Part 15

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke: That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash from the straightest trees; The panels of white-wood that cuts like cheese But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,” Last of its timber--they couldn’t sell ’em; Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he “put her through.”-- “There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew.” Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and Deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren--where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon Earthquake-day!

Eighteen hundred: it came and found The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten-- “Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came-- Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty and fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.--You’re welcome.--No extra charge.)

First of November--the Earthquake-day: There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay; A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn’t be, for the Deacon’s art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn’t a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, ’Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. “Huddup!” said the parson.--Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday text-- Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the--Moses--was coming next. All at once the horse stood still Close by the meet’n’-house on the hill. --First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill, And the parson was sitting upon a rock At half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock-- Just the hour of the Earthquake-shock! --What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once-- All at once, and nothing first-- Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That’s all I say. --OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

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Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest. --Shakespeare.

WILLIAM TELL AND HIS SON

The sun already shone brightly as William Tell entered the town of Altorf, and he advanced at once to the public place, where the first object that caught his eyes was a handsome cap embroidered with gold stuck upon the end of a long pole. Soldiers were walking around it in silence, and the people of Altorf as they passed bowed their heads to the symbol of authority. The cap had been set up by Gessler, the Austrian commander, for the purpose of discovering those who were not submissive to the Austrian power, which had ruled the people of the Swiss Cantons for a long time with great severity. He suspected that the people were about to break into rebellion, and with a view to learn who were the most discontented, he had placed the ducal cap of Austria on this pole, publicly proclaiming that every one passing near, or within sight of it, should bow before it in proof of his homage to the duke.

Tell was much surprised at this new and strange attempt to humble the people, and leaning on his crossbow, gazed scornfully on them and the soldiers. The captain of the guard at length observed this man, who alone amidst the cringing crowd carried his head erect. He ordered him to be seized and disarmed by the soldiers and then conducted him to Gessler, who put some questions to him. These he answered so haughtily that Gessler was both surprised and angry. Suddenly he was struck by the likeness between him and the boy Walter Tell, whom he had seized and put in prison the previous day for uttering some seditious words. He immediately asked his name, which he no sooner heard than he knew him to be the archer so famous as the best marksman in the Canton.

Gessler at once resolved to punish both father and son at the same time, by a method which was perhaps the most refined act of torture that man ever imagined. As soon, then, as the youth was brought out, the governor turned to Tell and said: “I have often heard of your great skill as an archer and I now intend to put it to the proof. Your son shall be placed at a distance of a hundred yards with an apple on his head. If you strike the apple with your arrow, I shall pardon you both, but if you refuse this trial, your son shall die before your eyes.”

Tell implored Gessler to spare him so cruel a trial, in which he might perhaps kill his beloved boy with his own hand. The governor would not alter his purpose, so Tell at last agreed to shoot at the apple as the only chance of saving his son’s life. Walter stood with his back to a linden tree. Gessler, some distance behind, watched every motion. His crossbow and one arrow were handed to Tell; he tried the point, broke the weapon, and demanded his quiver. It was brought to him, and emptied at his feet. He stooped down and, taking a long time to choose an arrow, managed to hide a second in his girdle.

After being in doubt for some time, his whole soul beaming in his face, his love for his son rendering him almost powerless, he at length roused himself--drew the bow--aimed--shot--and the apple, struck to the core, was carried away by the arrow.

The market-place was filled with loud cheers. Walter flew to embrace his father, who, overcome by his emotions, fell fainting to the ground, thus exposing the second arrow to view. Gessler stood over him awaiting his recovery, which speedily taking place, Tell rose and turned away with horror from the governor, who, however, scarcely yet believing his senses, thus addressed him: “Incomparable archer, I shall keep my promise; but what needed you with that second arrow which I see in your girdle?” Tell replied that it was the custom of the bowmen of Uri to have always one arrow in reserve. “Nay, nay,” said Gessler, “tell me your real motive, and, whatever it may have been, speak frankly, and your life is spared.” “The second shaft,” replied Tell, “was to pierce your heart, tyrant, if I had chanced to harm my son.”

--CHAMBERS’ _Tracts_.

SAINT CHRISTOPHER

For many a year Saint Christopher Served God in many a land; And master painters drew his face, With loving heart and hand, On altar fronts and churches’ walls; And peasants used to say,-- To look on good Saint Christopher Brought luck for all the day.

For many a year, in lowly hut, The giant dwelt content Upon the bank, and back and forth Across the stream he went; And on his giant shoulders bore All travellers who came, By night, by day, or rich or poor, All in King Jesus’ name.

But much he doubted if the King His work would note or know, And often with a weary heart He waded to and fro. One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay, He sudden heard a call,-- “O Christopher, come, carry me!” He sprang, looked out, but all

Was dark and silent on the shore. “It must be that I dreamed,” He said, and laid him down again; But instantly there seemed Again the feeble, distant cry,-- “Oh, come and carry me!” Again he sprang and looked; again No living thing could see.

The third time came the plaintive voice, Like infant’s, soft and weak;

With lantern strode the giant forth, More carefully to seek. Down on the bank a little child He found,--a piteous sight,-- Who, weeping, earnestly implored To cross that very night.

With gruff good-will he picked him up, And on his neck to ride He tossed him, as men play with babes, And plunged into the tide. But as the water closed around His knees, the infant’s weight Grew heavier and heavier, Until it was so great

The giant scarce could stand upright, His staff shook in his hand, His mighty knees bent under him, He barely reached the land. And, staggering, set the infant down, And turned to scan his face; When, lo! he saw a halo bright Which lit up all the place.

Then Christopher fell down, afraid At marvel of the thing, And dreamed not that it was the face Of Jesus Christ, his King, Until the infant spoke, and said: “O Christopher, behold! I am the Lord whom thou hast served. Rise up, be glad and bold!

“For I have seen, and noted well, Thy works of charity; And that thou art my servant good A token thou shalt see. Plant firmly here upon this bank Thy stalwart staff of pine, And it shall blossom and bear fruit, This very hour, in sign.”

Then, vanishing, the infant smiled. The giant, left alone, Saw on the bank, with luscious dates, His stout pine staff bent down.

I think the lesson is as good To-day as it was then-- As good to us called Christians As to the heathen men,-- The lesson of Saint Christopher, Who spent his strength for others, And saved his soul by working hard To help and save his brothers! --HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

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Who sows his corn in the fields trusts in God.

GENERAL BROCK

One voice, one people,--one in heart And soul, and feeling, and desire! Relight the smouldering martial fire, Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre. The hero-deed cannot expire; The dead still play their part.

Raise high the monumental stone! A nation’s fealty is theirs, And we are the rejoicing heirs, The honored sons of sires whose cares We take upon us unawares, As freely as our own.

We boast not of the victory, But render homage, deep and just, To his--to their--immortal dust, Who proved so worthy of their trust, No lofty pile nor sculptured bust Can herald their degree.

No tongue can blazon forth their fame-- The cheers that stir the sacred hill Are but mere promptings of the will That conquered then, that conquers still; And generations yet shall thrill At Brock’s remembered name. --CHARLES SANGSTER.

AN ICEBERG

At twelve o’clock we went below, and had just got through dinner, when the cook put his head down the scuttle and told us to come on deck and see the finest sight we had ever seen. “Where away, Doctor?” asked the first man who was up. “On the larboard bow.” And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles off, an immense, irregular mass, its top and points covered with snow, and its centre of a deep indigo color. This was an iceberg, and of the largest size, as one of our men said who had been in the Northern Ocean. As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running high and fresh, and sparkling in the light, and in the midst lay this immense mountain-island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, and its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun.

All hands were soon on deck, looking at it, and admiring in various ways its beauty and grandeur. But no description can give any idea of the strangeness, splendor, and, really, the sublimity of the sight. Its great size,--for it must have been from two to three miles in circumference and several hundred feet in height,--its slow motion, as its base rose and sank in the water and its high points nodded against the clouds; the dashing of the waves upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its base with a white crust; and the thundering sound of the crackling of the mass, and the breaking and tumbling down of huge pieces, together with its nearness and approach, which added a slight element of fear,--all combined to give it the character of true sublimity.

The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of an indigo color, its base incrusted with frozen foam; and as it grew thin and transparent towards the edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue to the whiteness of snow. It seemed to be drifting slowly towards the north, so that we kept away and avoided it.

It was in sight all the afternoon; and when we got to leeward of it the wind died away, so that we lay to, quite near it for the greater part of the night. Unfortunately, there was no moon, but it was a clear night, and we could plainly mark the long, regular heaving of the stupendous mass, as its edges moved slowly against the stars, now revealing them, and now shutting them in. Several times in our watch loud cracks were heard, and several pieces fell down, plunging heavily into the sea. Towards morning a strong breeze sprang up, and we sailed away, and left it astern. At daylight it was out of sight.

--RICHARD HENRY DANA.

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To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.--SHAKESPEARE.

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ

Girt round with rugged mountains The fair Lake Constance lies; In her blue heart reflected, Shine back the starry skies; And, watching each white cloudlet Float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven Lies on our earth below!

Midnight is there: and Silence, Enthroned in Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, Upon a sleeping town: For Bregenz, that quaint city Upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance A thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers, From off their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadow For ages on the deep. Mountain and lake and valley A sacred legend know, Of how the town was saved one night Three hundred years ago.

Far from her home and kindred A Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, And toil for daily bread; And every year that fleeted So silently and fast Seemed to bear farther from her The memory of the Past.

She spoke no more of Bregenz With longing and with tears; Her Tyrol home seemed faded In a deep mist of years; Yet, when her master’s children Would clustering round her stand, She sang them ancient ballads Of her own native land;

And when at morn and evening She knelt before God’s throne, The accents of her childhood Rose to her lips alone. And so she dwelt: the valley More peaceful year by year; When suddenly strange portents Of some great deed seemed near.

One day, out in the meadow, With strangers from the town Some secret plan discussing, The men walked up and down. At eve they all assembled; Then care and doubt were fled; With jovial laugh they feasted; The board was nobly spread.

The elder of the village Rose up, his glass in hand, And cried, “We drink the downfall Of an accursed land! The night is growing darker; Ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foeman’s stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own!”

The women shrank in terror, Yet Pride, too, had her part; But one poor Tyrol maiden Felt death within her heart. Nothing she heard around her, Though shouts rang forth again; Gone were the green Swiss valleys, The pasture and the plain;

Before her eyes one vision, And in her heart one cry That said, “Go forth! save Bregenz, And then, if need be, die!” With trembling haste and breathless, With noiseless step she sped; Horses and weary cattle Were standing in the shed;

She loosed the strong white charger That fed from out her hand; She mounted, and she turned his head Towards her native land. Out--out into the darkness-- Faster, and still more fast;-- The smooth grass flies behind her, The chestnut wood is past;

She looks up; clouds are heavy; Why is her steed so slow?-- Scarcely the wind beside them Can pass them as they go. “Faster!” she cries, “oh, faster!” Eleven the church bells chime; “O God,” she cries, “help Bregenz, And bring me there in time!”

But louder than bells’ ringing, Or lowing of the kine, Grows nearer in the midnight The rushing of the Rhine. She strives to pierce the blackness, And looser throws the rein; Her steed must breast the waters That dash above his mane.

How gallantly, how nobly, He struggles through the foam! And see--in the far distance Shine out the lights of home! Up the steep bank he bears her, And now they rush again Towards the heights of Bregenz That tower above the plain.

They reach the gates of Bregenz Just as the midnight rings, And out come serf and soldier To meet the news she brings. Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight Her battlements are manned; Defiance greets the army That marches on the land.

Three hundred years are vanished, And yet upon the hill An old stone gateway rises To do her honor still. And there, when Bregenz women Sit spinning in the shade, They see in quaint old carving The Charger and the Maid.

And when, to guard old Bregenz By gateway, street, and tower, The warder paces all night long And calls each passing hour; “Nine,” “ten,” “eleven,” he cries aloud, And then (Oh, crown of Fame!), When midnight pauses in the skies, He calls the maiden’s name! --ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

GLUCK’S VISITOR

In a secluded and mountainous part of Styria there was, in old time, a valley of the most surprising fertility. It was surrounded on all sides by steep and rocky mountains, rising into peaks, which were always covered with snow, and from which a number of torrents descended in constant cataracts. One of these fell westwards over the face of a crag so high that when the sun had set to everything else, and all below was darkness, his beams still shone full upon this waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was, therefore, called by the people of the neighborhood the Golden River. It was strange that none of these streams fell into the valley itself. They all descended on the other side of the mountains, and wound away through broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds were drawn so constantly to the snowy hills that in time of drought and heat, when all the country round was burnt up, there was still rain in the little valley; and its crops were so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to every one who beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley.

The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers called Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers, were very ugly men, with overhanging eyebrows and small dull eyes, which were always half shut, so that you couldn’t see into _them_, and always fancied that they saw very far into _you_. They lived by farming the Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they were.

They killed everything that did not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds because they pecked the fruit, they poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs in the kitchen, and smothered the locusts, which used to sing all summer in the lime trees. They worked their servants without any wages till they would not work any more, and then quarrelled with them, and turned them out of doors without paying them. It would have been very odd, if, with such a farm and such a system of farming, they hadn’t got very rich; and very rich they _did_ get. They generally contrived to hold their own grain until it was very dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that they had given so much as a penny or a crust in charity. They were, in a word, of so cruel and grinding a temper as to receive from all those with whom they had any dealings the nickname of the “Black Brothers.”

The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined or desired. He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed, and kind in temper to every living thing. He did not, of course, agree particularly well with his brothers; or, rather, they did not agree with _him_. He was usually appointed to the honorable office of turnspit,--when there was anything to roast, which was not often; for, to do the brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon themselves than upon other people. At other times he used to clean the shoes, floors, and sometimes the plates,--occasionally getting what was left upon them by way of encouragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry blows by way of education.

Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet summer, and everything went wrong in the country around. The hay had hardly been got in when the haystacks were floated bodily down to the sea by a flood; the vines were cut to pieces by the hail; the grain was all killed by a black blight; only in the Treasure Valley, as usual, all was safe. As it had rain when there was rain nowhere else, so it had sun when there was sun nowhere else. Everybody came to buy grain at the farm, and went away pouring curses on the “Black Brothers.” They asked what they liked and got it, except from the poor people, who could only beg, and several of whom were starved at their very door without the slightest regard or notice.