Part 10

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Mother shall thread them a daisy-chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, “Heart thou art wide, though the house be but narrow”-- Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one missing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks of you now!

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall; A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts, unconscious of sorrow and thrall; Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure-- God that is over us all. --JEAN INGELOW.

THE LARK AT THE DIGGINGS

The house was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it and on every foot of ground round it. A furze bush had been planted by the door. Vertical oak palings were the fence, with a five-barred gate in the middle of them. From the little plantation all the magnificent trees and shrubs of Australia had been excluded, and oak and ash reigned safe from overtowering rivals. They passed to the back of the house, and there George’s countenance fell a little, for on the oval grass-plot and gravel-walk he found from thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them diggers.

“Ah, well,” said he, on reflection, “we could not expect to have it all to ourselves, and indeed it would be a sin to wish it, you know. Now, Tom, come this way; here it is, here it is--there!” Tom looked up, and in a gigantic cage was a light brown bird.

He was utterly confounded. “What, is it _this_ we came twelve miles to see?”

“Ay! and twice twelve wouldn’t have been much to me.”

“Well, but what is the lark you talked of?”

“This is it!”

“This? This is a bird.”

“Well, and isn’t a lark a bird?”

“Oh, ay, I see! ha! ha! ha! ha!”

Robinson’s merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp.

“Hold your cackle,” cried one, “he is going to sing;” and the whole party had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird.

Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at noon, when the mistress of the house had warranted him to sing, the little feathered exile began, as it were, to tune his pipes. The savage men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the bird uttered some very uncertain chirps, but after a while he seemed to revive his memories, to call his ancient cadences back to him one by one, and to string them together.

And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more, till at last--amidst breathless silence and glistening eyes of the rough diggers hanging on his voice--out burst in that distant land his English song.

It swelled from his little throat and gushed from him with thrilling force and plenty, and every time he checked his song to think of its theme, the green meadows, the quiet stealing streams, the clover he first soared from and the spring he sang so well, a loud sigh from many a rough bosom, many a wild and wicked heart, told how tight the listeners had held their breath to hear him. And, when he swelled with song again, and poured with all his soul the green meadows, the quiet brooks, the honey-clover, and the English spring, the rugged mouths opened and so stayed, and the shaggy lips trembled, and more than one drop trickled from fierce unbridled hearts down bronzed and rugged cheeks.

Home! sweet home!

And these shaggy men, full of oaths and strife and cupidity, had once been white-headed boys, and had strolled about the English fields with little sisters and little brothers, and seen the lark rise, and heard him sing this very song. The little playmates lay in the churchyard, and they were full of oaths, and drink, and riot, and remorses; but no note was changed in this immortal song. And so, for a moment or two, years of vice rolled away like a dark cloud from the memory, and the past shone out in the sunshine; they came back, bright as the immortal notes that had lighted them, those faded pictures and those fleeted days; the cottage, the old mother’s tears, when he left her without one grain of sorrow; the village church and its simple chimes; the clover field hard by in which he lay and gambolled, while the lark praised God overhead; the chubby playmates that never grew to be wicked; the sweet hours of youth and innocence, and home!

“What will you take for him, mistress? I will give you five pounds for him!”

“No! no! I won’t take five pounds for my bird!”

“Of course she won’t,” cried another, “she wouldn’t be such a flat. Here, missus,” cried he, “I’ll give you that for him,” and he extended a brown hand with at least thirty new sovereigns glittering in it.

The woman trembled; she and her husband were just emerging from poverty after a hard fight.

“Oh!” she cried, “it is a shame to tempt a poor woman with so much gold. We had six brought over, and all died on the way but this one!” and she threw her white apron over her head, not to see the glittering bribe.

“Bother you, put the money up and don’t tempt the woman,” was the cry. Another added, “Why, you fool, it wouldn’t live a week if you had it,” and they all abused the man; but the woman turned to him kindly, and said:--

“You come to me every Sunday, and he shall sing to you. You will get more pleasure from him so,” said she sweetly, “than if he was always by you.”

“So I shall, old girl,” replied the rough, in a friendly tone.

George stayed till the lark gave up singing altogether, and then he said: “Now, I’m off. I don’t want to hear bad language after that: let us take the lark’s chirp home to bed with us.” And they made off; and true it was, the pure strains dwelt upon their spirits, and refreshed and purified these sojourners in an evil place.

--CHARLES READE.

* * * * *

A good example is the best sermon.

THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS

’Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay; ’Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide In ripples that reach to the forest side; ’Tis the fisherman’s boat, in a track of sheen, Plying through tangled seaweed green O’er the Baie des Chaleurs.

Who has not heard of the phantom light That over the moaning waves, at night, Dances and drifts in endless play, Close to the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter light that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs?

They tell us that many a year ago, From lands where the palm and the olive grow, Where vines with their purple clusters creep Over the hillsides gray and steep, A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold, Famed, in that chivalrous time of old, For valorous deeds and courage rare, Sailed with a princess wondrous fair To the Baie des Chaleurs.

That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea, A murderous band as e’er could be, With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night, That flaunted and flew in heaven’s sight, Sailed in the wake of the lovers there, And sank the ship and its freight so fair In the Baie des Chaleurs.

Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell: They say that a ball of fire fell Straight from the sky, with crash and roar, Lighting the bay from shore to shore; Then the ship, with shudder and with groan, Sank through the waves to the caverns lone Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

That was the last of the pirate crew; But many a night a black flag flew From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed By a spectre band that wept and wailed For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land, For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

This is the tale of the phantom light That fills the mariner’s heart, at night, With dread as it gleams o’er his path on the bay, Now by the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter moon that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs. --ARTHUR WENTWORTH EATON.

THE BEATITUDES

Blessed are the poor in spirit: For theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: For they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: For they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: For they shall be filled.

Blessed are the merciful: For they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: For they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: For they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: For theirs is the kingdom of heaven. --_From the Sermon on the Mount._

MAGGIE TULLIVER AND THE GYPSIES

The resolution that gathered in Maggie’s mind was not so simple as that of going home. No! she would run away and go to the gypsies, and Tom should never see her any more. That was by no means a new idea to Maggie. The gypsies, she considered, would gladly receive her, and pay her much respect on account of her superior knowledge. She had once mentioned her views on this point to her brother Tom and had suggested that he should stain his face brown, and they should run away together. But Tom had rejected the scheme with contempt, observing that gypsies were thieves, and that they hardly got anything to eat, and had nothing to drive but a donkey.

To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had reached a pitch at which gypsydom was her only refuge, and she rose from her seat on the roots of the tree with the sense that this was a great crisis in her life. She would run straight away till she came to Dunlow Common, where there would certainly be gypsies; and cruel Tom, and the rest of her relations who found fault with her, should never see her any more. She thought of her father, as she ran along, but determined that she would secretly send him a letter by a small gypsy, who would run away without telling where she was, and just let him know that she was well and happy and always loved him very much.

It seemed to Maggie that she had been running a very great distance indeed, and it was really surprising that the Common did not come within sight. At last, however, the green fields came to an end, and she found herself looking through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide margin of grass on each side of it. She crept through the bars and walked on with a new spirit. It was not, however, without a leaping of the heart that she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock. It was a boy asleep, and she trotted along faster and more lightly, lest she should wake him. It did not occur to her that he was one of her friends, the gypsies, who probably would have very kindly manners. But the fact was so, for at the next bend in the lane she really saw the little black tent with the blue smoke rising before it, which was to be her refuge. She even saw a tall female figure by the column of smoke, doubtless the gypsy mother, who provided the tea and other groceries.

It was plain she had attracted attention. For the tall figure, who proved to be a young woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet her.

“My little lady, where are you going?” the gypsy said, in a coaxing tone.

It was delightful, and just what she expected. The gypsies saw at once that she was a little lady, and were prepared to treat her accordingly.

“Not any farther,” said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what she had rehearsed in a dream. “I’m coming to stay with _you_, please.”

“That’s pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, to be sure!” said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought her very agreeable, but wished she had not been so dirty.

There was quite a group round the fire when they reached it. An old gypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, and poking a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth an odorous steam. Two small shock-headed children were lying prone and resting on their elbows; and a placid donkey was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her back, was scratching his nose and indulging him with a bite of excellent stolen hay.

The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scene was really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hoped they would soon set out the teacups.

At last the old woman said: “What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit down and tell us where you come from.”

It was just like a story. Maggie liked to be called pretty lady and treated in this way. She sat down, and said:--

“I’m come from home because I’m unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I’ll live with you if you like, and I can teach you a great many things.”

“Such a clever little lady,” said the woman with the baby, sitting down by Maggie, and allowing the baby to crawl. “And such a pretty bonnet and frock,” she added, taking off Maggie’s bonnet, and looking at it while she made a remark to the old woman, in an unknown language. The tall girl snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremost, with a grin. But Maggie was determined not to show any weakness on this subject.

“I don’t want to wear a bonnet,” she said; “I’d rather wear a red handkerchief, like yours.”

“Oh, what a nice little lady!--and rich, I’m sure,” said the old woman. “Didn’t you live in a beautiful house at home?”

“Yes; my home is pretty, and I’m very fond of the river, where we go fishing, but I’m often very unhappy. I should have liked to bring my books with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tell you almost everything there is in my books; I’ve read them so many times, and that will amuse you. And I can tell you something about geography, too,--that’s about the world we live in,--very useful and interesting. Did you ever hear about Columbus?”

“Is that where you live, my little lady?” said the old woman, at the mention of Columbus.

“Oh, no!” said Maggie, with some pity. “Columbus was a very wonderful man, who found out half the world, and they put chains on him and treated him very badly, you know. It’s in my geography, but perhaps it’s rather too long to tell before tea--I want my tea so.” The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself.

“Why, she’s hungry, poor little lady,” said the younger woman. “Give her some of the cold victuals. You’ve been walking a good way, I’ll be bound, my dear. Where’s your home?”

“It’s Dorlcote Mill, a long way off,” said Maggie. “My father is Mr. Tulliver, but we musn’t let him know where I am, or he will take me home again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?”

“What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?” said the younger woman. The tall girl, meanwhile, was constantly staring at Maggie and grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.

“No,” said Maggie; “I’m only thinking that if she isn’t a very good queen you might be glad when she died, and you could choose another. If I were a queen, I’d be a very good queen, and kind to everybody.”

“Here’s a bit of nice victuals, then,” said the old woman, handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread, which she had taken from a bag of scraps, and a piece of cold bacon.

“Thank you,” said Maggie, looking at the food without taking it; “but will you give me some bread and butter and tea, instead? I don’t like bacon.”

“We’ve got no tea or butter,” said the old woman, with something like a scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing.

“Oh, a little bread and treacle would do,” said Maggie.

“We’ve got no treacle,” said the old woman, crossly.

Then the old woman, seeming to forget Maggie’s hunger, poked the skewer into the pot with new vigor, and the younger crept under the tent and reached out some platters and spoons. Maggie trembled a little, and was afraid the tears would come into her eyes. But the springing tears were checked by new terror, when two men came up. The elder of the two carried a bag, which he flung down, addressing the women in a loud and scolding tone.

Both the men now seemed to be asking about Maggie, for they looked at her. At last the younger woman said in her coaxing tone, “This nice little lady’s come to live with us; aren’t you glad?”

“Ay, very glad,” said the younger man, who was looking at Maggie’s silver thimble and other small matters that had been taken from her pocket. He returned them all, except the thimble, to the younger woman, with some remark, and she put them again in Maggie’s pocket. The men seated themselves, and began to attack the contents of the kettle,--a stew of meat and potatoes,--which had been taken off the fire and turned out into a yellow platter.

Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the gypsies; they must certainly be thieves, unless the man meant to return her thimble by and by. She would willingly have given it to him, for she was not at all attached to her thimble. But the idea that she was among thieves prevented her from feeling any comfort. The women saw that she was frightened.

“We’ve nothing nice for a lady to eat,” said the old woman. “And she’s so hungry, sweet little lady.”

“Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit of this,” said the younger woman, handing some of the stew in a brown dish, with an iron spoon, to Maggie, who remembered that the old woman had seemed angry with her for not liking the bread and bacon, and dared not refuse the stew, though fear had chased away her appetite. If her father would only come by in the gig and take her up!

“What! you don’t like the smell of it, my dear,” said the young woman, observing that Maggie did not even take a spoonful of the stew. “Try a bit, come.”

“No, thank you,” said Maggie, trying to smile in a friendly way. “I haven’t time, I think; it seems getting darker. I think I must go home now, and come again another day, and then I can bring you a basket with some jam tarts and things.”

Maggie rose from her seat; but her hope sank when the old gypsy woman said, “Stop a bit, stop a bit, little lady; we’ll take you home, all safe, when we’ve done supper; you shall ride home, like a lady.”

Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though she presently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the donkey, and throwing a couple of bags on his back.

“Now, then, little missis,” said the younger man, rising, and leading the donkey forward, “tell us where you live; what’s the name of the place?”

“Dorlcote Mill is my home,” said Maggie, eagerly. “My father is Mr. Tulliver; he lives there.”

“What! a big mill a little way this side of St. Ogg’s?”

“Yes,” said Maggie. “Is it far off? I think I should like to walk there, if you please.”

“No, no, it’ll be getting dark; we must make haste. And the donkey’ll carry you as nice as can be; you’ll see.”

He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the donkey. She felt relieved that it was not the old man who was going with her, but she had only a trembling hope that she was really going home.

“Here’s your pretty bonnet,” said the younger woman, putting it on Maggie’s head; “and you’ll say we’ve been very good to you, won’t you? and what a nice little lady we said you were.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Maggie; “I’m very much obliged to you. But I wish you’d go with me, too.” She thought that anything was better than going with one of the dreadful men alone.

“Ah, you’re fondest of me, aren’t you?” said the woman. “But I can’t go; you’ll go too fast for me.”

It now appeared that the man also was to be seated on the donkey, holding Maggie before him, and no nightmare had ever seemed to her more horrible. When the woman had patted her on the back, and said “Good-by,” the donkey set off at a rapid walk along the lane towards the point Maggie had come from an hour ago.

At last--oh, sight of joy!--this lane, the longest in the world, was coming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there was actually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at the corner,--she had surely seen that finger-post before,--“To St. Ogg’s, 2 miles.”

The gypsy really meant to take her home, then; he was probably a good man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought that she didn’t like coming with him alone. This idea became stronger as she felt more and more certain that she knew the road quite well. She was thinking how she might open a conversation with the injured gypsy, when, as they reached a cross-road, Maggie caught sight of some one coming on a white-faced horse.

“Oh, stop, stop!” she cried out. “There’s my father! Oh, father, father!”

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father reached her, she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver’s wonder, for he had made a round from Basset, and had not yet been home.

“Why, what’s the meaning of this?” he said, checking his horse, while Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her father’s stirrup.

“The little miss lost herself, I reckon,” said the gypsy. “She’d come to our tent at the far end of Dunlow Lane, and I was bringing her where she said her home was. It’s a good way to come after being on the tramp all day.”

“Oh, yes, father, he’s been very good to bring me home,” said Maggie. “A very kind, good man!”

“Here, then, my man,” said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five shillings. “It’s the best day’s work you ever did. I couldn’t afford to lose the little lass; here, lift her up before me.”

“Why, Maggie, how’s this, how’s this?” he said, as they rode along, while she laid her head against her father and sobbed. “How came you to be rambling about and lose yourself?”

“Oh, father,” sobbed Maggie, “I ran away because I was so unhappy. Tom was so angry with me. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Pooh, pooh,” said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly; “you mustn’t think of running away from father. What would father do without his little lass?”

“Oh, no; I never shall again, father--never.”

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached home that evening; and the effect was seen in the fact that Maggie never heard one reproach from her mother or one taunt from Tom about this foolish business of her running away to the gypsies.--GEORGE ELIOT.

* * * * *

He is idle that might be better employed.

LADY CLARE

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long-betroth’d were they: They two will wed the morrow morn: God’s blessing on the day!

“He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,” said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, “Who was this that went from thee?” “It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare, “To-morrow he weds with me.”

“O God be thank’d!” said Alice the nurse, “That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.”

“Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?” Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak so wild?” “As God’s above,” said Alice the nurse, “I speak the truth: you are my child.