burgess, Thornton W.)

Page 521, word "a" moved up from the end of the line below. Original read:

So, if you will watch, you shall see real wild turkey in the tamest old a

Page 578, "it" changed to "in" (in its lofty spirit)

Page 662, "Misisssippi" changed to "Mississippi" (lower Mississippi, where)

Page 663, "unwildy" changed to "unwieldy" (the unwieldy vehicle)

Page 687, "a" changed to "the" (Breathes There the Man)

Page 682, "Segur" changed to "Sègur" (Sègur, Sophie R. de)

Page 688, small-caps were added to Mulock to conform to rest of the index.