PART IV

LITERATURE AND LIFE IN THE HOMELAND

_“One flag, one land, one heart, one hand,_ _One Nation evermore!”_

—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

LITERATURE AND LIFE IN THE HOMELAND

INTRODUCTION

It is a hard thing to picture to ourselves our Homeland. Is America just a lot of cities and towns and farms, or a collection of so many thousands of square miles of prairies and mountains, the sort of thing one would see from an airplane if one could get up high enough and had good enough eyes? Or is it a collection of states with queer boundary lines that look plainer on a map than they do when we cross them in the train? There are people who try to find America in some motto or symbol. One of our great cities has for its motto the words “I will,” and the people who live in that city like to think that the enterprise by which they build great industries and give work to great numbers of people is the expression of their Americanism. And some people see in the Statue of Liberty in the New York harbor, a statue holding aloft a blazing torch to give light to all people, the symbol that best expresses the spirit of America.

Both the motto and the statue help us to see our country as something more than a part of a book called “Geography” or “History.” Both of them express what America had always been to its citizens and what it became to the world in 1917. We did not desire to enter the war, but when it became necessary to do so no true American hesitated. There were great difficulties: an army to raise and equip and train so that it could meet an army that had been preparing for forty years to fight the world; an army to be transported over three thousand miles of water, a terrific task even in normal times, but made a hundred-fold harder because of the monsters that lurked under the sea waiting a chance to send a transport to the bottom. And once across, there were docks and railroads to be built and a great industrial organization to be set going. But the will of America was triumphant and the job was done. And the statue, like the “I will,” is a symbol of the spirit in America that has helped the spirit of liberty throughout the world, so that we now know the day is coming when all peoples, everywhere, shall be free. We can make a beginning, therefore, in our effort to form a picture of what America means, by thinking of this Statue of Liberty and of these words of high purpose, “I will.”

But we must fill in the picture. No statue will do, for it, after all, is lifeless. No motto will do, for it is only a phrase, an inscription. A photograph on which you have written a date or the record of a happy meeting with your friend, is very interesting indeed, and helps you to call to mind your friend. But in reality the photograph merely suggests to you your friend and your happy times together. Your friend has many moods, now sad, now gay. Your friend looks different at different times. The history of your friendship has many events in it, and all these go together, a thousand details, to make up your own idea “this is my friend.” So it is with America. History and legend, the knowledge of past events, must acquaint us with our country as with our friend. Infinite variety of mood she has, now stern and grave like her mountains, now placid like her vast expanse of prairie or her waving fields of grain; now laughing like the waters in the sunlight, or beautiful in anger as mighty storms sweep hill and plain. And infinite, again, are her activities—great factories and mills, lofty office buildings filled with workers, trains speeding like mighty shuttles through vast distances, farms filled with growing food for a world. All these you must bring into your picture, and more, for infinite, also, are the ideals and hopes that go to make up this many-sided personality that we name Our Country.

The selections that follow will help you to make this picture that is to be more to us than a statue or a photograph. Some of them are little views, snapshots of our nation’s childhood. Others are pictures of various moods or appearances of the later America. Some show the spirit of laughter in America; others give some of the songs of America; and at the end are a few pictures of America at work. All will help, but they are only an imperfect and brief introduction to a subject that is going to interest you all through your life: What is America to me, and what can I do to make her happy?

EARLY AMERICA

THE CHARACTER OF COLUMBUS

ARCHBISHOP CORRIGAN

To us it is given to behold in its full splendor what Columbus, like another Moses on the borders of the Land of Promise, could only discern in dim and distant outlines. And, therefore, with Italy, the land of his birth; with Spain, the land of his adoption; with the other nations of the globe who are debtors to his daring, we gladly swell the universal chorus in his honor of praise and of thanksgiving.

In 1792 the ocean separated us by a journey of seventy days from Europe; our self-government was looked upon as a problem still to be solved; at home, facilities of travel and of intercommunication were yet to be provided. More than this, the unworthy innuendoes, the base as well as baseless charges that sought to tarnish the fair fame of Columbus, had not been removed by patient historical research and critical acumen. Fortunately, these clouds that gathered around the exploits of the great discoverer have been almost entirely dispelled, thanks especially to the initiative of a son of our Empire State, the immortal Washington Irving.

I beg to present Columbus as a man of science and a man of faith. As a scientist, considering the time in which he lived, he eminently deserves our respect. Both in theory and in practice he was one of the best geographers and cosmographers of the age. According to reliable historians, before he set out to discover new seas, he had navigated the whole extent of those already known. Moreover, he had studied so many authors and to such advantage that Alexander von Humboldt affirmed: “When we consider his life we must feel astonishment at the extent of his literary acquaintance.”

Columbus took nothing for granted. While he bowed reverently to the teachings of his faith, he brushed away as cobwebs certain interpretations of Scripture more fanciful than real, and calmly maintained that the Word of God cannot be in conflict with scientific truth. The project of bearing Christ over the waters sank deeply into his heart. Time and again he alludes to it as the main object of his researches and the aim of his labors. Other motives of action undoubtedly he had, but they were a means to an end.

Moreover, may we not reasonably assume that the great navigator, after all, was a willing instrument in the hands of God? The old order was changing. Three great inventions, already beginning to exert a most potent influence, were destined to revolutionize the world—the printing-press, which led to the revival of learning; the use of gun-powder, which changed the methods of warfare; the mariner’s compass, which permitted the sailor to tempt boldly even unknown seas.

These three great factors of civilization, each in its own way, so stimulated human thought that the discovery of America was plainly in the designs of that Providence which “reacheth from end to end mightily and ordereth all things sweetly.”

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Michael Augustine Corrigan (1839-1902) was born in Newark, New Jersey. He became Archbishop of New York and was a distinguished Prelate. This selection is taken from a Columbus Day address he gave in Chicago in 1892.

=Discussion.= 1. Explain the comparison found in the second line. 2. What claims does the author make for Columbus as a scientific man? 3. What great inventions occurred previous to Columbus’s voyage that affected his discovery of America? 4. Do you think the spirit of adventure had something to do with Columbus’s discovery? Pronounce the following: government; acumen; exploits; geographers; alludes.

=Phrases=

unworthy innuendoes, 405, 11 critical acumen, 405, 14 potent influence, 406, 22 factors of civilization, 406, 27

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS

FELICIA HEMANS

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o’er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave’s foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roared— This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band; Why had _they_ come to wither there, Away from their childhood’s land?

There was woman’s fearless eye, Lit by her deep love’s truth; There was manhood’s brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod. They have left unstained what there they found— Freedom to worship God.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Felicia Hemans (1793-1835), an English poet, was born in Liverpool. She began to write poetry when young, and in 1819 won a prize of £50 offered for the best poem on “The Meeting of Wallace and Bruce on the Banks of the Carron.” She is best known by her short poems, some of which have become standard English lyrics, such as “The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers,” “Treasures of the Deep,” and “Casabianca.”

=Discussion.= 1. What picture do the first two stanzas give you? 2. Compare the coming of a conqueror with the coming of these early settlers. 3. What different kinds of persons composed the “pilgrim band”? 4. Why did they come to this new country? 5. Why does the poet say “holy ground”? 6. What legacy have the Pilgrims left us?

=Phrases=

hung dark, 407, 5 stirring drums, 407, 11 hoary hair, 408, 1 pilgrim band, 408, 2 spoils of war, 408, 11 faith’s pure shrine, 408, 12

PHILIP OF POKANOKET

AN INDIAN MEMOIR

WASHINGTON IRVING

As monumental bronze unchanged his look; A soul that pity touch’d but never shook; Train’d from his tree-rock’d cradle to his bier, The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive—fearing but the shame of fear— A stoic of the woods—a man without a tear.

CAMPBELL.

It is to be regretted that those early writers, who treated of the discovery and settlement of America, have not given us more particular and candid accounts of the remarkable characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full of peculiarity and interest; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a comparatively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature; in witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving those generous and romantic qualities which have been artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence.

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined away, or softened down by the leveling influence of what is termed good-breeding; and he practices so many petty deceptions, and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of polished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice.

These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive even from these partial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the blood of the aborigines; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest; how merciless and exterminating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how many intellectual beings were hunted from the earth, how many brave and noble hearts, of nature’s sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled in the dust!

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of New England; a band of native untaught heroes, who made the most generous struggle of which human nature is capable; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition.

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, and that number rapidly perishing away through sickness and hardships; surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes; exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate; their minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from sinking into despondency but the strong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories, into which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended toward them the rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful of followers, entered into a solemn league of peace and amity; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men; suffering them to extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves in the land; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly before his death he came once more to New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his posterity.

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries; and stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off his people from their ancient faith; but, finding the English obstinately opposed to any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the English), to the residence of a principal settler, recommending mutual kindness and confidence; and entreating that the same love and amity which had existed between the white men and himself might be continued afterwards with his children. The good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe; his children remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white men.

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation; and he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narragansets to rise against the English and drive them from the land. It is impossible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts or was grounded on mere suspicion. It is evident, however, by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They despatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring him before their courts. He was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting house, where he was reposing with a band of his followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage, as to throw him into a raging fever. He was permitted to return home, on condition of sending his son as a pledge for his reappearance; but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he had reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit.

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was accused of having always cherished a secret and implacable hostility toward the whites. Such may very probably, and very naturally, have been the case. He considered them as originally but mere intruders into the country, who had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an influence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his countrymen melting before them from the face of the earth; their territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may be said that the soil was originally purchased by the settlers; but who does not know the nature of Indian purchases, in the early periods of colonization? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains through their superior adroitness in traffic; and they gained vast accessions of territory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges; and it was enough for Philip to know that before the intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers.

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with the settlers, and resided peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope, the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and substance; and he was at length charged with attempting to instigate the various Eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due to these early accusations against the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence, on the part of the whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. Informers abounded where talebearing met with countenance and reward; and the sword was readily unsheathed when its success was certain, and it carved out empire.

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as Philip’s confidential secretary and counselor and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his service and went over to the whites; and, in order to gain their favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting against their safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to retract; they had previously determined that Philip was a dangerous neighbor; they had publicly evinced their distrust; and had done enough to insure his hostility; according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and counselor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable witness, were condemned and executed as murderers.

This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punishment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust himself no longer in the power of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind and he had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously despatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him; persuaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause; sent the women and children to the Narragansets for safety; and, wherever he appeared, was continually surrounded by armed warriors.

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, and committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed by a settler. This was the signal for open hostilities; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth colony.

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the wildness of their situation, among trackless forests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. They were much given also to a belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and public calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a “prodigious apparition,” At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in their neighborhood, “was heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a considerable echo.” Others were alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning, by the discharge of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the westward; others fancied that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads; and certain monstrous births, which took place about the time, filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena: to the northern lights which occur vividly in those latitudes; the meteors which explode in the air; the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the forest; the crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks; and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been exaggerated by the love of the marvelous, and listened to with that avidity with which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. The universal currency of these superstitious fancies, and the grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly characteristic of the times.

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill and success; but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their antagonists; on the part of the Indians it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence, and decay.

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergyman of the time, who dwells with horror and indignation on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor, without considering that he was a true born prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family, to retrieve the tottering power of his line, and to deliver his native land from the oppression of usurping strangers.

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, had it not been prematurely discovered, might have been overwhelming in its consequences. The war that actually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere succession of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip; and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility of expedients, a contempt of suffering and hardship, and an unconquerable resolution, that command our sympathy and applause.

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that skirted the settlements, and were almost impervious to anything but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were now and then indications of these impending ravages, that filled the minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. The report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodlands, where there was known to be no white man; the cattle which had been wandering in the woods would sometimes return home wounded; or an Indian or two would be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, and suddenly disappearing; as the lightning will sometimes be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the tempest.

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to all search or inquiry, until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his strongholds were the great swamps or morasses, which extend in some parts of New England; composed of loose bogs of deep black mud; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and moldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds rendered them almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian could thread their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and frightful recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance to the Neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought of starving out the foe; but Philip and his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of the night, leaving the women and children behind; and escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of war among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, and threatening the colony of Connecticut.

In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness; whose coming none could foresee, and against which none knew when to be on the alert. The whole country abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of ubiquity; for, in whatever part of the widely-extended frontier an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many superstitious notions also were circulated concerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and incantations. This indeed was frequently the case with Indian chiefs; either through their own credulity, or to act upon that of their followers; and the influence of the prophet and the dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in recent instances of savage warfare.

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Narragansets. He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the perfidious instigations of the settlers. “He was the heir,” says the old chronicler, “of all his father’s pride and insolence, as well as of his malice toward the English”;—he certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his murder. Though he had forborne to take an active part in this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces with open arms; and gave them the most generous countenance and support. This at once drew upon him the hostility of the English; and it was determined to strike a signal blow that should involve both the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force was, therefore, gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be traversed with comparative facility, and would no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians.

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress; where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp; it was constructed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of these two chieftains.

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, through December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first attack, and several of their bravest officers were shot down in the act of storming the fortress sword in hand. The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodgment was effected. The Indians were driven from one post to another. They disputed their ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to pieces; and after a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding forest.

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort; the whole was soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the women, and the children perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame even the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring woods resounded with the yells of rage and despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors, as they beheld the destruction of their dwellings, and heard the agonizing cries of their wives and offspring. “The burning of the wigwams,” says a contemporary writer, “the shrieks and cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers.” The same writer cautiously adds, “They were in _much doubt_ then, and afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning their enemies alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevolent principles of the Gospel.”

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of particular mention: the last scene of his life is one of the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity.

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared that “he would fight it out to the last man, rather than become a servant to the English.” His home being destroyed, his country harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors, he was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut; where he formed a rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the English settlements.

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adventurers had passed safely through the Pequod country, and were in the center of the Narraganset, resting at some wigwams near Pawtucket River, when an alarm was given of an approaching enemy. Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet dispatched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill, to bring intelligence of the foe.

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. He attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit.

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards confessed, “his heart and his bowels turned within him, and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength.”

To such a degree was he unnerved that, being seized by a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and boldness of heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride of his spirit arose within him; and from that moment we find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the English who first came up with him, and who had not attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, “You are a child—you cannot understand matters of war—let your brother or your chief come—him will I answer.”

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind to the great body of his subjects; saying that he knew none of them would comply. Being reproached with his breach of faith toward the whites, his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag’s nail, and his threat that he would burn the English alive in their houses, he disdained to justify himself, haughtily answering that others were as forward for the war as himself, and he desired to hear no more thereof.

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous and the brave; but Canonchet was an Indian, a being toward whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no compassion—he was condemned to die. The last words of him that are recorded are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was passed upon him, he observed that he liked it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken any thing unworthy of himself. His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his own rank.

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up the Mohawks to take arms; but though possessed of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. Some were suborned by the whites; others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which they were harassed. His stores were all captured; his chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes; his uncle was shot down by his side; his sister was carried into captivity; and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the enemy. “His ruin,” says the historian, “being thus gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but augmented thereby; being himself made acquainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family relations, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before his own life should be taken away.”

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at the time, and attempted to make her escape by crossing a neighboring river; either exhausted by swimming, or starved by cold and hunger, she was found dead and naked near the water side.

However Philip had borne up against the complicated miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is said that “he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his designs.” The spring of hope was broken—the ardor of enterprise was extinguished—he looked around, and all was danger and darkness; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about, like a specter, among the scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family, and friend. There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous situation than that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. “Philip,” he says, “like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces through the woods, above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon him.”

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to ourselves seated among his careworn followers, brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed—crushed to the earth, but not humiliated—he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were immediately dispatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet; all resistance was vain; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his own nation.

Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate King Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty character sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate and respect for his memory. We find that, amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of his “beloved wife and only son” are mentioned with exultation as causing him poignant misery; the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities; but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all further comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native soil—a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs—a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an untamable love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submission, and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tempest—without a pitying eye to weep his fall or a friendly hand to record his struggle.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Washington Irving (1783-1859) was born in New York City in the very year in which the Treaty of Peace that ended the Revolutionary War was signed. He was destined to do for American literature what the War had already done for the American government and people—make it respected among all nations. Irving’s mother said, “Washington’s great work is done; let us name our boy Washington,” little dreaming when thus naming him after the Father of his Country that he should one day come to be called the “Father of American Letters.”

On April 30, 1789, when this little boy was six years old, his father took him to Federal Hall in Wall Street, to witness Washington’s inauguration as the first president of the United States. It is told that President Washington laid his hand kindly on the head of his little namesake and gave him his blessing.

Young Washington Irving led a happy life, rambling in his boyhood about every nook and corner of the city and the adjacent woods, which at that time were not very far to seek, idling about the busy wharves, making occasional trips up the lordly Hudson, roaming, gun in hand, along its banks and over the neighboring Kaatskills, listening to the tales of old Dutch landlords and gossipy old Dutch housewives. When he became a young man he wove these old tales, scenes, experiences, and much more that his imagination and his merry humor added, into some of the most rollicking, mirthful stories that had been read in many a day. The first of these was a burlesque _History of New York_, purporting to have been found among the papers of a certain old Dutch burgher by the name of Diedrich Knickerbocker (1809). This may be said to have been his first important work. It made him instantly famous. But better than that, it silenced the sneers of the English critics who, up to that time, had been asking contemptuously, “Who reads an American book?” and set them all to reading and laughing over it with the rest of the world. It also showed to Americans as well as to foreigners what wealth of literary material this new country already possessed in its local legends and history.

Ten years later, during his residence in England (1819-20), Irving published _The Sketch Book_, containing the inimitable “Rip van Winkle” and the delightful “Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” This may be said to mark the real beginning of American literature.

A visit to Spain resulted in _The Alhambra_ and _The Life of Columbus_, descriptive and historical works in which Irving won as great success as he had attained with his humorous tales. Then followed some years of quiet life at his beautiful home, Sunnyside, near Tarrytown on the Hudson, in the midst of the favorite haunts of his boyhood days and the scenes which his pen had immortalized. He was not idle, however, for a half-dozen works appeared during these stay-at-home years, some of them growing out of his travels through our then rapidly expanding West. Only once more did he leave his native shores, when he served as Minister to Spain (1842-46). But through all his life he seems to have cherished a patriotic reverence for the great American whose name he bore, and now, as the crowning work of his ripe old age, he devoted his last years to completing his _Life of Washington_, the fifth and final volume of which appeared but a few months before his death on November 28, 1859. His genial, cheerful nature shines through all his works and makes him still, as his friend Thackeray said of him in his lifetime, “beloved of all the world.”

=Discussion.= 1. What effect does Irving say civilized life has upon traits of native character? 2. Explain the comparison, “Society is like a lawn.” 3. Who was Philip of Pokanoket? 4. What “league of peace” did Massasoit make with the Plymouth settlers? 5. Give an account of Alexander’s career as Sachem. 6. What was the attitude of the white settlers toward Philip? 7. What evidence of friendliness toward the settlers did he give? 8. What omens disturbed the Indians? 9. What natural explanation can you give for these “awful warnings”? 10. Give a brief account of the Indian war that followed. 11. Describe the death of King Philip. 12. Point out evidences of military ability on the part of King Philip. 13. What traces of lofty character does Philip show in the face of persecution? 14. Read passages that show his courage. 15. Does Irving give you the impression that the white settlers may have been partly responsible for the conflict with King Philip and his followers? 16. Other interesting books dealing with Indian life are Cooper’s _Leather Stocking Tales_ and his _The Last of the Mohicans_; have you read these? 17. Pronounce the following: attributes; aborigines; Sachem; amity; tenacious; haunts; implacable; simultaneous; patron; mischievous; revolt; indicative; harassed.

=Phrases=

artificially cultivated, 409, 11 vegetating in spontaneous hardihood, 409, 12 petty deceptions, 409, 19 affects so many generous sentiments, 409, 19 impulses of his inclination, 410, 2 dictates of his judgment, 410, 2 smiling verdure, 410, 6 footsteps of civilization, 410, 14 sterling coinage, 410, 19 any authentic traces, 410, 31 dim twilight of tradition, 410, 32 doleful forebodings, 411, 5 rites of primitive hospitality, 411, 13 encroaching zeal, 411, 27 proudly tenacious, 412, 4 hereditary rights and dignity, 412, 4 intrusive policy, 412, 5 after the toils of the chase, 412, 19 sovereign dignity, 412, 20 implacable hostility, 412, 32 superior adroitness, 413, 5 easily provoked hostilities, 413, 7 proneness to suspicion, 413, 25 ignominious punishment, 414, 18 exasperated the passions, 414, 19 perfidiously despatched, 414, 28 religious abstraction, 415, 6 superstitious fancies, 415, 8 frightful chimeras of witchcraft, 415, 9 portentous sights and sounds, 415, 25 capacious mind, 416, 19 casual exploits, 416, 22 fertility of expedients, 416, 26 impending ravages, 416, 37 lugubrious hemlocks, 417, 18 possessed of ubiquity, 418, 2 perfidious instigations, 418, 20 legitimate avenger, 418, 24 comparative facility, 418, 34 incursions of the conquerors, 420, 6 subdue the resolution, 422, 3 suborned by the whites, 422, 5 sullen grandeur, 423, 15 savage sublimity, 423, 18 graced a civilized warrior, 424, 22

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber— Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock. Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron; Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion, Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window; Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not Angles but Angels.” Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower. Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. “Look at these arms,” he said, “the warlike weapons that hang here, Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection! This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breast-plate, Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish; Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish Would at this moment be mold, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.” Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing: “Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!” Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling: “See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging; That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage; So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your ink-horn. Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!” This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment. Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued: “Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose, Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic, Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians; Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better— Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow, Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!”

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape, Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east wind, Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean, Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion, Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded: “Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish; Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside! She was the first to die of all who came in the May Flower! Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there, Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!” Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding: Bariffe’s Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cæsar, Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort, Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans, Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence Turned o’er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin, Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, Busily writing epistles important, to go by the May Flower, Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing! Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla, Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla!

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain, Reading the marvelous words and achievements of Julius Cæsar. After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hands, palm downwards, Heavily on the page: “A wonderful man was this Cæsar! You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skillful!” Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful: “Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons. Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs.” “Truly,” continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, “Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cæsar! Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after; Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered; He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded; Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus! Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together There was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier, Putting himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains, Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns; Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons; So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. That’s what I always say: if you wish a thing to be well done, You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!”

All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading. Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling Writing epistles important to go next day by the May Flower, Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla; Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla! Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket, Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth: “When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you. Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!” Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention: “Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.” Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases: “’Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it; Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary; Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship. Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming, Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying, Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it, Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions, Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning; I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language, Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden.”

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling, All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered, Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness, Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning, Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered: “Such a message as that I am sure I should mangle and mar it; If you would have it well done—I am only repeating your maxim— You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!” But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth: “Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it; But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing. Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. I’m not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, But of a thundering ‘No!’ point-blank from the mouth of a woman, That I confess I’m afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it! So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar, Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases.” Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful, Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added: “Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me; Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship!” Then made answer John Alden: “The name of friendship is sacred; What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you!” So the strong will prevailed, subduing and molding the gentler, Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

THE LOVER’S ERRAND

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure, Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel, Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean! “Must I relinquish it all,” he cried with a wild lamentation, “Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion? Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshiped in silence? Was it for this I have followed the flying fleet and the shadow Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England? Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion; Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly! This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in anger, For I have followed too much the heart’s desires and devices, Worshiping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution.”

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and shallow, Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him, Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness, Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber. “Puritan flowers,” he said, “and the type of Puritan maidens, Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla! So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the May-flower of Plymouth, Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them; Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish, Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver.” So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, Sailless, somber, and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind; Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow; Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion. Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together, Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard, Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem, She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest, Making the humble house and the modest apparel of home-spun Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being! Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless, Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his errand; All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion, Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces. Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it, “Let not him that putteth his hand to the plow look backwards; Though the plowshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains, Though it pass o’er the graves of the dead and the hearts of the living, It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy endureth forever!”

So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singing Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome, Saying, “I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage; For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning.” Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden, Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer, Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in the winter, After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village, Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the doorway, Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside, Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snowstorm. Had he but spoken then! perhaps not in vain had he spoken; Now it was all too late; the golden moment had vanished! So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer.

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful Springtime, Talked of their friends at home, and the May Flower that sailed on the morrow. “I have been thinking all day,” said gently the Puritan maiden, “Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedge-rows of England— They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden; Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet, Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together, And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivy Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard. Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion; Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in Old England. You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it; I almost Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.”

Thereupon answered the youth:—“Indeed I do not condemn you; Stouter hearts than a woman’s have quailed in this terrible winter. Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on; So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!”

Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters— Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases, But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a schoolboy; Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly. Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden Looked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder, Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her speechless; Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: “If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!” Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter, Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy Had no time for such things;—such things! the words grating harshly Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a flash she made answer: “Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married, Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding? That is the way with you men; you don’t understand us, you cannot. When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and that one, Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another, Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal, And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected, Does not attain at a bound the height to which you have been climbing. This is not right nor just; for surely a woman’s affection Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking. When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me, Even this Captain of yours—who knows?—at last might have won me, Old and rough as he is; but now it never can happen.”

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding; Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders, How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction, How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth; He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish; Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded, Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature; Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the winter He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman’s; Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong, Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always, Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature; For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous; Any woman in Plymouth, nay any woman in England, Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish!

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, Said, in a tremulous voice, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”

JOHN ALDEN

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the seaside; Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east wind, Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him. Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors, Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire, Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city.

“Welcome, O wind of the East!” he exclaimed in his wild exultation, “Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic! Blowing o’er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass, Blowing o’er rocky wastes, and the grottoes and gardens of ocean! Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me!”

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing, Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the seashore. Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending; Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding, Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty! “Is it my fault,” he said, “that the maiden has chosen between us? Is it my fault that he failed—my fault that I am the victor?” Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet: “It hath displeased the Lord!”—and he thought of David’s transgression, Bathsheba’s beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle! Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation, Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the deepest contrition: “It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan!”

Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there Dimly the shadowy form of the May Flower riding at anchor, Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow; Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors’ “Ay, ay, sir!” Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight. Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel, Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom, Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. “Yes, it is plain to me now,” he murmured; “the hand of the Lord is Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error, Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me, Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me. Back will I go o’er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon, Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended. Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England, Close by my mother’s side, and among the dust of my kindred; Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor! Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness— Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter!”

Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution, Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight, Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and somber, Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth, Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening. Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Cæsar, Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. “Long have you been on your errand,” he said with a cheery demeanor, Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue. “Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us; But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city. Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened.”

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened; How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal. But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken, Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?” Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armor Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen. All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it. Wildly he shouted, and loud: “John Alden! you have betrayed me! Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me! One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler; Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a traitor? Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship! You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother; You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret— You too, Brutus! ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter! Brutus was Cæsar’s friend, and you were mine, but henceforward Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!”

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber, Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples. But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway, Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance, Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians! Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley, Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron, Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed. Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness, Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult, Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood, Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming; Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment, Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting, Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation; So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people! Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant, Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect; While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare, Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace, Talking of this and that, contriving, suggesting, objecting; One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted, Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior! Then outspoke Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger: “What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses? Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils? Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!” Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language: “Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles; Not from the cannon’s mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!” But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing: “Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous, Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!”

Then from the rattlesnake’s skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture, Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, Saying, in thundering tones: “Here, take it! this is your answer!” Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.

THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows, There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth; Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, “Forward!” Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence. Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village. Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men, Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David; Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible— Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning; Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing, Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated. Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of Plymouth Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors. Sweet was the air and soft, and slowly the smoke from the chimneys Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward; Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather, Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the May Flower; Talked of their Captain’s departure, and all the dangers that menaced, He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence. Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of women Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household. Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming; Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains; Beautiful on the sails of the May Flower riding at anchor, Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter. Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas, Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors. Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean, Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon rang Loud over field and forest the cannon’s roar, and the echoes Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure! Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people! Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible, Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty! Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth, Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the seashore, Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the May Flower, Homeward bound o’er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert.

Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber, Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever. He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council, Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur; Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing. Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence; Then he had turned away, and said: “I will not awake him; Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of more talking!” Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet. Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning— Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in Flanders— Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action. But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his armor, Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus, Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber. Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him, Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon, All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful emotions. But his pride overmastered the noble nature within him— Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult. So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not, Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not! Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying, Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert, Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture, And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the seashore, Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a doorstep Into a world unknown—the corner-stone of a nation!

There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatient Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward, Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean about him, Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled together Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered. Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale, One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors, Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting. He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish, Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas, Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him. But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing. Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention, Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient, That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose, As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction. Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts! Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments, Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine! “Here I remain!” he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him, Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness, Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong. “Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me, Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean. There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like, Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection. Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether! Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed not Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil! There is no land so sacred, nor air so pure and so wholesome, As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps. Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness; Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing, So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving!”

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important, Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather, Walked about on the sands; and the people crowded around him Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance. Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller, Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel, Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry, Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow, Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel! Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims. O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the May Flower! No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this plowing!

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor. Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind, Blowing steady and strong; and the May Flower sailed from the harbor, Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter, Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic, Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims.

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel, Much endeared to them all, as something living and human; Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic, Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth Said, “Let us pray!” and they prayed and thanked the Lord and took courage. Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered. Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard; Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping. Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian, Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other, Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, “Look!” he had vanished. So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little, Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine, Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters.

PRISCILLA

Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla; And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the load-stone, Whatsoever it touches, by subtle laws of its nature, Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him.

“Are you so much offended you will not speak to me?” said she. “Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward, Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum? Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it; For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion, That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together. Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues, Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders, As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero. Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse. You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us, Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken!” Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish: “I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping.” “No!” interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive; “No; you are angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely. It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful, Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs.” Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women: “Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem to me always More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden. More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing, Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden!” “Ah, by these words, I can see,” again interrupted the maiden, “How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying. When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving, Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness, Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest, Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases. This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you; For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble, Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenly If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many, If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting.”

Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and looked at Priscilla, Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another, Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer. So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless. “Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all things Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship. It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it: I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles Standish. For I must tell you the truth: much more to me is your friendship Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him.” Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it, Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so sorely, Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling: “Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest!”

Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the May Flower, Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon, Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling, That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert. But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the sunshine, Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly: “Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians, Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household, You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between you, When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me.” Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story— Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish. Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest, “He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment!” But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had suffered— How he had even determined to sail that day in the May Flower, And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threatened— All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, “Truly I thank you for this; how good you have been to me always!”

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys, Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition; Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings.

THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward, Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the seashore, All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort; He who was used to success, and to easy victories always, Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden, Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted! Ah! ’twas too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armor!

“I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “for mine was the folly. What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness, Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens? ’Twas but a dream—let it pass—let it vanish like so many others! What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless; Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers!” Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them.

After a three days’ march he came to an Indian encampment Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest; Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with war-paint, Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together; Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men, Saw the flash of the sun on breast-plate and saber and musket, Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing, Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present; Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers gigantic in stature, Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan; One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum, Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. “Welcome, English!” they said—these words they had learned from the traders Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish, Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man, Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder, Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars, Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man! But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible, Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster. Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other, And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain: “Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman, But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning, Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him, Shouting, ‘Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?’” Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand, Held it aloft and displayed a woman’s face on the handle, Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning: “I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle; By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!”

Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish; While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom, Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered: “By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not! This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us! He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!”

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest, Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush. But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly; So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult, All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish, Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples. Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard, Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it. Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop, And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December, Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows. Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning, Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it. Frightened, the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket. Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the greensward, Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers.

There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them, Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. Smiling at length, he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth: “Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature— Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!”

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish. When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress, All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage. Only Priscilla averted her face from this specter of terror. Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish; Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles, He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL

Month after month passed away, and in autumn the ships of the merchants Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. All in the village was peace; the men were intent on their labors, Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot and with merestead, Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the grass in the meadows, Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the deer in the forest. All in the village was peace; but at times the rumor of warfare Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger. Bravely the stalwart Miles Standish was scouring the land with his forces, Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien armies, Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations. Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and contrition Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate outbreak, Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush of a river, Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and brackish.

Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation. Solid, substantial, of timber roughhewn from the firs of the forest. Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes; Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of paper, Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard; Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard. Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from annoyance, Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to Alden’s allotment In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by sweet penny-royal.

Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet would the dreamer Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of Priscilla, Led by illusions romantic and subtle deceptions of fancy, Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the semblance of friendship. Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the walls of his dwelling; Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil of his garden; Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible on Sunday Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described in the Proverbs— How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her always, How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness, How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff, How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household, Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her weaving!

So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn, Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers, As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his fortune, After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. “Truly, Priscilla,” he said, “when I see you spinning and spinning, Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others, Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment; You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner.” Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter; the spindle Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers; While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued: “You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia; She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o’er valley and meadow and mountain, Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. She was so thrifty and good that her name passed into a proverb. So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no longer Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with music. Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in their childhood, Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner!” Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puritan maiden, Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the sweetest, Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden: “Come, you must not be idle; if I am a pattern for housewives, Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for knitting; Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have changed and the manners, Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden!” Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended before him, She standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his fingers, Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares—for how could she help it?— Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body.

Lo! in the midst of this scene, a breathless messenger entered, Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from the village. Yes; Miles Standish was dead!—an Indian had brought them the tidings— Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of the battle, Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of his forces; All the town would be burned, and all the people be murdered! Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror; But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered Once and forever the bonds that held him bound as a captive, Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom, Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing. Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla, Pressing her close to his heart, as forever his own, and exclaiming: “Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put them asunder!”

Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer, Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest; So these lives that had run thus far in separate channels, Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer, Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the other.

THE WEDDING DAY

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and scarlet, Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent, Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead, Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor beneath him Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver!

This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate also Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the Gospel, One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven. Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz. Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal, Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate’s presence, After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in affection, Speaking of life and of death, and imploring divine benedictions.

Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, Clad in armor of steel, a somber and sorrowful figure! Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition? Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder? Is it a phantom of air—a bodiless spectral illusion? Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal? Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed; Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent, As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction, Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth! Grasping the bridegroom’s hand, he said with emotion, “Forgive me! I have been angry and hurt—too long have I cherished the feeling; I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended. Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden.” Thereupon answered the bridegroom: “Let all be forgotten between us— All save the dear old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer!” Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, commingled, Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband. Then he said with a smile: “I should have remembered the adage— If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and moreover, No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas!”

Great was the people’s amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of their Captain, Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded about him, Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered, He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited.

Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the doorway, Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation; There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the seashore, There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows; But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean.

Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure, Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying, Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncompleted. Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master, Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noon-day; Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. “Nothing is wanting now,” he said, with a smile, “but the distaff; Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha!”

Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom, Tremulous, floating in air, o’er the depths of the azure abysses. Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol. Like a picture it seemed of the primitive pastoral ages, Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 80.

=Discussion.= 1. Read the history of the Pilgrims’ settlement at Plymouth. 2. Describe the Plymouth of the first year of the settlement. 3. How long had the Pilgrims been in their new home at the time this story opens? 4. What tells you this? 5. Find lines that tell how hard the first winter had been. 6. What tells you that the Captain had read his Cæsar many times? 7. What principle of conduct did he learn from Cæsar’s victories? 8. When did he entirely disregard this principle? 9. What excuse did he give for not acting upon it? 10. Read the words in which John Alden tells why he will undertake the Captain’s errand. 11. What ideal of friendship had he? 12. What do you think of Alden’s description of his friend’s character? 13. Read the lines in which Priscilla shows her love of truth and loyalty. 14. When does Miles Standish show himself most noble? 15. Who is the real hero of this poem? 16. Commit to memory lines which seem to you to express the moral truths and the high ideals which the poem puts before us. 17. Make a brief outline of the story. 18. Pronounce the following: athletic; sinews; memoirs; taciturn; aerial; impious; capacious; stalwart; subtle; hearth.

=Phrases=

corselet of steel, 427, 8 mystical Arabic sentence, 427, 9 Spanish arcabucero, 428, 7 Flemish morasses, 428, 9 brazen howitzer, 428, 25 irresistible logic, 428, 27 belligerent Christians, 429, 27 Iberian village, 430, 23 grounding his musket, 431, 19 culling his phrases, 431, 27 taciturn stripling, 432, 23 mask his dismay, 432, 25 aerial cities, 433, 25 misty phantoms, 434, 8 swift retribution, 434, 14 ravenous spindle, 435, 6 embellish the theme, 437, 10 dilated with wonder, 437, 14 apocalyptical splendors, 439, 9 fields of dulse, 439, 16 mutable sands, 439, 21 importunate pleadings, 439, 24 rattle of cordage, 440, 11 bondage of error, 440, 18 congenial gloom, 441, 3 sacked and demolished, 441, 13 sound of sinister omen, 441, 22 hand-grenade, 441, 24 implacable hatred, 442, 7 hostile incursions, 442, 12 choleric Captain, 442, 22 sinuous way, 444, 7 serried billows, 444, 20 dangers that menaced, 445, 1 lose the tide, 446, 22 on the thwarts, 447, 2 divined his intention, 447, 8 wall adamantine, 447, 14 grasping a tiller, 448, 5 heaving the windlass round, 448, 14 yards were braced, 448, 15 irresistible impulse, 450, 3 subterranean rivers, 450, 15 a more ethereal level, 451; 3 sacred professions, 451, 16 urged by importunate zeal, 452, 24 withheld by remorseful misgivings, 453, 3 to be flouted, 453, 11 scabbards of wampum, 454, 11 trenchant knives, 454, 12 chaffer for peltries, 454, 15 sinister meaning, 455, 5 breaking the glebe, 457, 5 apprehension of danger, 457, 8 timber roughhewn, 457, 17 Alden’s allotment, 457, 24 led by illusions, 458, 5 subtle deceptions of fancy, 458, 5 into an ambush beguiled, 460, 7 trysting-place, 460, 23 sanction of earth, 461, 9 a bodiless spectral illusion, 461, 21 driving rack, 461, 26 atoning for error, 462, 10 azure abysses, 464, 9

AMERICAN SCENES AND LEGENDS

MY VISIT TO NIAGARA

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Never did a pilgrim approach Niagara with deeper enthusiasm than mine. I had lingered away from it, and wandered to other scenes, because my treasury of anticipated enjoyments, comprising all the wonders of the world, had nothing else so magnificent, and I was loath to exchange the pleasures of hope for those of memory so soon. At length the day came. The stage-coach, with a Frenchman and myself on the back seat, had already left Lewiston, and in less than an hour would set us down in Manchester. I began to listen for the roar of the cataract, and trembled with a sensation like dread, as the moment drew nigh, when its voice of ages must roll, for the first time, on my ear. The French gentleman stretched himself from the window, and expressed loud admiration, while, by a sudden impulse, I threw myself back and closed my eyes. When the scene shut in, I was glad to think, that for me the whole burst of Niagara was yet in futurity. We rolled on, and entered the village of Manchester, bordering on the falls.

I am quite ashamed of myself here. Not that I ran like a madman to the falls, and plunged into the thickest of the spray—never stopping to breathe, till breathing was impossible; not that I committed this, or any other suitable extravagance. On the contrary, I alighted with perfect decency and composure, gave my cloak to the black waiter, pointed out my baggage, and inquired, not the nearest way to the cataract, but about the dinner-hour. The interval was spent in arranging my dress. Within the last fifteen minutes, my mind had grown strangely benumbed, and my spirits apathetic, with a slight depression, not decided enough to be termed sadness. My enthusiasm was in a deathlike slumber. Without aspiring to immortality, as he did, I could have imitated that English traveler who turned back from the point where he first heard the thunder of Niagara, after crossing the ocean to behold it. Many a Western trader, by the by, has performed a similar act of heroism with more heroic simplicity, deeming it no such wonderful feat to dine at the hotel and resume his route to Buffalo or Lewiston, while the cataract was roaring unseen.

Such has often been my apathy, when objects, long sought, and earnestly desired, were placed within my reach. After dinner—at which an unwonted and perverse epicurism detained me longer than usual—I lighted a cigar and paced the piazza, minutely attentive to the aspect and business of a very ordinary village. Finally, with reluctant step, and the feeling of an intruder, I walked toward Goat Island. At the toll-house, there were further excuses for delaying the inevitable moment. My signature was required in a huge ledger, containing similar records innumerable, many of which I read. The skin of a great sturgeon, and other fishes, beasts, and reptiles; a collection of minerals, such as lie in heaps near the falls; some Indian moccasins, and other trifles, made of deer-skin and embroidered with beads; several newspapers, from Montreal, New York, and Boston—all attracted me in turn. Out of a number of twisted sticks, the manufacture of a Tuscarora Indian, I selected one of curled maple, curiously convoluted, and adorned with the carved images of a snake and a fish. Using this as my pilgrim’s staff, I crossed the bridge. Above and below me were the rapids, a river of impetuous snow, with here and there a dark rock amid its whiteness, resisting all the physical fury, as any cold spirit did the moral influences of the scene. On reaching Goat Island, which separates the two great segments of the falls, I chose the right-hand path, and followed it to the edge of the American cascade. There, while the falling sheet was yet invisible, I saw the vapor that never vanishes, and the Eternal Rainbow of Niagara.

It was an afternoon of glorious sunshine, without a cloud, save those of the cataracts. I gained an insulated rock, and beheld a broad sheet of brilliant and unbroken foam, not shooting in a curved line from the top of the precipice, but falling headlong down from height to depth. A narrow stream diverged from the main branch, and hurried over the crag by a channel of its own, leaving a little pine-clad island and a streak of precipice between itself and the larger sheet. Below arose the mist, on which was painted a dazzling sunbow with two concentric shadows—one, almost as perfect as the original brightness; and the other, drawn faintly round the broken edge of the cloud.

Still I had not half seen Niagara. Following the verge of the island, the path led me to the Horseshoe, where the real, broad St. Lawrence, rushing along on a level with its banks, pours its whole breadth over a concave line of precipice, and thence pursues its course between lofty crags toward Ontario. A sort of bridge, two or three feet wide, stretches out along the edge of the descending sheet, and hangs upon the rising mist, as if that were the foundation of the frail structure. Here I stationed myself in the blast of wind, which the rushing river bore along with it. The bridge was tremulous beneath me, and marked the tremor of the solid earth. I looked along the whitening rapids, and endeavored to distinguish a mass of water far above the falls, to follow it to their verge, and go down with it, in fancy, to the abyss of clouds and storm. Casting my eyes across the river, and every side, I took in the whole scene at a glance, and tried to comprehend it in one vast idea. After an hour thus spent, I left the bridge, and by a stair-case, winding almost interminably round a post, descended to the base of the precipice. From that point, my path lay over slippery stones, and among great fragments of the cliff, to the edge of the cataract, where the wind at once enveloped me in spray, and perhaps dashed the rainbow round me. Were my long desires fulfilled? And had I seen Niagara?

Oh, that I had never heard of Niagara till I beheld it! Blessed were the wanderers of old, who heard its deep roar, sounding through the woods, as the summons to an unknown wonder, and approached its awful brink, in all the freshness of native feeling. Had its own mysterious voice been the first to warn me of its existence, then, indeed, I might have knelt down and worshiped. But I had come thither, haunted with a vision of foam and fury, and dizzy cliffs, and an ocean tumbling down out of the sky—a scene, in short, which nature had too much good taste and calm simplicity to realize. My mind had struggled to adapt these false conceptions to the reality, and finding the effort vain, a wretched sense of disappointment weighed me down. I climbed the precipice, and threw myself on the earth, feeling that I was unworthy to look at the Great Falls, and careless about beholding them again.

All that night, as there has been and will be for ages past and to come, a rushing sound was heard, as if a great tempest were sweeping through the air. It mingled with my dreams, and made them full of storm and whirlwind. Whenever I awoke, and heard this dread sound in the air, and the windows rattling as with a mighty blast, I could not rest again, till looking forth, I saw how bright the stars were, and that every leaf in the garden was motionless. Never was a summer night more calm to the eye, nor a gale of autumn louder to the ear. The rushing sound proceeds from the rapids, and the rattling of the casements is but an effect of the vibration of the whole house, shaken by the jar of the cataract. The noise of the rapids draws the attention from the true voice of Niagara, which is a dull, muffled thunder, resounding between the cliffs. I spent a wakeful hour at midnight, in distinguishing its reverberations, and rejoiced to find that my former awe and enthusiasm were reviving.

Gradually, and after much contemplation, I came to know, by my own feelings, that Niagara is indeed a wonder of the world, and not the less wonderful, because time and thought must be employed in comprehending it. Casting aside all preconceived notions, and preparation to be dire-struck or delighted, the beholder must stand beside it in the simplicity of his heart, suffering the mighty scene to work its own impression. Night after night I dreamed of it, and was gladdened every morning by the consciousness of a growing capacity to enjoy it. Yet I will not pretend to the all-absorbing enthusiasm of some more fortunate spectators, nor deny that very trifling causes would draw my eyes and thoughts from the cataract.

The last day that I was to spend at Niagara, before my departure for the Far West, I sat upon the Table Rock. This celebrated station did not now, as of old, project fifty feet beyond the line of the precipice, but was shattered by the fall of an immense fragment, which lay distant on the shore below. Still, on the utmost verge of the rock, with my feet hanging over it, I felt as if suspended in the open air. Never before had my mind been in such perfect unison with the scene. There were intervals when I was conscious of nothing but the great river, rolling calmly into the abyss, rather descending than precipitating itself, and acquiring tenfold majesty from its unhurried motion. It came like the march of Destiny. It was not taken by surprise, but seemed to have anticipated, in all its course through the broad lakes, that it must pour their collected waters down this height. The perfect foam of the river, after its descent, and the ever-varying shapes of mist, rising up, to become clouds in the sky, would be the very picture of confusion, were it merely transient, like the rage of a tempest. But when the beholder has stood awhile, and perceives no lull in the storm, and considers that the vapor and the foam are as everlasting as the rocks which produce them, all this turmoil assumes a sort of calmness. It soothes, while it awes the mind.

Leaning over the cliff, I saw the guide conducting two adventurers behind the falls. It was pleasant, from that high seat in the sunshine, to observe them struggling against the eternal storm of the lower regions, with heads bent down, now faltering, now pressing forward, and finally swallowed up in their victory. After their disappearance, a blast rushed out with an old hat, which it had swept from one of their heads. The rock, to which they were directing their unseen course, is marked, at a fearful distance on the exterior of the sheet, by a jet of foam. The attempt to reach it appears both poetical and perilous to a looker-on, but may be accomplished without much more difficulty or hazard than in stemming a violent northeaster. In a few moments, forth came the children of the mist. Dripping and breathless, they crept along the base of the cliff, ascended to the guide’s cottage, and received, I presume, a certificate of their achievement, with three verses of sublime poetry on the back.

My contemplations were often interrupted by strangers who came down from Forsyth’s to take their first view of the falls. A short, ruddy, middle-aged gentleman, fresh from Old England, peeped over the rock, and evinced his approbation by a broad grin. His spouse, a very robust lady, afforded a sweet example of maternal solicitude, being so intent on the safety of her little boy that she did not even glance at Niagara. As for the child, he gave himself wholly to the enjoyment of a stick of candy. Another traveler, a native American, and no rare character among us, produced a volume of Captain Hall’s tour, and labored earnestly to adjust Niagara to the captain’s description, departing, at last, without one new idea or sensation of his own. The next comer was provided, not with a printed book, but with a blank sheet of foolscap, from top to bottom of which, by means of an ever-pointed pencil, the cataract was made to thunder. In a little talk which we had together, he awarded his approbation to the general view, but censured the position of Goat Island, observing that it should have been thrown farther to the right, so as to widen the American falls, and contract those of the Horseshoe. Next appeared two traders of Michigan, who declared, that, upon the whole, the sight was worth looking at; there certainly was an immense water-power here; but that, after all, they would go twice as far to see the noble stone-works of Lockport, where the Grand Canal is locked down a descent of sixty feet. They were succeeded by a young fellow, in a homespun cotton dress, with a staff in his hand, and a pack over his shoulders. He advanced close to the edge of the rock, where his attention, at first wavering among the different components of the scene, finally became fixed in the angle of the Horseshoe falls, which is indeed the central point of interest. His whole soul seemed to go forth and be transported thither, till the staff slipped from his relaxed grasp, and falling down—down—down—struck upon the fragment of the Table Rock.

In this manner I spent some hours, watching the varied impression made by the cataract on those who disturbed me, and returning to unwearied contemplation, when left alone. At length my time came to depart. There is a grassy footpath through the woods, along the summit of the bank, to a point whence a cause-way, hewn in the side of the precipice, goes winding down to the Ferry, about half a mile below the Table Rock. The sun was near setting, when I emerged from the shadow of the trees, and began the descent. The indirectness of my downward road continually changed the point of view, and showed me, in rich and repeated succession, now, the whitening rapids and majestic leap of the main river, which appeared more deeply massive as the light departed; now, the lovelier picture, yet still sublime, of Goat Island, with its rocks and grove, and the lesser falls, tumbling over the right bank of the St. Lawrence, like a tributary stream; now, the long vista of the river, as it eddied and whirled between the cliffs, to pass through Ontario toward the sea, and everywhere to be wondered at, for this one unrivaled scene. The golden sunshine tinged the sheet of the American cascade, and painted on its heaving spray the broken semi-circle of a rainbow, heaven’s own beauty crowning earth’s sublimity. My steps were slow, and I paused long at every turn of the descent, as one lingers and pauses who discerns a brighter and brightening excellence in what he must soon behold no more. The solitude of the old wilderness now reigned over the whole vicinity of the falls. My enjoyment became the more rapturous, because no poet shared it, nor wretch devoid of poetry profaned it; but the spot so famous through the world was all my own!

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 348.

=Discussion.= 1. Why was Hawthorne at first disappointed in Niagara? 2. How did he finally come to know that it is one of the world’s wonders? 3. What feelings did Niagara produce in Hawthorne? 4. What effect on the reader did he seek to produce? 5. What does Hawthorne say is necessary in order to appreciate nature? 6. Account for the fact that Niagara grew on Hawthorne. 7. What comments of other observers does Hawthorne give? 8. What do you think determines the kind of response an observer gives to a wonderful scene in nature, such as Niagara? 9. Pronounce the following: loath; heroism; route; unwonted; minutely; reptiles; tremor; abyss; tour; idea.

=Phrases=

anticipated enjoyments, 466, 3 suitable extravagance, 467, 1 perverse epicurism, 467, 18 impetuous snow, 467, 34 Eternal Rainbow, 468, 3 insulated rock, 468, 6 abyss of clouds, 468, 28 native feeling, 469, 4 tributary stream, 472, 21 eddied and whirled, 472, 22 unrivaled scene, 472, 23 brightening excellence, 472, 25

FROM MORN TILL NIGHT ON A FLORIDA RIVER

SIDNEY LANIER

For a perfect journey God gave us a perfect day. The little Ocklawaha steamboat Marion had started on her voyage some hours before daylight. She had taken on her passengers the night previous. By seven o’clock on such a May morning as no words could describe we had made twenty-five miles up the St. Johns. At this point the Ocklawaha flows into the St. Johns, one hundred miles above Jacksonville.

Presently we abandoned the broad highway of the St. Johns, and turned off to the right into the narrow lane of the Ocklawaha. This is the sweetest water-lane in the world, a lane which runs for more than one hundred and fifty miles of pure delight betwixt hedge-rows of oaks and cypresses and palms and magnolias and mosses and vines; a lane clean to travel, for there is never a speck of dust in it save the blue dust and gold dust which the wind blows out of the flags and lilies.

As we advanced up the stream our wee craft seemed to emit her steam in leisurely whiffs, as one puffs one’s cigar in a contemplative walk through the forest. Dick, the pole-man, lay asleep on the guards, in great peril of rolling into the river over the three inches between his length and the edge; the people of the boat moved not, and spoke not; the white crane, the curlew, the heron, the water-turkey, were scarcely disturbed in their quiet avocations as we passed, and quickly succeeded in persuading themselves after each momentary excitement of our gliding by, that we were really no monster, but only some day-dream of a monster.

“Look at that snake in the water!” said a gentleman, as we sat on deck with the engineer, just come up from his watch.

The engineer smiled. “Sir, it is a water-turkey,” he said, gently.

The water-turkey is the most preposterous bird within the range of ornithology. He is not a bird; he is a neck with such subordinate rights, members, belongings, and heirlooms as seem necessary to that end. He has just enough stomach to arrange nourishment for his neck, just enough wings to fly painfully along with his neck, and just big enough legs to keep his neck from dragging on the ground; and his neck is light-colored, while the rest of him is black. When he saw us he jumped up on a limb and stared. Then suddenly he dropped into the water, sank like a leaden ball out of sight, and made us think he was drowned. Presently the tip of his beak appeared, then the length of his neck lay along the surface of the water. In this position, with his body submerged, he shot out his neck, drew it back, wriggled it, twisted it, twiddled it, and poked it spirally into the east, the west, the north, and the south, round and round with a violence and energy that made one think in the same breath of corkscrews and of lightnings. But what nonsense! All that labor and perilous contortion for a beggarly sprat or a couple of inches of water-snake.

Some twenty miles from the mouth of the Ocklawaha, at the right-hand edge of the stream, is the handsomest residence in America. It belongs to a certain alligator of my acquaintance, a very honest and worthy reptile of good repute. A little cove of water, dark-green under the overhanging leaves, placid and clear, curves round at the river edge into the flags and lilies, with a curve just heart-breaking for its pure beauty. This house of the alligator is divided into apartments, little bays which are scalloped out by the lily-pads, according to the winding fancies of their growth. My reptile, when he desires to sleep, has but to lie down anywhere; he will find marvelous mosses for his mattress beneath him; his sheets will be white lily-petals; and the green disks of the lily-pads will straightway embroider themselves together above him for his coverlet. He never quarrels with his cook, he is not the slave of a kitchen, and his one house-maid—the stream—forever sweeps his chambers clean. His conservatories there under the glass of that water are ever, without labor, filled with the enchantments of under-water growths.

His parks and his pleasure-grounds are larger than any king’s. Upon my saurian’s house the winds have no power, the rains are only a new delight to him, and the snows he will never see. Regarding fire, as he does not use it as a slave, so he does not fear it as a tyrant.

Thus all the elements are the friends of my alligator’s house. While he sleeps he is being bathed. What glory to awake sweetened and freshened by the sole, careless act of sleep!

Lastly, my saurian has unnumbered mansions, and can change his dwelling as no human house-holder may; it is but a flip of his tail, and lo! he is established in another place as good as the last, ready furnished to his liking.

On and on up the river! We find it a river without banks. The swift, deep current meanders between tall lines of trees; beyond these, on either side, there is water also—a thousand shallow rivulets lapsing past the bases of a multitude of trees.

Along the edges of the stream every tree-trunk, sapling, and stump is wrapped about with a close-growing vine. The edges of the stream are also defined by flowers and water-leaves. The tall blue flags, the lilies sitting on their round lily-pads like white queens on green thrones, the tiny stars and long ribbons of the water-grasses—all these border the river in an infinite variety of adornment.

And now, after this day of glory, came a night of glory. Deep down in these shaded lanes it was dark indeed as the night drew on. The stream which had been all day a girdle of beauty, blue or green, now became a black band of mystery.

But presently a brilliant flame flares out overhead: They have lighted the pine-knots on top of the pilot-house. The fire advances up these dark windings like a brilliant god.

The startled birds suddenly flutter into the light and after an instant of illuminated flight melt into the darkness. From the perfect silence of these short flights one derives a certain sense of awe.

Now there is a mighty crack and crash: limbs and leaves scrape and scrub along the deck; a little bell tinkles; we stop. In turning a short curve, the boat has run her nose smack into the right bank, and a projecting stump has thrust itself sheer through the starboard side. Out, Dick! Out, Henry! Dick and Henry shuffle forward to the bow, thrust forth their long white pole against a tree-trunk, strain and push and bend to the deck as if they were salaaming the god of night and adversity. Our bow slowly rounds into the stream, the wheel turns and we puff quietly along.

And now it is bed-time. Let me tell you how to sleep on an Ocklawaha steamer in May. With a small bribe persuade Jim, the steward, to take the mattress out of your berth and lay it slanting just along the railing that encloses the lower part of the deck in front and to the left of the pilot-house. Lie flat on your back down on the mattress, draw your blanket over you, put your cap on your head, on account of the night air, fold your arms, say some little prayer or other, and fall asleep with a star looking right down on your eye. When you wake in the morning you will feel as new as Adam.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Sidney Lanier (1842-1881) was a native of Georgia. When a mere lad, just out of college, he entered the Confederate army and faithfully devoted the most precious years of his life to that service. While in a military prison he contracted the dread “White Plague,” and during his few remaining years he struggled constantly with disease and poverty. He was a talented musician and often found it necessary to supplement the earnings of his pen by playing in an orchestra. His thorough knowledge and fine sense of music also appear in his masterly treatise on the “Science of English Verse.” During his last years he held a lectureship on English Literature in Johns Hopkins University, at Baltimore. He has often been compared with Poe in the exquisite melody of his verse, while in unaffected simplicity and in truthfulness to nature he is not surpassed by Bryant or Whittier. His prose as well as his poetry breathes the very spirit of his sunny southland. In the “Song of the Chattahoochee”, “The Marshes of Glynn,” and “On a Florida River,” one scents the balsam of the Georgia pines among which he lived, and the odor of magnolia groves, jessamine, and wild honey-suckle.

=Discussion.= 1. From this selection what do you think of the author’s power of description? 2. Mention instances in which he makes use of humor to add to his descriptive power. 3. Quote his words describing the Ocklawaha. 4. What does the author mean by saying, “We find it a river without banks”? 5. In your own words, give a description of the alligator’s home. 6. Make a list of things Lanier saw on this trip that he would not see on a trip down a river in New England. 7. What gives melody to this piece of prose? 8. What comparison do you find in lines 31 and 32, page 475? 9. Point out some examples of alliteration; for what purpose does the author use alliteration? 10. Pronounce the following: palms; leisurely; infinite.

=Phrases=

quiet avocations, 474, 5 day-dream of a monster, 474, 8 subordinate rights, 474, 15 perilous contortion, 474, 29 reptile of good repute, 474, 34 infinite variety, 475, 32 girdle of beauty, 475, 36 band of mystery, 475, 37 brilliant flame flares, 476, 1 sense of awe, 476, 6

I SIGH FOR THE LAND OF THE CYPRESS AND PINE

SAMUEL HENRY DICKSON

I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine; Where the jessamine blooms, and the gay woodbine; Where the moss droops low from the green oak tree— Oh, that sun-bright land is the land for me!

The snowy flower of the orange there Sheds its sweet fragrance through the air; And the Indian rose delights to twine Its branches with the laughing vine.

There the deer leaps light through the open glade, Or hides him far in the forest shade, When the woods resound in the dewy morn With the clang of the merry hunter’s horn.

There the humming-bird, of rainbow plume, Hangs over the scarlet creeper’s bloom; While ’midst the leaves his varying dyes Sparkle like half-seen fairy eyes.

There the echoes ring through the livelong day With the mock-bird’s changeful roundelay; And at night, when the scene is calm and still, With the moan of the plaintive whip-poor-will.

Oh! I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine, Of the laurel, the rose, and the gay woodbine, Where the long, gray moss decks the rugged oak tree,— That sun-bright land is the land for me.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Samuel Henry Dickson (1798-1872) was born in Charleston, South Carolina. He was graduated at Yale College in 1814, and afterward took a course in medicine at the University of Pennsylvania. Dr. Dickson was professor of medicine successively at the medical school at Charleston, at the University of the City of New York, and at Jefferson Medical College, Philadelphia. He wrote several books on medicine. His love for his native sun-bright southland is beautifully expressed, in this poem.

=Discussion.= 1. What part of the country does the poet mean when he refers to the “land of Cyprus and pine”? 2. Mention the beautiful things named in the first stanza which characterize this land. 3. Have you ever seen the moss “which droops low from the green oak tree”? Where? 4. What birds does the poet mention in this selection? 5. Do you think these birds would be found in the woods of Maine or Wisconsin? 6. Note the changes of the time of day throughout the poem. In which stanza is the “morn” spoken of? The “livelong day”? The night? 7. Have you ever heard “the moan of the plaintive whip-poor-will”? 8. Do you think the poet was right in calling its note a “moan”? Do you know how this bird got its name? 9. Does the poet convince you that this is a land worth sighing for?

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

WASHINGTON IRVING

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky.

—CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

THE VALLEY AND ITS SUPERSTITIONS

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary war; and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this specter, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the specter is known, at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative—to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed; while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.

ICHABOD CRANE AND KATRINA VAN TASSEL

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodsmen and country school-masters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer’s day, like the hum of a bee-hive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”—Ichabod Crane’s scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity, taking the burthen off the backs of the weak and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents” and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember it, and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.”

When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time; thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences; took the horses to water; drove the cows from pasture; and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “by hook and by crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood, being considered a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather’s history of New England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather’s direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination: the moan of the whippoorwill from the hill-side; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch’s token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no specter dared to show his face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night!—With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window!—How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, beset his very path!—How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him!—and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many specters in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman.

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of her father’s peaches; and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time; and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex; and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those every thing was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart—sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue’s mouth watered, as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind’s eye he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cozily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where.

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the center of the mansion and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun; in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; and irons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various colored birds’ eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the center of the room; and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily-conquered adversaries, to contend with; and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was confined, all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the center of a Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor.

BROM BONES

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received the nickname of BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock-fights; and, with the ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox’s tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, “Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!” The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good will; and when any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel’s paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, “sparking,” within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters.

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack—yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away—jerk! he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover’s eloquence.

I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore—by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse”; and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy; so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches of the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod’s to instruct her in psalmody.

THE QUILTING FROLIC

In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the relative situation of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferrule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins; such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel’s; and having delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear to quicken their speed or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were over-turned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy of their early emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only, suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciled, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant, in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs; one eye had lost its pupil and was glaring and spectral; but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master’s, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a scepter, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse’s tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field.

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note, and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little montero cap of feathers; and the blue-jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap-jacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast, and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare, leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long waisted short-gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed, Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces, not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men’s do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he’d turn his back upon the old schoolhouse, snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade.

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to fall to, and help themselves.

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head, bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes, who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories about the war.

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly-favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent master of defense, parried a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz around the blade, and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to show the sword with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled retreats, but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have traveled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel’s, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge, when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it, too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvelous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually died away—and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tête-a-tête with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen.—Oh, these women! these women! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks?—Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival?—Heaven only knows, not I!—Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost rather than a fair lady’s heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.

ICHABOD’S TERRIFYING EXPERIENCES

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills—but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enormous tuliptree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by, and was universally known by the name of Major André’s tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered—it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst of the tree—he paused and ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan—his teeth chattered and his knees smote against the saddle; it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side and kicked lustily with the contrary foot; it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffing and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents—“Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind—the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror struck, on perceiving that he was headless!—but his horror was still more increased, on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the saddle; his terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip—but the specter started full jump with him. Away then they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had got half way through the hollow the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper’s wrath passed across his mind—for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskillful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s back-bone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash—he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast—dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook, but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes, full of dogs’ ears; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather’s History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper, who from that time forward determined to send his children no more to school, observing that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. The school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York, on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who shortly after his rival’s disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 424.

=Discussion.= 1. What was the situation of Sleepy Hollow? 2. Read all the names Irving applies to this valley. 3. What impression do these names help to give? 4. What effect upon the inhabitants had the situation of the valley? 5. In describing this effect, what comparison does Irving use? 6. Why does Irving exaggerate Ichabod’s peculiarities? 7. What stories did Ichabod enjoy? 8. What effect did these have upon him? 9. For what is the author preparing the reader when he tells this? 10. How do you account for Ichabod’s disappearance? 11. Read all the hints throughout the story which helped you to come to this conclusion. 12. Read lines which show Irving’s humor. 13. What is the spirit of this humor? 14. Read lines which show Irving’s power to describe nature. 15. What do you think is the finest description in the tale? 16. Pronounce the following: inapplicable; genius; formidable; patrons; grievous; elm; Herculean; alternative; horizon; hospitable.

=Phrases=

spacious coves, 479, 1 inveterate propensity, 479, 9 precise and authentic, 479, 12 prolonged and reverberated, 479, 24 pow-wows, 480, 13 legendary superstition, 481, 5 great torrent of migration, 481, 19 genius of famine, 482, 11 cruel potentates, 482, 34 comforts of the cupboard, 483, 13 dilating powers of an anaconda, 483, 18 legitimately descended, 484, 11 direful omens, 486, 3 curdling awe, 486, 19 sumptuous promise, 488, 13 utensils of husbandry, 489, 9 labyrinth of whims, 490, 6 rantipole hero, 491, 10 obstinately pacific system, 493, 3 early emancipation, 494, 19 culinary abundance, 496, 5 sequestered situation, 500, 27 ill-starred, 503, 18 diligent investigation, 507, 5 forthwith consigned, 507, 25

THE GREAT STONE FACE

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat at the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its features.

And what was the Great Stone Face?

Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so spacious that it contained many thousand inhabitants. Some of these good people dwelt in log-huts, with the black forest all around them, on the steep and difficult hillsides. Others had their homes in comfortable farmhouses, and cultivated the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others, again, were congregated into populous villages, where some wild, highland rivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the upper mountain region, had been caught and tamed by human cunning, and compelled to turn the machinery of cotton-factories. The inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numerous, and of many modes of life. But all of them, grown people and children, had a kind of familiarity with the Great Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of distinguishing this grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many of their neighbors.

The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majestic playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immense rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in height; the nose, with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents from one end of the valley to the other. True it is, that if the spectator approached too near, he lost the outline of the gigantic visage, and could discern only a heap of ponderous and gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon another. Retracing his steps, however, the wondrous features would again be seen; and the farther he withdrew from them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinity intact, did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the clouds and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the Great Stone Face seemed positively to be alive.

It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all mankind in its affections, and had room for more. It was an education only to look at it. According to the belief of many people, the valley owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect that was continually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and infusing its tenderness into the sunshine.

As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their cottage-door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. The child’s name was Ernest.

“Mother,” said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, “I wish that it could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must needs be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I should love him dearly.”

“If an old prophecy should come to pass,” answered his mother, “we may see a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that.”

“What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?” eagerly inquired Ernest. “Pray tell me all about it!”

So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when she herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that were past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old, that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by the mountain streams, and whispered by the wind among the tree-tops. The purport was, that, at some future day, a child should be born hereabouts, who was destined to become the greatest and noblest personage of his time, and whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the Great Stone Face. Not a few old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, still cherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy. But others, who had seen more of the world, had watched and waited till they were weary, and had beheld no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be much greater or nobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale. At all events, the great man of the prophecy had not yet appeared.

“O mother, dear mother!” cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head, “I do hope that I shall live to see him!”

His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that it was wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. So she only said to him, “Perhaps you may.”

And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was always in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his childhood in the log-cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her in many things, assisting her much with his little hands, and more, with his loving heart. In this manner, from a happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with more intelligence brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads who have been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him. When the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to imagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement, responsive to his own look of veneration. We must not take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face may have looked no more kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides. But the secret was that the boy’s tender and confiding simplicity discerned what other people could not see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar portion.

About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the great man, foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many years before, a young man had migrated from the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, after getting together a little money, he had set up as a shopkeeper. His name—but I could never learn whether it was his real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success in life—was Gathergold. Being shrewd and active, and endowed by Providence with that inscrutable faculty which develops itself in what the world calls luck, he became an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of the globe appeared to join hands for the mere purpose of adding heap after heap to the mountainous accumulation of this one man’s wealth. The cold regions of the north, almost within the gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him their tribute in the shape of furs; hot Africa sifted for him the golden sands of her rivers, and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of the forests; the East came bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and teas, and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of large pearls. The ocean, not to be behind-hand with the earth, yielded up her mighty whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and make a profit on it. Be the original commodity what it might, it was gold within his grasp. It might be said of him, as of Midas in the fable, that whatever he touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was changed at once into sterling metal, or, which suited him still better, into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had become so very rich that it would have taken him a hundred years only to count his wealth, he bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. With this purpose in view, he sent a skillful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in.

As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that Mr. Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long and vainly looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable similitude of the Great Stone Face. People were the more ready to believe that this must needs be the fact, when they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of his father’s old weatherbeaten farmhouse. The exterior was of marble, so dazzlingly white that it seemed as though the whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his young play-days, before his fingers were gifted with the touch of transmutation, had been accustomed to build of snow. It had a richly ornamented portico, supported by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind of variegated wood that had been brought from beyond the sea. The windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each stately apartment, were composed, respectively, of but one enormous pane of glass, so transparently pure that it was said to be a finer medium than even the vacant atmosphere. Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of this palace; but it was reported, and with good semblance of truth, to be far more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever was iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold in this; and Mr. Gathergold’s bedchamber, especially, made such a glittering appearance that no ordinary man would have been able to close his eyes there. But, on the other hand, Mr. Gathergold was now so inured to wealth, that perhaps he could not have closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain to find its way beneath his eyelids.

In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with magnificent furniture; then, a whole troop of black and white servants, the harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected to arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at length to be made manifest to his native valley. He knew, boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and assume a control over human affairs as wide and benignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith and hope, Ernest doubted not that what the people said was true, and that now he was to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the mountain-side. While the boy was still gazing up the valley, and fancying, as he always did, that the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along the winding road.

“Here he comes!” cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the arrival. “Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!”

A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it, thrust partly out of the window, appeared the physiognomy of the old man, with a skin as yellow as if his own Midas-hand had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together.

“The very image of the Great Stone Face!” shouted the people, “Sure enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man come, at last!”

And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that here was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced to be an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children, stragglers from some far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity. A yellow claw—the very same that had clawed together so much wealth—poked itself out of the coach-window, and dropped some copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the great man’s name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as suitably have been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and with as much good faith as ever, the people bellowed—

“He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!”

But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid visage, and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressed themselves into his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the benign lips seem to say?

“He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!”

The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown to be a young man now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of the valley; for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life, save that, when the labor of the day was over, he still loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the Great Stone Face. According to their idea of the matter, it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch as Ernest was industrious, kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for the sake of indulging this idle habit. They knew not that the Great Stone Face had become a teacher to him, and that the sentiment which was expressed in it would enlarge the young man’s heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts. They knew not that thence would come a better wisdom than could be learned from books, and a better life than could be molded on the defaced example of other human lives. Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and affections which came to him so naturally, in the fields and at the fireside, and wherever he communed with himself, were of a higher tone than those which all men shared with him. A simple soul—simple as when his mother first taught him the old prophecy—he beheld the marvelous features beaming adown the valley, and still wondered that their human counterpart was so long in making his appearance.

By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest part of the matter was that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his existence, had disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of him but a living skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled, yellow skin. Since the melting away of his gold, it had been very generally conceded that there was no such striking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble features of the ruined merchant and that majestic face upon the mountain-side. So the people ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and quietly consigned him to forgetfulness after his decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory was brought up in connection with the magnificent palace which he had built, and which had long ago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of strangers, multitudes of whom came, every summer, to visit that famous natural curiosity, the Great Stone Face. Thus, Mr. Gathergold being discredited and thrown into the shade, the man of prophecy was yet to come.

It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before, had enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now become an illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called in history, he was known in camps and on the battlefield under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This war-worn veteran, being now infirm with age and wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a military life, and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the trumpet, that had so long; been ringing in his ears, had lately signified a purpose of returning to his native valley, hoping to find repose where he remembered to have left it. The inhabitants, his old neighbors and their grown-up children, were resolved to welcome the renowned warrior with a salute of cannon and a public dinner; and all the more enthusiastically, it being affirmed that now, at last, the likeness of the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An aid-de-camp of Old Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through the valley, was said to have been struck with the resemblance. Moreover the school-mates and early acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the best of their recollection, the aforesaid general had been exceedingly like the majestic image, even when a boy, only that the idea had never occurred to them at that period. Great, therefore, was the excitement throughout the valley; and many people, who had never once thought of glancing at the Great Stone Face for years before, now spent their time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked.

On the day of the great festival, Ernest and all the other people of the valley left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the sylvan banquet was prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast was heard, beseeching a blessing on the good things set before them, and on the distinguished friend of peace in whose honor they were assembled. The tables were arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, except where a vista opened eastward, and afforded a distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over the general’s chair, which was a relic from the home of Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, with the laurel profusely intermixed, and surmounted by his country’s banner, beneath which he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest; but there was a mighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to catch any word that might fall from the general in reply; and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets at any particularly quiet person among the throng. So Ernest, being of an unobtrusive character, was thrust quite into the background, where he could see no more of Old Blood-and-Thunder’s physiognomy than if it had been still blazing on the battlefield. To console himself, he turned towards the Great Stone Face, which, like a faithful and long-remembered friend, looked back and smiled upon him through the vista of the forest. Meanwhile, however, he could overhear the remarks of various individuals, who were comparing the features of the hero with the face on the distant mountain-side.

“’Tis the same face, to a hair!” cried one man, cutting a caper for joy.

“Wonderfully like, that’s a fact!” responded another.

“Like! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a monstrous looking-glass!” cried a third. “And why not? He’s the greatest man of this or any other age, beyond a doubt.”

And then all three of the speakers gave a great shout, which communicated electricity to the crowd, and called forth a roar from a thousand voices, that went reverberating for miles among the mountains, until you might have supposed that the Great Stone Face had poured its thunder-breath into the cry. All these comments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the more to interest our friend; nor did he think of questioning that now, at length, the mountain-visage had found its human counterpart. It is true, Ernest had imagined that this long-looked-for personage would appear in the character of a man of peace, uttering wisdom, and doing good, and making people happy. But, taking an habitual breadth of view, with all his simplicity, he contended that Providence should choose its own method of blessing mankind, and could conceive that this great end might be effected even by a warrior and a bloody sword, should inscrutable wisdom see fit to order matters so.

“The general! the general!” was now the cry. “Hush! silence! Old Blood-and-Thunder’s going to make a speech.”

Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general’s health had been drunk, amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank the company. Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders of the crowd, from the two glittering epaulets and embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch of green boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner drooping as if to shade his brow! And there, too, visible in the same glance, through the vista of the forest, appeared the Great Stone Face! And was there, indeed, such a resemblance as the crowd had testified? Alas, Ernest could not recognize it! He beheld a war-worn and weatherbeaten countenance, full of energy, and expressive of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies, were altogether wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder’s visage; and even if the Great Stone Face had assumed his look of stern command, the milder traits would still have tempered it.

“This is not the man of prophecy,” sighed Ernest to himself, as he made his way out of the throng. “And must the world wait longer yet?”

The mists had congregated about the distant mountain-side, and there were seen the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful but benignant, as if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills, and enrobing himself in a cloud-vesture of gold and purple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe but that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a radiance still brightening, although without motion of the lips. It was probably the effect of the western sunshine, melting through the thinly diffused vapors that had swept between him and the object that he gazed at. But—as it always did—the aspect of his marvelous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain.

“Fear not, Ernest,” said his heart, even as if the Great Face were whispering him—“fear not, Ernest; he will come.”

More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. Ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was now a man of middle age. By imperceptible degrees, he had become known among the people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was the same simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he had thought and felt so much, he had given so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes for some great good to mankind, that it seemed as though he had been talking with the angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares. It was visible in the calm and well-considered beneficence of his daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide green margin all along its course. Not a day passed by, that the world was not the better because this man, humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside from his own path, yet would always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost involuntarily, too, he had become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity of his thought, which, as one of its manifestations, took shape in the good deeds that dropped silently from his hand, flowed also forth in speech. He uttered truths that wrought upon and molded the lives of those who heard him. His auditors, it may be, never suspected that Ernest, their own neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an ordinary man; least of all did Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably as the murmur of a rivulet, came thoughts out of his mouth that no other human lips had spoken.

When the people’s minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready enough to acknowledge their mistake in imagining a similarity between General Blood-and-Thunder’s truculent physiognomy and the benign visage on the mountain-side. But now, again, there were reports and many paragraphs in the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone Face had appeared upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent statesman. He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native of the valley, but had left it in his early days, and taken up the trades of law and politics. Instead of the rich man’s wealth and the warrior’s sword, he had but a tongue, and it was mightier than both together. So wonderfully eloquent was he, that whatever he might choose to say, his auditors had no choice but to believe him; wrong looked like right, and right like wrong; for when it pleased him, he could make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere breath, and obscure the natural daylight with it. His tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument: sometimes it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled like the sweetest music. It was the blast of war—the song of peace; and it seemed to have a heart in it, when there was no such matter. In good truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had acquired him all other imaginable success—when it had been heard in halls of state, and in the courts of princes and potentates—after it had made him known all over the world, even as a voice crying from shore to shore—it finally persuaded his countrymen to select him for the Presidency. Before this time—indeed, as soon as he began to grow celebrated—his admirers had found out the resemblance between him and the Great Stone Face; and so much were they struck by it, that throughout the country this distinguished gentleman was known by the name of Old Stony Phiz. The phrase was considered as giving a highly favorable aspect to his political prospects; for, as is likewise the case with the Popedom, nobody ever becomes President without taking a name other than his own.

While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony Phiz, as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Of course, he had no other object than to shake hands with his fellow-citizens, and neither thought nor cared about any effect which his progress through the country might have upon the election. Magnificent preparations were made to receive the illustrious statesman; a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet him at the boundary line of the State, and all the people left their business and gathered along the wayside so to see him pass. Among these was Ernest. Though more than once disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a hopeful and confiding nature that he was always ready to believe in whatever seemed beautiful and good. He kept his heart continually open, and thus was sure to catch the blessing from on high when it should come. So now again, as buoyantly as ever, he went forth to behold the likeness of the Great Stone Face.

The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with a great clattering of hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high that the visage of the mountain-side was completely hidden from Ernest’s eyes. All the great men of the neighborhood were there on horseback; militia officers, in uniform; the member of Congress; the sheriff of the county; the editors of newspapers; and many a farmer, too, had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his back. It really was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were numerous banners flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the Great Stone Face, smiling familiarly at one another, like two brothers. If the pictures were to be trusted, the mutual resemblance, it must be confessed, was marvelous. We must not forget to mention that there was a band of music, which made the echoes of the mountains ring and reverberate with the loud triumph of its strains; so that airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all the heights and hollows, as if every nook of his native valley had found a voice, to welcome the distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when the far-off mountain precipice flung back the music; for then the Great Stone Face itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in acknowledgment that, at length, the man of prophecy was come.

All this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with enthusiasm so contagious that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he likewise threw up his hat, and shouted, as loudly as the loudest, “Huzza for the great man! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz!” But as yet he had not seen him.

“Here he is, now!” cried those who stood near Ernest. “There! There! Look at Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if they are not as like as two twin-brothers!”

In the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, drawn by four white horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the illustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself.

“Confess it,” said one of Ernest’s neighbors to him, “the Great Stone Face has met its match at last!”

Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which was bowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a resemblance between it and the old familiar face upon the mountain-side. The brow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than heroic, of a Titanic model. But the sublimity and stateliness, the grand expression of a divine sympathy, that illuminated the mountain visage and etherealized its ponderous granite substance into spirit, might here be sought in vain. Something had been originally left out, or had departed. And therefore the marvelously gifted statesman had always a weary gloom in the deep caverns of his eyes, as of a child that has outgrown its playthings or a man of mighty faculties and little aims, whose life, with all its high performances, was vague and empty, because no high purpose had endowed it with reality.

Still, Ernest’s neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and pressing him for an answer.

“Confess! confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the Mountain?”

“No!” said Ernest, bluntly, “I see little or no likeness.”

“Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face!” answered his neighbor; and again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz.

But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent; for this was the saddest of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled the prophecy, and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the banners, the music, and the barouches swept past him, with the vociferous crowd in the rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone Face to be revealed again, with the grandeur that it had worn for untold centuries.

“Lo, here I am, Ernest!” the benign lips seemed to say. “I have waited longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will come.”

The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another’s heels. And now they began to bring white hairs, and scatter them over the head of Ernest; they made reverend wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in his cheeks. He was an aged man. But not in vain had he grown old: more than the white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in his mind; his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions that Time had graved, and in which he had written legends of wisdom that had been tested by the tenor of a life. And Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come the fame which so many seek, and made him known in the great world, beyond the limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. College professors, and even the active men of cities, came from far to see and converse with Ernest; for the report had gone abroad that this simple husbandman had ideas unlike those of other men, not gained from books, but of a higher tone—a tranquil and familiar majesty, as if he had been talking with the angels as his daily friends. Whether it were sage, statesman, or philanthropist, Ernest received these visitors with the gentle sincerity that had characterized him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of whatever came uppermost, or lay deepest in his heart or their own. While they talked together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them, as with a mild evening light. Pensive with the fulness of such discourse, his guests took leave and went their way; and passing up the valley, paused to look at the Great Stone Face, imagining that they had seen its likeness in a human countenance, but could not remember where.

While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence had granted a new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was a native of the valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, however, did the mountains which had been familiar to him in his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of his poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face forgotten, for the poet had celebrated it in an ode, which was grand enough to have been uttered by its own majestic lips. This man of genius, we may say, had come down from heaven with wonderful endowments. If he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all mankind beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on its breast, or soaring to its summit, than had before been seen there. If his theme were a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it, to gleam forever on its surface. If it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of its dread bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emotions of the song. Thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator had bestowed him, as the last best touch to his own handiwork. Creation was not finished till the poet came to interpret, and so complete it.

The effect was no less high and beautiful, when his human brethren were the subject of his verse. The man or woman, sordid with the common dust of life, who crossed his daily path, and the little child who played in it, were glorified if he beheld them in his mood of poetic faith. He showed the golden links of the great chain that intertwined them with an angelic kindred; he brought out the hidden traits of a celestial birth that made them worthy of such kin. Some, indeed, there were, who thought to show the soundness of their judgment by affirming that all the beauty and dignity of the natural world existed only in the poet’s fancy. Let such men speak for themselves, who undoubtedly appear to have been spawned forth by Nature with a contemptuous bitterness; she having plastered them up out of her refuse stuff, after all the swine were made. As respects all things else, the poet’s ideal was the truest truth.

The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after his customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage-door, where for such a length of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the Great Stone Face. And now as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so benignantly.

“O majestic friend,” he murmured, addressing the Great Stone Face, “is not this man worthy to resemble thee?”

The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word.

Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only heard of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until he deemed nothing so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught wisdom walked hand in hand with the noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning, therefore, he took passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great distance from Ernest’s cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly been the palace of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his carpetbag on his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was resolved to be accepted as his guest.

Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in his hand, which alternately he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves, looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face.

“Good evening,” said the poet. “Can you give a traveler a night’s lodging?”

“Willingly,” answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling, “Methinks I never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger.”

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked together. Often had the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and the wisest but never before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and feelings gushed up with such a natural freedom, and who made great truths so familiar by his simple utterance of them. Angels, as had been so often said, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the fields; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; and, dwelling with angels as friend with friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas, and imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of household words. So thought the poet. And Ernest, on the other hand, was moved and agitated by the living images which the poet flung out of his mind, and which peopled all the air about the cottage-door with shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive. The sympathies of these two men instructed them with a profounder sense than either could have attained alone. Their minds accorded into one strain, and made delightful music which neither of them could have claimed as all his own, nor distinguished his own share from the other’s. They led one another, as it were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts, so remote, and hitherto so dim, that they had never entered it before, and so beautiful that they desired to be there always.

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face was bending forward to listen too. He gazed earnestly into the poet’s glowing eyes.

“Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?” he said.

The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been reading.

“You have read these poems,” said he. “You know me, then, for I wrote them.”

Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet’s features; then turned towards the Great Stone Face; then back, with an uncertain aspect, to his guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his head, and sighed.

“Wherefore are you sad?” inquired the poet.

“Because,” replied Ernest, “all through life I have awaited the fulfilment of a prophecy; and, when I read these poems, I hoped that it might be fulfilled in you.”

“You hoped,” answered the poet, faintly smiling, “to find in me the likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly with Mr. Gathergold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. You must add my name to the illustrious three, and record another failure of your hopes. For—in shame and sadness do I speak it, Ernest—I am not worthy to be typified by yonder benign and majestic image.”

“And why?” asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. “Are not those thoughts divine?”

“They have a strain of the Divinity,” replied the poet. “You can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song. But my life, dear Ernest, has not corresponded with my thought. I have had grand dreams, but they have been only dreams, because I have lived—and that, too, by my own choice—among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even—shall I dare to say it?—I lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness, which my own works are said to have made more evident in nature and in human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me, in yonder image of the divine?”

The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise, were those of Ernest.

At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was to discourse to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air. He and the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went along, proceeded to the spot. It was a small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind, the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant foliage of many creeping plants that made a tapestry for the naked rock, by hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. At a small elevation above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, there appeared a niche, spacious enough to admit a human figure, with freedom for such gestures as spontaneously accompany earnest thought and genuine emotion. Into this natural pulpit Ernest ascended, and threw a look of familiar kindness around upon his audience. They stood, or sat, or reclined upon the grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing sunshine falling obliquely over them, and mingling its subdued cheerfulness with the solemnity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amid the boughs of which the golden rays were constrained to pass. In another direction was seen the Great Stone Face, with the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in its benignant aspect.

Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and mind. His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughts had reality and depth, because they harmonized with the life which he had always lived. It was not mere breath that this preacher uttered; they were the words of life, because a life of good deeds and holy love was melted into them. Pearls, pure and rich, had been dissolved into this precious draught. The poet, as he listened, felt that the being and character of Ernest were a nobler strain of poetry than he had ever written. His eyes glistening with tears, he gazed reverentially at the venerable man, and said within himself that never was there an aspect so worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance, with the glory of white hair diffused about it. At a distance, but distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the setting sun, appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, like the white hairs around the brow of Ernest. Its look of grand beneficence seemed to embrace the world.

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter, the face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued with benevolence, that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms aloft, and shouted—

“Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone Face!”

Then all the people looked, and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said was true. The prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished what he had to say, took the poet’s arm, and walked slowly homeward, still hoping that some wiser and better man than himself would by and by appear, bearing a resemblance to the Great Stone Face.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 348.

=Discussion.= 1. What old prophecy did Ernest hope to see fulfilled? 2. What did he see in the Great Stone Face that influenced him? 3. What did Gathergold care most for? 4. For what did he use his wealth? 5. How did Ernest know this? 6. What qualities had won the soldier his fame? 7. What qualities did he lack? 8. How were his characteristics revealed? 9. In what way did the statesman fail to meet comparison with the Great Stone Face? The poet? 10. Which failure disappointed Ernest most? Why? 11. How do you account for Ernest’s likeness to the Great Stone Face? 12. How was it that the poet could see the likeness when everyone else had failed to do so? 13. What may influence anyone as the Great Stone Face influenced Ernest? 14. If Gathergold represents riches, what is each of the other great men intended to represent? 15. Which of the things thus represented is the greatest? 16. What does Ernest represent? 17. What does the Great Stone Face represent? 18. Contrast Gathergold’s treatment of the beggars with the way Ernest felt the Great Stone Face would have treated them. 19. Apply the principle, that the life we live is reflected in our features, spirit, and actions, to Washington and Lincoln. 20. Can you tell Hawthorne’s purpose in writing this story? 21. Pronounce the following: harbingers; benign; wounds; beneficence; buoyantly; obliquely; draught.

=Phrases=

embosomed amongst, 510, 7 majestic playfulness, 510, 23 chaotic ruin, 511, 3 original divinity intact, 511, 6 benign aspect, 511, 16 peculiar portion, 512, 36 mountainous accumulation, 513, 13 touch of transmutation, 514, 7 sylvan banquet, 517, 31 angelic kindred, 525, 14

AMERICAN LITERATURE OF LIGHTER VEIN

THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG

MARK TWAIN

In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend’s friend, _Leonidas W._ Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that _Leonidas W._ Smiley is a myth; that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured that, if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous _Jim_ Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence of him as long and tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, it certainly succeeded.

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of the old, dilapidated tavern in the ancient mining camp of Angel’s, and I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up and gave me good-day. I told him a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named _Leonidas W._ Smiley—_Rev. Leonidas W._ Smiley—a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of Angel’s Camp. I added that, if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to him.

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat me down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned the initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in _finesse_. To me, the spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through such a queer yarn without ever smiling, was exquisitely absurd. As I said before, I asked him to tell me what he knew of Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and he replied as follows. I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once:

There was a feller here once by the name of _Jim_ Smiley, in the winter of ’49—or maybe it was the spring of ’50—I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume wasn’t finished when he first came to the camp; but any way, he was the curiosest man about always betting on any thing that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn’t, he’d change sides. Any way that suited the other man would suit him—any way just so’s he got a bet, _he_ was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn’t be no solit’ry thing mentioned but that feller’d offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a horse-race, you’d find him flush or you’d find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg’lar, to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If he even seen a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get to wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no difference to _him_—he would bet on _any_ thing—the dangdest feller. Parson Walker’s wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn’t going to save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley asked how she was, and he said she was considerable better—thank the Lord for his inf’nit mercy—and coming on so smart that, with the blessing of Prov’dence, she’d get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, “Well, I’ll risk two-and-a-half that she don’t, any way.”

Thish-yer Smiley had a mare—the boys called her the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was faster than that—and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at the fag-end of the race she’d get excited and desperate-like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust, and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose—and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down.

And he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you’d think he wan’t worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his underjaw’d begin to stick out like the fo’castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson—which was the name of the pup—Andrew Jackson would never let on but what _he_ was satisfied, and hadn’t expected nothing else—and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j’int of his hind leg and freeze to it—not chaw, you understand, but only jest grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn’t have no hind legs, because they’d been sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for his pet holt, he saw in a minute how he’d been imposed on, and how the other dog had been in the door, so to speak, and he ’peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn’t try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was _his_ fault, for putting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he’d lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius—I know it, because he hadn’t had no opportunities to speak of, and it don’t stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn’t no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his’n, and the way it turned out.

Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and tom-cats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal’klated to edercate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he _did_ learn him, too. He’d give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you’d see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut—see him turn one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do most any thing—and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor—Dan’l Webster was the name of the frog—and sing out, “Flies, Dan’l, flies!” and quicker’n you could wink, he’d spring straight up, and snake a fly off’n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been doin’ any more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightforward as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of that frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever _they_ see.

Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him down town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller—a stranger in the camp, he was—come across him with his box, and says:

“What might it be that you’ve got in the box?”

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, “It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it an’t—it’s only just a frog.”

And the feller took it and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, “H’m—so ’tis. Well, what’s _he_ good for?”

“Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “He’s good enough for _one_ thing, I should judge—he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county.”

The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, “Well, I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Smiley says. “Maybe you understand frogs, and maybe you don’t understand ’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you an’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got _my_ opinion, and I’ll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county.”

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, “Well, I’m only a stranger here, and I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog, I’d bet you.”

And then Smiley says, “That’s all right—that’s all right—if you’ll hold my box a minute, I’ll go and get you a frog.” And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s, and set down to wait.

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot—filled him pretty near up to his chin—and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:

“Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his forepaws just even with Dan’l, and I’ll give the word.” Then he says, “One—two—three—jump!” and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off, but Dan’l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a Frenchman, but it wan’t no use—he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders—this way—at Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, “Well, _I_ don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, “I do wonder what in the nation that frog throw’d off for—I wonder if there an’t something the matter with him—he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” And he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up and says, “Why, blame my cats, if he don’t weigh five pound!” and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man—he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. And—

[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.] And turning to me as he moved away, he said, “Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy—I ain’t going to be gone a second.”

But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history of the enterprising vagabond _Jim_ Smiley would be likely to afford me much information concerning the Rev. _Leonidas W._ Smiley, and so I started away.

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me and recommenced:

“Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller one-eyed cow that didn’t have no tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and—”

“Oh, hang Smiley and his afflicted cow!” I muttered, good-naturedly, and bidding the old gentleman good-day, I departed.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835-1910), better known by his pen name Mark Twain, is America’s greatest humorous writer. Like Walt Whitman he was of humble parentage. He was born in the village of Florida, Missouri, and at the age of four years, moved with his parents to the river town of Hannibal, which he immortalized in his two most popular books, _Tom Sawyer_ and _Huckleberry Finn_. He became a printer and later a pilot on a Mississippi steamboat. For a few years he served as assistant to his brother who was secretary of the Territory of Nevada. This brought him in touch with the gold fields of the West, and he set out to make his fortune in a mining camp. He found only a very small amount of gold, but his wonderful experiences in the West furnish the basis of some of his most popular stories and books, such as “The Celebrated Jumping Frog” and _Roughing It_. As a newspaper reporter he chose the pen name Mark Twain, an old river expression, meaning the mark that registers two (twain) fathoms (twelve feet) of water. His start to literary fame came with the publication of the story “The Celebrated Jumping Frog.” Later he traveled through Europe and the Holy Land, paying his expenses by means of a series of letters describing his trip, written for a San Francisco newspaper. These letters were afterward collected in a book called _The Innocents Abroad_, a delightfully humorous collection of descriptive sketches. For a time he was part owner and associate editor of the _Buffalo Express_, but the investment was not profitable and he spent much of his time on the lecture platform. He died at Redding, Connecticut, in his seventy-fifth year.

=Discussion.= 1. What paragraphs in this selection relate the circumstances under which Simon Wheeler’s reminiscences of Jim Smiley were told? 2. What were these circumstances? 3. Are all parts of these introductory paragraphs to be taken seriously? 4. Does Mark Twain intend to convince his readers that they will find Simon Wheeler’s narrative “monotonous” and “interminable”? 5. Why does he call it so? 6. What paragraphs in these reminiscences lead up to the story of the jumping frog? 7. In whom do these paragraphs serve to interest the reader? 8. What is this person’s most marked characteristic? 9. What illustrations of this characteristic are given? 10. Did you enjoy reading this selection? 11. Can you tell what made it enjoyable? 12. Pronounce the following: infamous; inquiries; exquisitely; fellow; amateur.

=Phrases=

in compliance, 531, 1 hereunto append, 531, 4 initial sentence, 532, 8 slightest suspicion of enthusiasm, 532, 9 transcendent genius of _finesse_, 532, 14 cavorting and straddling up, 533, 25 lattice box, 535, 21 anchored out, 536, 26

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

I wrote some lines once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb!

“These to the printer,” I exclaimed. And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), “There’ll be the devil to pay.”

He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear; He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894) was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the son of a Congregational minister. He attended Phillips Exeter Academy and was graduated from Harvard College in the famous class of 1829. After studying medicine and anatomy in Paris, he began practicing in Boston. Later he was made professor of anatomy and physiology at Dartmouth College, and afterwards at Harvard. In 1850 he wrote the poem “Old Ironsides” as a protest against the dismantling of the historic battleship _Constitution_ which lay in the harbor. It stirred the entire country so that the Secretary of the Navy found it advisable to recall the order he had issued. Like Bryant, Holmes was a poet on occasion, not by profession. For more than forty years after he entered on his duties at Harvard he delivered his four lectures a week eight months of the year, and President Eliot bore witness that he was not less skillful with the scalpel and the microscope than with the pen.

When Lowell was offered the editorship of the _Atlantic Monthly_, he made it a condition of his acceptance that Holmes should be a contributor. The result was a series of articles entitled _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_. Among his poems, the best known are his “Chambered Nautilus,” “The Height of the Ridiculous”, “The Deacon’s Masterpiece” (The One Hoss Shay), and short poems in celebration of various occasions. Among these are some forty poems read at anniversaries of his college class, notably the one beginning: “Has any old fellow got mixed with the boys?” In this he refers playfully to the author of “America” as one whom “Fate tried to conceal by naming him Smith.”

He wrote several novels, but it is as the author of the _Autocrat_ series and by his humorous poems that he will be best remembered by his readers. By his personal associates he was most fondly remembered for his sunny, cheerful disposition and his witty conversation.

=Discussion.= 1. What is it that is described by the poet as being the “height of the ridiculous”? 2. What incidents are related that seem to show him to be right in this estimate? 3. What opinion of the poet does the poem give you? 4. In what state of mind do you think of him as writing it? 5. What is the “trifling jest” referred to in stanza 4? 6. What have the humorists done for the world? 7. Of what use is a poem like this?

=Phrases=

the height of the ridiculous, 538 (title) albeit, in the general way, 538, 7 a trifling jest, 539, 7 a chuckling noise, 539, 15

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 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 gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray 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 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 of 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 practiced 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 live 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 worshiped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled 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.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= William Sidney Porter (1862-1910), better known by his pen name, O. Henry, was born in Greensboro, North Carolina. His teacher was his aunt, who encouraged his love of stories and story-telling. As a boy he read widely and showed a natural gift for sketching. When a mere boy, he went to Texas where he spent two years on a sheep ranch. He became a reporter for the _Daily Post_ of Houston, Texas, and later he wrote extensively for the leading magazines. In 1902 he went to New York City to live and from this time on he devoted himself almost exclusively to short-story writing. He holds a prominent place among the world’s greatest short-story writers. His best known books are _The Four Million_, from which “The Gift of the Magi” is taken, _Whirligigs_, and _Heart of the West_, portraying life in Texas. His stories are drawn from real situations and picture the various types found in ordinary American life. They are noted for their surprising endings and for their warm human sympathy.

=Discussion.= 1. Has this story an interesting beginning? 2. What does it make you curious about? 3. Throughout the story find other instances where the author arouses your curiosity, but does not immediately tell you what you wish to know. 4. When did a plan for obtaining money first suggest itself to Della? 5. Where do you first begin to suspect what the plan is? 6. Does Jim’s behavior, when he is told that Della has cut off her hair, puzzle you as well as Della? 7. Where do you learn why he was so bewildered? 8. O. Henry’s stories usually have a surprise at the end; is there a surprise in this one? 9, What reason do you see for calling Jim and Della “the magi”?

=Phrases=

imputation of parsimony, 541, 4 instigates the moral reflection, 541, 9 beggar description, 541, 14 mendicancy squad, 541, 15 appertaining thereunto, 541, 19 a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, 542, 14 just to depreciate, 542, 26 meretricious ornamentation, 543, 22 repairing the ravages, 543, 33 immovable as a setter, 544, 20 patent fact, 544, 36 inconsequential object, 545, 13 case of duplication, 546, 21

WOUTER VAN TWILLER

WASHINGTON IRVING

It was in the year of our Lord 1629 that Mynheer Wouter Van Twiller was appointed governor of the province of Nieuw-Nederlandts, under the commission and control of their High Mightinesses, the Lords States General of the United Netherlands, and the privileged West India Company.

This renowned old gentleman arrived at New-Amsterdam in the merry month of June, the sweetest month in all the year; when Dan Apollo seems to dance up the transparent firmament—when the robin, the thrush, and a thousand other wanton songsters made the woods resound with amorous ditties, and the luxurious little boblincon revels among the clover blossoms of the meadows—all which happy coincidence persuaded the old dames of New-Amsterdam, who were skilled in the art of foretelling events, that this was to be a happy and prosperous administration.

The renowned Wouter (or Walter) Van Twiller was descended from a long line of Dutch burgomasters, who had successively dozed away their lives and grown fat upon the bench of magistracy in Rotterdam; and who had comported themselves with such singular wisdom and propriety, that they were never either heard or talked of—which, next to being universally applauded, should be the object of ambition of all sage magistrates and rulers.

There are two opposite ways by which some men get into notice—one by talking a vast deal and thinking a little, and the other by holding their tongues, and not thinking at all. By the first, many a vaporing, superficial pretender acquires the reputation of a man of quick parts—by the other, many a vacant dunderpate, like the owl, the stupidest of birds, comes to be complimented by a discerning world with all the attributes of wisdom. This, by the way, is a mere casual remark, which I would not for the universe have it thought I apply to Governor Van Twiller. On the contrary, he was a very wise Dutchman, for he never said a foolish thing—and of such invincible gravity, that he was never known to laugh, or even to smile, through the course of a long and prosperous life. Certain, however, it is, there never was a matter proposed, however simple, and on which your common narrow-minded mortals would rashly determine at the first glance, but what the renowned Wouter put on a mighty, mysterious, vacant kind of look, shook his capacious head, and, having smoked for five minutes with redoubled earnestness, sagely observed that he had his doubts about the matter—which in process of time gained him the character of a man slow in belief, and not easily imposed on.

The person of this illustrious old gentleman was as regularly formed and nobly proportioned, as though it had been molded by the hands of some cunning Dutch statuary, as a model of majesty and lordly grandeur. He was exactly five feet six inches in height, and six feet five inches in circumference. His head was a perfect sphere, and of such stupendous dimensions that Dame Nature, with all her sex’s ingenuity, would have been puzzled to construct a neck capable of supporting it; wherefore she wisely declined the attempt, and settled it firmly on the top of his back-bone, just between the shoulders. His body was of an oblong form, particularly capacious at bottom; which was wisely ordered by Providence, seeing that he was a man of sedentary habits, and very averse to the idle labor of walking. His legs, though exceeding short, were sturdy in proportion to the weight they had to sustain; so that when erect he had not a little the appearance of a robustious beer-barrel, standing on skids. His face, that infallible index of the mind, presented a vast expanse, perfectly unfurrowed or deformed by any of those lines and angles which disfigure the human countenance with what is termed expression. Two small gray eyes twinkled feebly in the midst, like two stars of lesser magnitude in the hazy firmament; and his full-fed cheeks, which seemed to have taken toll of everything that went into his mouth, were curiously mottled and streaked with dusky red, like a Spitzenberg apple.

His habits were as regular as his person. He daily took his four stated meals, appropriating exactly an hour to each; he smoked and doubted eight hours, and he slept the remaining twelve of the four and twenty. Such was the renowned Wouter Van Twiller—a true philosopher, for his mind was either elevated above, or tranquilly settled below, the cares and perplexities of this world. He had lived in it for years, without feeling the least curiosity to know whether the sun revolved round it, or it round the sun; and he had watched, for at least half a century, the smoke curling from his pipe to the ceiling; without once troubling his head with any of those numerous theories, by which a philosopher would have perplexed his brain, in accounting for its rising above the surrounding atmosphere.

In his council he presided with great state and solemnity. He sat in a huge chair of solid oak, hewn in the celebrated forest of the Hague, fabricated by an experienced timmerman of Amsterdam, and curiously carved about the arms and feet, into exact imitations of gigantic eagle’s claws. Instead of a scepter, he swayed a long Turkish pipe, wrought with jasmine and amber, which had been presented to a Stadtholder of Holland, at the conclusion of a treaty with one of the petty Barbary powers. In this stately chair would he sit, and this magnificent pipe would he smoke, shaking his right knee with a constant motion, and fixing his eye for hours together upon a little print of Amsterdam, which hung in a black frame against the opposite wall of the council chamber. Nay, it has even been said, that when any deliberation of extraordinary length and intricacy was on the carpet, the renowned Wouter would absolutely shut his eyes for full two hours at a time, that he might not be disturbed by external objects—and at such times the internal commotion of his mind was evinced by certain regular guttural sounds, which his admirers declared were merely the noise of conflict, made by his contending doubts and opinions.

It is with infinite difficulty I have been enabled to collect these biographical anecdotes of the great man under consideration. The facts respecting him were so scattered and vague, and divers of them so questionable in point of authenticity, that I have had to give up the search after many, and decline the admission of still more, which would have tended to heighten the coloring of his portrait.

I have been the more anxious to delineate fully the person and habits of the renowned Van Twiller, from the consideration that he was not only the first, but also the best governor that ever presided over this ancient and respectable province; and so tranquil and benevolent was his reign, that I do not find throughout the whole of it, a single instance of any offender being brought to punishment—a most indubitable sign of a merciful governor, and a case unparalleled, excepting in the reign of the illustrious King Log, from whom, it is hinted, the renowned Van Twiller was a lineal descendant.

The very outset of the career of this excellent magistrate was distinguished by an example of legal acumen, that gave flattering presage of a wise and equitable administration. The morning after he had been solemnly installed in office, and at the moment that he was making his breakfast, from a prodigious earthen dish, filled with milk and Indian pudding, he was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of one Wandle Schoonhoven, a very important old burgher of New-Amsterdam, who complained bitterly of one Barent Bleecker, inasmuch as he fraudulently refused to come to a settlement of accounts, seeing that there was a heavy balance in favor of the said Wandle. Governor Van Twiller, as I have already observed, was a man of few words; he was likewise a mortal enemy to multiplying writings—or being disturbed at his breakfast. Having listened attentively to the statement of Wandle Schoonhoven, giving an occasional grunt, as he shoveled a spoonful of Indian pudding into his mouth—either as a sign that he relished the dish, or comprehended the story—he called unto him his constable, and pulling out of his breeches pocket a huge jack-knife, despatched it after the defendant as a summons, accompanied by his tobacco-box as a warrant.

This summary process was as effectual in those simple days as was the seal ring of the great Haroun Alraschid among the true believers. The two parties being confronted before him, each produced a book of accounts written in a language and character that would have puzzled any but a High Dutch commentator, or a learned decipherer of Egyptian obelisks, to understand. The sage Wouter took them one after the other, and having poised them in his hands, and attentively counted over the number of leaves, fell straightway into a very great doubt, and smoked for half an hour without saying a word; at length, laying his finger beside his nose, and shutting his eyes for a moment, with the air of a man who has just caught a subtle idea by the tail, he slowly took his pipe from his mouth, puffed forth a column of tobacco-smoke, and with marvelous gravity and solemnity pronounced—that having carefully counted over the leaves and weighed the books, it was found, that one was just as thick and as heavy as the other—therefore it was the final opinion of the court that the accounts were equally balanced—therefore Wandle should give Barent a receipt, and Barent should give Wandle a receipt—and the constable should pay the costs.

This decision being straightway made known, diffused general joy throughout New-Amsterdam, for the people immediately perceived that they had a very wise and equitable magistrate to rule over them. But its happiest effect was, that not another law-suit took place throughout the whole of his administration—and the office of constable fell into such decay that there was not one of those losel scouts known in the province for many years. I am the more particular in dwelling on this transaction, not only because I deem it one of the most sage and righteous judgments on record, and well worthy the attention of modern magistrates, but because it was a miraculous event in the history of the renowned Wouter—being the only time he was ever known to come to a decision in the whole course of his life.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 424.

=Discussion.= 1. Does Irving describe Wouter Van Twiller directly or indirectly? 2. What conclusion are you led to concerning Wouter’s mentality, despite the author’s statements to the contrary? 3. Describe Wouter’s appearance in your own words. 4. Do you think the author is more inclined to state facts, or to imply them? Prove your point through the paragraphs dealing with the Dutchman’s behavior during the council meetings. 5. What was the only decision that Wouter ever reached? 6. Do you think Irving uses any of the following methods for developing the humor of the tale: exaggeration, sarcasm, irony? Or do you think the humor lies in the way he relates with great seriousness facts that are obviously ridiculous? 7. What do you think is the most amusing incident or description in the sketch?

=Phrases=

under the commission and control, 547, 3 transparent firmament, 548, 1 amorous ditties, 548, 3 successively dozed away, 548, 10 vaporing, superficial pretender, 548, 19 nobly proportioned, 549, 1 stupendous dimensions, 549, 5 infallible index, 549, 15 lesser magnitude, 549, 20 fabricated by an experienced timmerman, 550, 2 deliberation of extraordinary length, 550, 18 point of authenticity, 550, 23 example of legal acumen, 551, 1 losel scouts, 552, 9

AMERICAN WORKERS AND THEIR WORK

MAKERS OF THE FLAG

FRANKLIN K. LANE

This morning as I passed into the Land Office, the Flag dropped me a most cordial salutation, and from its rippling folds I heard it say: “Good morning, Mr. Flag Maker.”

“I beg your pardon, Old Glory,” I said; “aren’t you mistaken? I am not the President of the United States, nor a member of Congress, nor even a general in the army. I am only a Government clerk.”

“I greet you again, Mr. Flag Maker,” replied the gay voice; “I know you well. You are the man who worked in the swelter of yesterday straightening out the tangle of that farmer’s homestead in Idaho, or perhaps you found the mistake in the Indian contract in Oklahoma, or helped to clear that patent for the hopeful inventor in New York, or pushed the opening of that new ditch in Colorado, or made that mine in Illinois more safe, or brought relief to the old soldier in Wyoming. No matter, whichever one of these beneficent individuals you may happen to be, I give you greeting, Mr. Flag Maker.”

I was about to pass on, when the Flag stopped me with these words:

“Yesterday the President spoke a word that made happier the future of ten million peons in Mexico; but that act looms no larger on the flag than the struggle which the boy in Georgia is making to win the Corn Club prize this summer.

“Yesterday the Congress spoke a word which will open the door of Alaska; but a mother in Michigan worked from sunrise until far into the night, to give her boy an education. She, too, is making the flag.

“Yesterday we made a new law to prevent financial panics, and yesterday, maybe, a school teacher in Ohio taught his first letters to a boy who will one day write a song that will give cheer to the millions of our race. We are all making the flag.”

“But,” I said impatiently, “these people were only working!” Then came a great shout from the Flag:

“The work that we do is the making of the Flag.

“I am not the flag; not at all. I am nothing more than its shadow.

“I am whatever you make me, nothing more.

“I am your belief in yourself, your dream of what a People may become.

“I live a changing life, a life of moods and passions, of heartbreaks and tired muscles.

“Sometimes I am strong with pride, when workmen do an honest piece of work, fitting rails together truly.

“Sometimes I droop, for then purpose has gone from me, and cynically I play the coward.

“Sometimes I am loud, garish, and full of that ego that blasts judgment.

“But always, I am all that you hope to be, and have the courage to try for.

“I am song and fear, struggle and panic, and ennobling hope.

“I am the day’s work of the weakest man, and the largest dream of the most daring.

“I am the Constitution and the courts, the statutes and the statute makers, soldier and dreadnaught, drayman and street sweep, cook, counselor, and clerk.

“I am the battle of yesterday, and the mistake of tomorrow.

“I am the mystery of the men who do without knowing why.

“I am the clutch of an idea, and the reasoned purpose of resolution.

“I am no more than what you believe me to be, and I am all that you believe I can be.

“I am what you make me, nothing more.

“I swing before your eyes as a bright gleam of color, a symbol of yourself, the pictured suggestion of that big thing which makes this nation. My stars and my stripes are your dream and your labors. They are bright with cheer, brilliant with courage, firm with faith, because you have made them so out of your hearts. For you are the makers of the flag and it is well that you glory in the making.”

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Franklin Knight Lane (1864-⸺) was born near Charlottetown, Canada. While he was yet a small boy his parents moved to California, where he attended the State University at Berkeley, being graduated in 1886. Then he entered the newspaper field and became New York correspondent for a number of papers in the West. He was admitted to the bar at the age of twenty-five and practiced law in San Francisco. In 1913 he was appointed Secretary of the Interior in the Cabinet of President Wilson. “Makers of the Flag” is an address made by Secretary Lane, in June, 1914, before the five thousand officers and employees of the Department of the Interior.

=Discussion.= 1. Why did the Flag greet the author as “Mr. Flag Maker”? 2. Why are the Georgia boy, the mother in Michigan, and the school teacher in Ohio, Makers of the Flag? 3. Tell in your own words some of the things that Mr. Lane says the Flag is. 4. What does the Flag mean by saying, “I am all that you hope to be and have the courage to try for”? 5. How is the Flag a “symbol of yourself”? 6. Do you think that you are a Maker of the Flag? 7. In your opinion, what class of people are the greatest Makers of the Flag? 8. Pronounce the following: cordial; government; garish; ego.

=Phrases=

cordial salutation, 553, 2 swelter of yesterday, 553, 9 Indian contract, 553, 11 beneficent individuals, 553, 16 financial panics, 554, 8 cynically I play the coward, 554, 25 ego that blasts judgment, 554, 26 mistake of tomorrow, 554, 37 clutch of an idea, 555, 2 purpose of resolution, 555, 2

I HEAR AMERICA SINGING

WALT WHITMAN

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be, blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutters’ song, the plowboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission, or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Walt Whitman (1819-1892) was born in Huntington, Long Island, and educated in the public schools of Brooklyn. He left school at the early age of thirteen to make his own way in life. At different times he was school teacher, carpenter, builder, journalist, and poet. During the Civil War he became a volunteer nurse in and about Washington, D. C., and the story of his unselfish hospital service is one of the most inspiring that has come down to us from that war. Lincoln said of him, “Well, _he_ looks like a _man_!”

Two points about Whitman are worthy of notice. The first is that he was a man of intensely democratic sympathies. He wrote of “the dear love of comrades” as the real means for bringing about a better understanding among men of every nation, a better government, and the end of war. He loved every part of America, and all America’s sons and daughters.

The word “democracy” constantly occurs in his poetry and his prose, and by it he means the cultivation of love and coöperation among men. He had a vision of the time when autocratic government, and all forms of selfishness, should cease among men; like Burns, he dwelt on the time when men all over the world should be brothers.

The second point is closely related to the first. In his dislike for conventional and exclusive life he objected even to the _form_ developed for poetry through centuries. He was a lover of freedom, even in writing. So he rarely uses rimes and stanzas. He calls his form “chants,” and so they are, chants of human brotherhood and sympathy.

=Discussion.= 1. Who is it that the poet hears singing? 2. In stanza 1, what “varied carols” does he hear? 3. What do you think was the poet’s underlying idea in writing this poem? 4. Do you think that he meant to point out that the road to happiness is the road to work?

=Phrases=

varied carols, 556, 1 noon intermission, 556, 12

PIONEERS! O PIONEERS!

WALT WHITMAN

Come my tan-faced children, Follow well in order, get your weapons ready, Have you your pistols? Have you your sharp-edged axes? Pioneers! O pioneers!

For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!

O you youths, Western youths, So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship, Plain I see you Western youths, see you tramping with the foremost, Pioneers! O pioneers!

Have the elder races halted? Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there beyond the seas? We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson, Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the past we leave behind, We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world, Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, Pioneers! O pioneers!

We detachments steady throwing, Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep, Conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the unknown ways, Pioneers! O pioneers!

We primeval forests felling, We the rivers stemming, vexing we and piercing deep the mines within, We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving, Pioneers! O pioneers!

Colorado men are we, From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high plateaus, From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come, Pioneers! O pioneers!

From Nebraska, from Arkansas, Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood intervein’d, All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the Northern, Pioneers! O pioneers!

O resistless restless race! O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all! O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all, Pioneers! O pioneers!

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Discussion.= 1. Whom does the poet address in stanza 1? 2. What does he ask them if they have ready? 3. Why cannot they “tarry here”? 4. How does the poet characterize the “western youths”? 5. Why must the Pioneers “take up the task eternal”? 6. What new world do they enter upon? 7. Mention some of the tasks that the Pioneers must do. 8. Where do these pioneers come from? 9. Why does the poet mourn and yet exult?

=Phrases=

bear the brunt, 557, 6 sinewy races, 557, 7 task eternal, 558, 3 we debouch, 558, 6 surface broad surveying, 558, 15 continental blood intervein’d, 558, 22

THE BEANFIELD

HENRY D. THOREAU

Before I finished my house, wishing to earn ten or twelve dollars by some honest and agreeable method, in order to meet my unusual expenses, I planted about two acres and a half chiefly with beans, but a small part with potatoes, corn, peas, and turnips.

Meanwhile my beans, the length of whose rows, added together, was seven miles, were impatient to be hoed, for the earliest had grown considerably before the latest were in the ground; indeed they were not easily to be put off. What was the meaning of this so steady and self-respecting, this small Herculean labor, I knew not. I came to love my rows, my beans, though so many more than I wanted. They attached me to the earth, and so I got strength like Antaeus. But why should I raise them? Only Heaven knows. This was my curious labor all summer—to make this portion of the earth’s surface, which had yielded only cinquefoil, blackberries, johnswort, and the like, before, sweet wild fruits and pleasant flowers, produce instead this pulse. What shall I learn of beans or beans of me? I cherish them, I hoe them, early and late I have an eye to them; and this is my day’s work. It is a fine broad leaf to look on. My auxiliaries are the dews and rains which water this dry soil, and what fertility is in the soil itself, which for the most part is lean and effete. My enemies are worms, cool days and, most of all, woodchucks. The last have nibbled for me a quarter of an acre clean. But what right had I to oust johnswort and the rest, and break up their ancient herb garden? Soon, however, the remaining beans will be too tough for them, and go forward to meet new foes.

I planted about two acres and a half of upland. Before any woodchuck or squirrel had run across the road, or the sun had gotten above the shrub-oaks, while all the dew was on—I would advise you to do all your work if possible while the dew is on—I began to level the ranks of haughty weeds in my beanfield and to throw dust upon their heads. Early in the morning I worked barefooted, dabbling like a plastic artist in the dewy and crumbling sand, but later in the day the sun blistered my feet. The sun lighted me to hoe beans, pacing slowly backward and forward over that yellow gravelly upland, between the long green rows, fifteen rods, the one end terminating in a shrub-oak copse where I could rest in the shade the other in a blackberry field where the green berries deepened their tints by the time I had made another round. Removing the weeds putting fresh soil about the bean stems and encouraging this weed which I had sown, making the yellow soil express its summer thought in bean leaves and blossoms rather than in wormwood and piper and millet grass, making the earth say beans instead of grass—this was my daily work. As I had little aid from horses or cattle, or hired men or boys, or improved implements of husbandry, I was much slower, and became much more intimate with my beans than usual.

It was a singular experience, that long acquaintance which I cultivated with beans, what with planting, and hoeing, and harvesting, and threshing, and picking over and selling them—the last was the hardest of all—I might add eating for I did taste. I was determined to know beans. When they were growing, I used to hoe from five o’clock in the morning till noon, and commonly spent the rest of the day about other affairs. Consider the intimate and curious acquaintance one makes with various kinds of weeds. That’s Roman wormwood—that’s pigweed—that’s sorrel—that’s piper-grass—have at him, chop him up, turn his roots upward to the sun, don’t let him have a fiber in the shade; if you do he’ll turn himself t’other side up and be as green as a leek in two days. A long war, not with cranes, but with weeds, those Trojans who had sun and rain and dews on their side. Daily the beans saw me come to their rescue armed with a hoe, and thin the ranks of their enemies, filling up the trenches with weedy dead. Many a lusty crest-waving Hector, that towered a whole foot above his crowding comrades, fell before my weapon and rolled in the dust.

My farm outgoes for the season were, for implements, seed, work, etc., $14.72½. I got twelve bushels of beans and eighteen bushels of potatoes, besides some peas and sweet corn. The yellow corn and turnips were too late to come to anything. My whole income from the farm was—

$23.44 Deducting the outgoes 14.72½ ------- There are left $ 8.71½

This is the result of my experience in raising beans. Plant the common small white bush bean about the first of June, in rows three feet by eighteen inches apart, being careful to select fresh, round, and unmixed seed. First look out for worms, and supply vacancies by planting anew. Then look out for woodchucks, if it is an exposed place, for they will nibble off the earliest tender leaves almost clean as they go; and again, when the young tendrils make their appearance, they have notice of it, and will shear them off with both buds and young pods, sitting erect like a squirrel. But above all, harvest as early as possible, if you would escape frosts and have a fair and salable crop; you may save much loss by this means.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) was born in Concord, Massachusetts, and was educated in the village schools and later at Harvard University. He was an intimate friend of Emerson, Hawthorne, and the Alcotts. With the help of Emerson, he built a cottage beside a pond in Walden Woods near Concord where he lived alone, planted beans, caught fish, and for the most part lived on the products of the soil, cultivated by his own hands. In his book, _Walden, or Life in the Woods_, he gives a detailed account of his observations and experiences. Other books by Thoreau are _A Week on the Concord and the Merrimack Rivers_, _The Maine Woods_, etc.

=Discussion.= 1. Why did Thoreau wish to earn some extra money? 2. What seeds did he plant? 3. The author likens the hoeing of the beans to a “Herculean labor”; explain this reference. 4. What were Thoreau’s auxiliaries? His enemies? 5. According to the author, what is the best time to work in the garden? 6. How did he come “to know beans” so well? 7. Explain the metaphor referring to the weeds as Trojans. 8. How much did the author clear on his garden? 9. Do you think the amount made was worth the labor put into it? 10. Tell one of your experiences with a garden.

=Phrases=

Herculean labor, 559, 9 strength like Antaeus, 559, 12 auxiliaries are the dews, 560, 5 lean and effete, 560, 7 level the ranks, 560, 17 plastic artist, 560, 19 express its summer thought, 560, 28 implements of husbandry, 560, 32 intimate and curious acquaintance, 561, 3 crest-waving Hector, 561, 13 supply vacancies, 561, 29

THE SHIP-BUILDERS

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

The sky is ruddy in the east, The earth is gray below, And, spectral in the river-mist, The ship’s white timbers show. Then let the sounds of measured stroke And grating saw begin; The broad-axe to the gnarléd oak, The mallet to the pin!

Hark!—roars the bellows, blast on blast, The sooty smithy jars, And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, Are fading with the stars. All day for us the smith shall stand Beside that flashing forge; All day for us his heavy hand The groaning anvil scourge.

From far-off hills, the panting team For us is toiling near; For us the raftsmen down the stream Their island barges steer. Rings out for us the ax-man’s stroke In forests old and still— For us the century-circled oak Falls crashing down his hill.

Up!—up!—in nobler toil than ours No craftsmen bear a part; We make of Nature’s giant powers The slaves of human Art. Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, And drive the treenails free; Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam Shall tempt the searching sea!

Where’er the keel of our good ship The sea’s rough field shall plow, Where’er her tossing spars shall drip With salt-spray caught below, That ship must heed her master’s beck, Her helm obey his hand, And seamen tread her reeling deck As if they trod the land.

Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak Of Northern ice may peel; The sunken rock and coral peak May grate along her keel; And know we well the painted shell We give to wind and wave, Must float, the sailor’s citadel, Or sink, the sailor’s grave!

Ho!—strike away the bars and blocks, And set the good ship free! Why lingers on these dusty rocks The young bride of the sea? Look! how she moves adown the grooves, In graceful beauty now! How lowly on the breast she loves Sinks down her virgin prow!

God bless her! wheresoe’er the breeze Her snowy wing shall fan, Aside the frozen Hebrides, Or sultry Hindostan! Where’er, in mart or on the main, With peaceful flag unfurled, She helps to wind the silken chain Of commerce round the world!

Be hers the Prairie’s golden grain, The Desert’s golden sand, The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, The spice of Morning-land! Her pathway on the open main May blessings follow free, And glad hearts welcome back again. Her white sails from the sea!

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 60.

=Discussion.= 1. What does the title tell us? 2. Make an outline which shows what each stanza tells us of the ship-builders, for example:

Stanza 1—Morning; time for work.

Stanza 2—The smithy; work of the smith, etc.

3. What do the first four lines tell us of the time? 4. Note how much more they tell; what pictures do they give? What comparison do they suggest? 5. What line in the second stanza adds to the picture in stanza one? 6. In what sense is the smith working “for us”? 7. What does the “panting team” bring from the “far-off hills”? 8. With whose labor does the work of ship-building really begin? Read the lines which tell this. 9. Which line in the third stanza do you like best? 10. What comparison does the poet make between ship-building and other kinds of labor? 11. Is the “master” the only one responsible for making the ship obey the helm? 12. What is the subject of the verb “may feel”? 13. What dangers to the ship are pointed out? How may the ship-builders guard against these dangers? 14. Read the stanzas which urge honest workmanship. 15. At what point in the building of a ship are the “bars and blocks” struck away? 16. In what sense does this “set the good ship free”? 17. Read lines which tell of the ship’s work. 18. In what sense can the “Prairie’s golden grain” “be hers”? 19. What is meant by the “Desert’s golden sand”? 20. What poetic name is given to the Far East? 21. Read the lines that express the poet’s wish for the ship. 22. Select the lines in this poem that give the most vivid pictures. 23. Can you think of anything of which this ship may be the symbol? 24. Compare the poem with Longfellow’s “The Builders” (page 566) for a suggestion as to what the ship may represent. 25. Pronounce the following: sooty; scourge; helm; coral.

=Phrases=

spectral in the river-mist, 562, 3 measured stroke, 562, 5 sooty smithy jars, 563, 2 groaning anvil scourge, 563, 8 century-circled oak, 563, 15 drive the treenails free, 563, 22 vulture-beak of Northern ice, 564, 1 sailor’s citadel, 564, 7

THE BUILDERS

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rime.

Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise Time is with materials filled; Our todays and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these; Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house, where gods may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build today, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure Shall tomorrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 80.

=Discussion.= 1. Tell in your own words what the first stanza means to you. 2. Find the line which tells that we must build whether we wish to do so or not. 3. Which lines show that we choose the kind of structure that we raise? 4. Upon what does the beauty of the “blocks” depend? 5. Mention something that could cause a “yawning gap.” 6. By whom are “massive deeds” performed? 7. By whom are “ornaments of rime” made? 8. Explain the meaning of the “elder days of Art” and mention some works that belong to that time. 9. Tell in your own words the meaning of the last stanza. 10. What do you think was Longfellow’s purpose in writing this poem?

=Phrases=

architects of Fate, 566, 1 massive deeds, 566, 3 yawning gaps, 566, 14 ample base, 567, 6 ascending and secure, 567, 7 boundless reach, 567, 12

LOVE OF COUNTRY

THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

What flower is this that greets the morn, Its hues from Heaven so freshly born? With burning star and flaming band It kindles all the sunset land; O tell us what its name may be— Is this the Flower of Liberty? It is the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty.

In savage Nature’s far abode Its tender seed our fathers sowed; The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, Its opening leaves were streaked with blood, Till lo! earth’s tyrants shook to see The full-blown Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty.

Behold its streaming rays unite, One mingling flood of braided light— The red that fires the Southern rose, With spotless white from Northern snows, And, spangled o’er its azure, see The sister Stars of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

The blades of heroes fence it round, Where’er it springs is holy ground; From tower and dome its glories spread; It waves where lonely sentries tread; It makes the land as ocean free, And plants an empire on the sea! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty.

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom’s flower, Shall ever float on dome and tower, To all their heavenly colors true, In blackening frost or crimson dew— And God love us as we love thee, Thrice holy Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 539.

=Discussion.= 1. Read the line in the first stanza answering the question with which the poem opens. 2. Explain the metaphor of the “burning star” and the “flaming band,” etc. 3. How many “burning stars” does our flag contain? How many “flaming bands”? 4. Why does the poet call America the “sunset land”? 5. How far back in history must we go to find the seed time of the Flower of Liberty? 6. Did the Flower of Liberty come to full-bloom in a time of strife or a time of peace? 7. What were the “storm-winds”? What blood streaked its opening leaves? 8. How does the poet show that the North and South unite as one in the flag? 9. How do the “blades of heroes fence” the flag? 10. In the fourth stanza the poet says that the flag makes our land as free as the ocean; what do you know about a recent struggle over the freedom of the seas? 11. Why is the Flower of Liberty thrice holy?

=Phrases=

freshly born, 568, 2 flaming band, 568, 3 far abode, 568, 9 swelling bud, 568, 11 streaming rays unite, 569, 1 braided light, 569, 2

OLD IRONSIDES

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky. Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon’s roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o’er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor’s tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

O better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave. Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale!

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 539.

=Historical Note.= Old Ironsides was the popular name given the U. S. frigate _Constitution_. It was proposed by the Secretary of the Navy to dispose of the ship, as it had become unfit for service. Popular sentiment did not approve of this; it was felt that a ship which had been the pride of the nation should continue to be the property of the Navy and that it should be rebuilt for service when needed. Holmes wrote this poem at the time when the matter was being widely discussed.

=Discussion.= 1. In what spirit was this poem written? 2. What was the motive which inspired it? 3. Do you think the poet really means it when he cries, “Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!”? Can you give some other instance of irony? 4. As you read this poem, do you think of the frigate as an inanimate object or does it seem personified? 5. What is meant by “meteor of the ocean wave”? 6. Who are the “harpies of the shore”? The “eagle of the sea”? 7. What does the poet say would be better than to have the ship dismantled? 8. Do you think this a fitting end for a ship of war? 9. Read the story of the fight between the _Constitution_ and the _Guerriére_ given in your history and be prepared to tell it in class. Why did the nation have particular pride in this achievement? 10. Pronounce the following: ensign; beneath.

=Phrases=

tattered ensign, 570, 1 meteor of the ocean air, 570, 7 harpies of the shore, 570, 15 shattered hulk, 571, 1

THE AMERICAN FLAG

HENRY WARD BEECHER

A thoughtful mind, when it sees a nation’s flag, sees not the flag only, but the nation itself; and whatever may be its symbols, its insignia, he reads chiefly in the flag the government, the principles, the truths, the history, which belong to the nation which sets it forth.

When the French tricolor rolls out to the wind, we see France. When the new-found Italian flag is unfurled, we see resurrected Italy. When the other three-cornered Hungarian flag shall be lifted to the wind, we shall see in it the long buried but never dead principles of Hungarian liberty. When the united crosses of St. Andrew and St. George on a fiery ground set forth the banner of Old England, we see not the cloth merely; there rises up before the mind the noble aspect of that monarchy, which, more than any other on the globe, has advanced its banner for liberty, law, and national prosperity.

This nation has a banner, too; and wherever it streamed abroad, men saw daybreak bursting on their eyes, for the American flag has been the symbol of liberty, and men rejoiced in it. Not another flag on the globe had such an errand, or went forth upon the sea, carrying everywhere, the world around, such hope for the captive, and such glorious tidings. The stars upon it were to the pining nations like the morning stars of God, and the stripes upon it were beams of morning light.

As at early dawn the stars stand first, and then it grows light, and then as the sun advances, that light breaks into banks and streaming lines of color, the glowing red and intense white striving together and ribbing the horizon with bars effulgent, so on the American flag, stars and beams of many-colored light shine out together. And wherever the flag comes, and men behold it, they see in its sacred emblazonry no rampant lion and fierce eagle, but only LIGHT, and every fold significant of liberty.

The history of this banner is all on one side. Under it rode Washington and his armies; before it Burgoyne laid down his arms. It waved on the highlands at West Point; it floated over old Fort Montgomery. When Arnold would have surrendered these valuable fortresses and precious legacies, his night was turned into day, and his treachery was driven away by the beams of light from this starry banner.

It cheered our army, driven from New York, in their solitary pilgrimage through New Jersey. It streamed in light over Valley Forge and Morristown. It crossed the waters rolling with ice at Trenton; and when its stars gleamed in the cold morning with victory, a new day of hope dawned on the despondency of the nation. And when, at length, the long years of war were drawing to a close, underneath the folds of this immortal banner sat Washington while Yorktown surrendered its hosts, and our Revolutionary struggles ended with victory.

Let us then twine each thread of the glorious tissue of our country’s flag about our heartstrings; and looking upon our homes and catching the spirit that breathes upon us from the battlefields of our fathers, let us resolve, come weal or woe, we will, in life and in death, now and forever, stand by the Stars and Stripes. They have been unfurled from the snows of Canada to the plains of New Orleans, in the halls of the Montezumas and amid the solitude of every sea; and everywhere, as the luminous symbol of resistless and beneficent power, they have led the brave to victory and to glory. They have floated over our cradles; let it be our prayer and our struggle that they shall float over our graves.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Henry Ward Beecher (1813-1887) was a native of Connecticut and a son of the famous Lyman Beecher. He was a graduate of Amherst College and of Lane Theological Seminary. For forty years Beecher was the pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, discussing from the pulpit the issues of the time and championing the rights of men everywhere, particularly the rights of oppressed men. His lectures and sermons breathed a spirit of intense patriotism.

=Discussion.= 1. What may be seen in a nation’s flag by a thoughtful mind? 2. Of what is the American flag a symbol? 3. What are the stars of the flag compared to? The stripes? 4. What do people see in the “sacred emblazonry” of the flag? 5. Tell something of the history of this banner. 6. What is it to “stand by the stars and stripes”? 7. Do you think the men who fought for us in the Great War lived up to the ideals given to us in this poem? 8. Pronounce the following: insignia; horizon; rampant.

=Phrases=

resurrected Italy, 572, 7 glorious tidings, 572, 21 ribbing the horizon, 572, 27 bars effulgent, 572, 27 sacred emblazonry, 572, 30 precious legacies, 573, 5 glorious tissue, 573, 17 weal or woe, 573, 20 luminous symbol, 573, 24 beneficent power, 573, 24

THE AMERICAN FLAG

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE

When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle-bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land!

Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear’st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—

Child of the sun! to thee ’tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on, Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier’s eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon’s mouthings loud, Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabers rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall; Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink below Each gallant arm that strikes beneath That awful messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean’s wave Thy stars shall glitter o’er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside’s reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o’er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart’s hope and home! By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet, And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er us?

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Joseph Rodman Drake (1795-1820), whose name is inseparably associated with that of his friend, Fitz-Greene Halleck, was an American poet. These two able poets together contributed a series of forty poems to the _New York Evening Post_. Among these was “The American Flag,” the last four lines of which were written by Halleck, to replace those written by Drake:

“As fixed as yonder orb divine, That saw thy bannered blaze unfurled, Shall thy proud stars resplendent shine, The guard and glory of the world.”

Drake was a youth of many graces of both mind and body, who wrote verses as a bird sings—for the pure joy of it. His career was cut short by death when he was only twenty-five years old. Of him Halleck wrote:

“None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.”

=Discussion.= 1. Who is represented as making a flag? 2. How is it made? 3. What flag is it? 4. What reasons can you see for choosing the eagle as bearer of this flag? 5. What events are pictured in which the flag has a part? 6. Note all the names the poet gives to the flag; which of these do you like best? 7. Can you give other names that are applied to our flag? 8. What feeling caused this poem to be written? 9. What lines are the most stirring? 10. Which stanza do you like best?

=Phrases=

unfurled her standard, 574, 2 azure robe, 574, 3 milky baldric, 574, 6 celestial white, 574, 7 majestic monarch, 574, 13 regal form, 574, 14 tempest-trumpings, 574, 15 sulphur smoke, 575, 3 harbingers of victory, 575, 7 sky-born glories, 575, 15 cannon’s mouthings loud, 575, 18 welkin dome, 576, 3

THE FLAG GOES BY

HENRY H. BENNETT

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of color beneath the sky. Hats off! The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines, Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. Hats off! The colors before us fly; But more than the flag is passing by.

Sea fights and land fights, grim and great, Fought to make and to save the State; Weary marches and sinking ships; Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace; March of a strong land’s swift increase; Equal justice, right and law, Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong To ward her people from foreign wrong; Pride and glory and honor—all Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; And loyal hearts are beating high: Hats off! The flag is passing by!

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= 1. Henry Holcomb Bennett (1863-⸺), an American newspaper writer, was born in Chillicothe, Ohio. He is not only a journalist, but also a magazine writer and a landscape painter. He has been a frequent contributor to the _Youth’s Companion_, and to the New York _Independent_. “The Flag Goes By” is his most popular poem.

=Discussion.= 1. What feeling inspires the cry “Hats off!”? 2. What does the poet mean by “more than a flag is passing”? 3. Name historical events which illustrate the different references in the third stanza. 4. Explain the meaning of “march of a strong land’s swift increase.” 5. How could the flag “ward her people from foreign wrong”? 6. How many of the things mentioned by the poet do you see when the flag goes by? 7. Do you think the poem will help you to see more?

=Phrases=

ruffle of drums, 577, 3 steel-tipped, ordered lines, 577, 8 strong land’s swift increase, 577, 17 reverend awe, 577, 19

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY

O say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light, What so proudly we hailed, at the twilight’s last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming; And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On that shore, dimly seen through the mist of the deep, Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam, In full glory reflected now shines in the stream; ’Tis the Star-Spangled Banner; O long may it wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where are the foes who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war, and the battle’s confusion, A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, And this be our motto—“In God is our trust.” And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biographical and Historical Note.= Francis Scott Key (1780-1843), an American lawyer and poet, was a native of Maryland. “The Star-Spangled Banner” made him famous.

The incidents referred to in this poem occurred during the war of 1812. In August, 1814, a strong force of British entered Washington and burned the Capitol, the White House, and many other public buildings. On September 13 the British admiral moved his fleet into position to attack Fort McHenry, near Baltimore. The bombardment lasted all night, but the fort was so bravely defended that the flag was still floating over it when morning came. Just before the bombardment began, Francis Scott Key was sent to the admiral’s frigate to arrange for an exchange of prisoners and was told to wait until the bombardment was over. All night he watched the fort and by the first rays of morning light he saw the Stars and Stripes still waving. Then, in his joy and pride, he wrote the stirring words of the song which is now known and loved by all Americans—“The Star-Spangled Banner.”

=Discussion.= 1. Relate the incident that called forth the poem. 2. What “perilous fight” had taken place? 3. Where was the author during the fight? 4. What had he seen at the “twilight’s last gleaming”? 5. Over what ramparts was the flag streaming? 6. Which lines suggest why the poet could not be sure that the flag was still there? 7. What sometimes “gave proof” to him? 8. What finally disclosed the flag “in full glory”? 9. What feelings do you think this certainty aroused in the watcher? 10. Who made up “the foe’s haughty host”? 11. Find words that tell where the foe was and that he had ceased firing. 12. What “war’s desolation” is named in the third stanza? 13. What other war songs do you know? 14. What other country’s national hymn do you know? 15. What purposes does such a song serve?

=Phrases=

perilous fight, 578, 3 o’er the ramparts, 578, 4 mist of the deep, 578, 9 dread silence reposes, 578, 10 towering steep, 578, 11 vauntingly swore, 579, 5 foul footsteps’ pollution, 579, 8 war’s desolation, 579, 14

CITIZENSHIP

WILLIAM P. FRYE

Citizenship! What is citizenship? It has a broader signification than you and I are apt to give it. Citizenship does not mean alone that the man who possesses it shall be obedient to the law, shall be kindly to his neighbors, shall regard the rights of others, shall perform his duties as juror, shall, if the hour of peril come, yield his time, his property, and his life to his country. It means more than that. It means that his country shall protect him in every right which the Constitution gives him. What right has the Republic to demand his life, his property, in the hour of peril, if, when his hour of peril comes, it fails him? A man died in England a few years ago, Lord Napier of Magdala, whose death reminded me of an incident which illustrates this, an incident which gave that great lord his name. A few years ago King Theodore of Abyssinia seized Captain Cameron, a British citizen, and incarcerated him in a dungeon on the top of a mountain nine thousand feet high. England demanded his release, and King Theodore refused. England fitted out and sent on five thousand English soldiers, and ten thousand Sepoys, debarked them on the coast, marched them more than four hundred miles through swamp and morass under a burning sun. Then they marched up the mountain height, they scaled the walls, they broke down the iron gates, they reached down into the dungeon, they took that one British citizen like a brand from the burning and carried him down the mountain side, across the morass, put him on board the white-winged ship, and bore him away to England to safety. That cost Great Britain millions of dollars, and it made General Napier Lord Napier of Magdala.

Was not that a magnificent thing for a great country to do? Only think of it! A country that has an eye sharp enough to see away across the ocean, away across the morass, away up into the mountain top, away down into the dungeon, one citizen, one of her thirty millions, and then has an arm strong enough to reach away across the ocean, away across the morass, away up the mountain height and down into the dungeon and take that one and bear him home in safety. Who would not live and die, too, for the country that can do that? This country of ours is worth our thought, our care, our labor, our lives. What a magnificent country it is! What a Republic for the people, where all are kings! Men of great wealth, of great rank, of great influence can live without difficulty under despotic power; but how can you and I, how can the average man endure the burdens it imposes? Oh, this blessed Republic of ours stretches its hand down to men, and lifts them up, while despotism puts its heavy hand on their heads and presses them down! This blessed Republic of ours speaks to every boy in the land, black or white, rich or poor, and asks him to come up higher and higher. You remember that boy out here on the prairie, the son of a widowed mother, poor, neglected perhaps by all except the dear old mother. But the Republic did not neglect him. The Republic said to that boy: “Boy, there is a ladder: its foot is on the earth, its top is in the sky. Boy, go up.” And the boy mounted that ladder rung by rung; by the rung of the free schools, by the rung of the academy, by the rung of the college, by the rung of splendid service in the United States Army, by the rung of the United States House of Representatives, by the rung of the United States Senate, by the rung of the Presidency of the Great Republic, by the rung of a patient sickness and a heroic death; until James A. Garfield is a name to be forever honored in the history of our country.

Now, is not a Republic like that worth the tribute of our conscience? Is it not entitled to our best thought, to our holiest purpose?

Let us pledge ourselves to give it our loyal service and support until every man in this Republic, black or white, shall be protected in all the rights which the Constitution of the United States bestows upon him.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biographical and Historical Note.= William Pierce Frye (1831-1911), an eminent lawyer and statesman, was born at Lewiston, Maine. He was graduated from Bowdoin College in 1850, and was a member of Congress from 1871 to 1881, and United States senator for Maine from 1881 to 1911. After the death of Vice-President Hobart, and also after the death of President McKinley, he acted as president _pro tempore_ of the senate.

The Magdala affair is a striking example of what a country will do to protect its citizens. Magdala, more properly Makdala, is a natural stronghold in Abyssinia. The emperor Theodore of Abyssinia chose it as a fortress and a prison. Having taken offense because a request that English workmen and machinery be sent him was not promptly complied with, Theodore seized the British consul, Captain C. D. Cameron, his suite, and two other men, and imprisoned them at Magdala. Lieutenant-General Robert Napier was sent to rescue the prisoners. For his services in this expedition Napier received the thanks of Parliament, a pension, and a peerage, with the title First Baron Napier of Magdala.

=Discussion.= 1. Who are citizens of this country? 2. What is the duty of a citizen to his country? 3. What is the duty of a country to its citizens? 4. What incident illustrates the difficulties one country overcame in order to protect a citizen? 5. What does our country do for its citizens? 6. What illustration of this is given?

=Phrases=

broader signification, 580, 1 duties as juror, 580, 5 incident which illustrates, 580, 12 incarcerated him, 580, 15 brand from the burning, 581, 8 across the morass, 581, 9 despotic power, 581, 25 tribute of our conscience, 582, 7

THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON

THOMAS JEFFERSON

I think I knew General Washington intimately and thoroughly, and were I called on to delineate his character, it should be in terms like these:

His mind was great and powerful, without being of the very first order; his penetration strong, though not so acute as that of a Newton, Bacon, or Locke, and as far as he saw, no judgment was ever sounder. It was slow in operation, being little aided by invention or imagination, but sure in conclusion. Hence the common remark of his officers, of the advantage he derived from councils of war, where, hearing all suggestions, he selected whatever was best; and certainly no general ever planned his battles more judiciously. But if deranged during the course of the action, if any member of his plan was dislocated by sudden circumstances, he was slow in readjustment. The consequence was that he often failed in the field, and rarely against an enemy in station, as at Boston and New York. He was incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern.

Perhaps the strongest feature in his character was prudence; never acting until every circumstance, every consideration, was maturely weighed; refraining if he saw a doubt, but, when once decided, going through with his purpose whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was most pure, his justice the most inflexible I have ever known, no motives of interest or consanguinity, of friendship, or hatred, being able to bias his decision. He was, indeed, in every sense of the words, a wise, a good, and a great man. His temper was naturally irritable and high-toned; but reflection and resolution had obtained a firm and habitual ascendancy over it. If ever, however, it broke its bounds, he was most tremendous in his wrath.

In his expenses he was honorable, but exact; liberal in contribution to whatever promised utility, but frowning and unyielding on all visionary projects and all unworthy calls on his charity. His heart was not warm in its affections; but he exactly calculated every man’s value, and gave him a solid esteem proportioned to it. His person, you know, was fine, his stature exactly what one could wish, his deportment easy, erect, and noble; the best horseman of his age, and the most graceful figure that could be seen on horseback.

Although in the circle of his friends, where he might be unreserved with safety, he took a free share in conversation, his colloquial talents were not above mediocrity, possessing neither copiousness of ideas nor fluency of words. In public, when called on for a sudden opinion, he was unready, short, and embarrassed. Yet he wrote readily, rather diffusely, in an easy and correct style. This he had acquired by conversation with the world, for his education was merely reading, writing, and common arithmetic, to which he added surveying at a later day.

His time was employed in action chiefly, reading little, and that only in agriculture and English history. His correspondence became necessarily extensive, and, with journalizing his agricultural proceedings, occupied most of his leisure hours within-doors.

On the whole, his character was, in its mass, perfect, in nothing bad, in few points indifferent; and it may truly be said that never did nature and fortune combine more perfectly to make a man great, and to place him in the same constellation with whatever worthies have merited from man an everlasting remembrance.

For his was the singular destiny and merit of leading the armies of his country successfully through an arduous war for the establishment of its independence; of conducting its councils through the birth of a government, new in its forms and principles, until it had settled down into a quiet and orderly train; and of scrupulously obeying the laws through the whole of his career, civil and military, of which the history of the world furnishes no other example.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826), a native of Virginia, was Governor of Virginia, Minister to France, Secretary of State in Washington’s Cabinet, Vice-President, and President. He wrote the Declaration of Independence and was the founder of the University of Virginia. Jefferson was a ripe scholar, a good violinist, a skillful horseman, and an accurate marksman with a rifle. His influence was clearly felt in the framing of the Constitution, though he was in France at that time. His speeches were sound in policy and clear in statement.

=Discussion.= 1. What peculiarly fitted Jefferson to describe the character of Washington? 2. What conflict gave Washington an opportunity to show his greatness? 3. How had Washington’s life prepared him to take advantage of his opportunities? 4. Name the qualities, as given by Jefferson, that made Washington so great a leader. 5. How did he show prudence? Integrity? Justice? 6. From your readings can you give any instance in which he showed fearlessness? 7. How did he show sureness in judgment? 8. What, in Jefferson’s opinion, was the strongest feature of Washington’s character? 9. How does Jefferson summarize his estimate of Washington? 10. What quality especially characteristic of Lincoln is not mentioned in this estimate, because it was lacking in Washington? 11. Give a summary of the things Washington accomplished. 12. What part of this characterization of Washington impressed you most. 13. Which of the qualities mentioned would you most wish to possess?

=Phrases=

his penetration strong, 583, 5 invention or imagination, 583, 8 deranged during the course, 583, 12 dislocated by sudden circumstances, 583, 13 obstacles opposed, 583, 21 interest or consanguinity, 583, 23 bias his decision, 583, 24 habitual ascendancy, 583, 27 liberal in contribution, 583, 30 visionary projects, 584, 1 solid esteem proportioned, 584, 3 rather diffusely, 584, 13 arduous war, 584, 27

THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Pale is the February sky And brief the mid-day’s sunny hours; The wind-swept forest seems to sigh For the sweet time of leaves and flowers.

Yet has no month a prouder day, Not even when the summer broods O’er meadows in their fresh array, Or autumn tints the glowing woods.

For this chill season now again Brings, in its annual round, the morn When, greatest of the sons of men, Our glorious Washington was born.

Lo, where, beneath an icy shield, Calmly the mighty Hudson flows! By snow-clad fell and frozen field, Broadening, the lordly river goes.

The wildest storm that sweeps through space, And rends the oak with sudden force, Can raise no ripple on his face Or slacken his majestic course.

Thus, ’mid the wreck of thrones, shall live Unmarred, undimmed, our hero’s fame, And years succeeding years shall give Increase of honors to his name.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 41.

=Discussion.= 1. How does the poet describe a day in February? 2. Why has “no month a prouder day”? 3. Whose birthday occurs on the twenty-second of February? 4. Do you know any other great man whose birthday comes in February? 5. Give in your own words the comparison of “the mighty Hudson” and the fame of Washington. 6. Do you know of some interesting incident in Washington’s life? 7. In the last stanza the poet speaks of wrecked thrones; what thrones can you name that were wrecked during the Great War?

=Phrases=

summer broods, 586, 6 fresh array, 586, 7 icy shield, 586, 13 snow-clad fell, 586, 15 majestic course, 586, 20 ’mid the wreck of thrones, 586, 21

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD

This man whose homely face you look upon, Was one of Nature’s masterful great men; Born with strong arms that unfought victories won. Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen, Chosen for large designs, he had the art Of winning with his humor, and he went Straight to his mark, which was the human heart. Wise, too, for what he could not break, he bent; Upon his back, a more than Atlas load, The burden of the Commonwealth was laid; He stooped and rose up with it, though the road Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed. Hold, warriors, councilors, kings! All now give place To this dead Benefactor of the Race.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Richard Henry Stoddard (1825-1903), the son of a sea captain, was born at Hingham, Mass. After the death of his father he moved with his mother to New York City, where, after a short school life, he began work in an iron foundry. He and Bayard Taylor became warm friends, meeting once a week to talk of literary matters. His characterization of Lincoln is regarded as a classic. He wrote both prose and poetry and became noted as a literary critic. He is the author of “Homes and Haunts of Our Elder Poets.”

=Discussion.= 1. Tell what you can of the author, noting anything in his life that was common to that of Lincoln. 2. Name the qualities that the poet says made Lincoln “one of Nature’s masterpieces.” 3. What does “homely” mean as used in the first line? 4. From your study of pictures of Lincoln what other words can you suggest to describe his features? 5. Explain the meaning of “cunning with the pen.” 6. Repeat any of Lincoln’s famous sayings you know. 7. What does the eighth line tell you of Lincoln’s character? 8. How did his humor help him to win? 9. Why was the “burden of the Commonwealth” so great and why was it laid on his shoulders? 10. Toward what did the road tend “suddenly downward,” and how did Lincoln meet the situation created by Secession? 11. What reasons can you give for calling him a “Benefactor of the Race”? 12. Compare the achievements of Lincoln with those of Washington. 13. Which do you think the better description, that written by Stoddard or that by Jefferson?

=Phrases=

unfought victories won, 587, 3 large designs, 587, 5 Atlas load, 587, 9 burden of the Commonwealth, 587, 10 not a whit dismayed, 587, 12

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills. For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here, Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! But I with mournful tread Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see page 556.

=Discussion.= 1. Tell what you know of the poet that fitted him to write of Lincoln’s character and achievements. 2. In this poem the Union is compared to a ship; who is the captain of the ship? 3. What fate befalls the captain, and at what stage of the voyage? 4. What “port” has been reached? 5. What is “the prize we sought and won”? 6. Point out words of rejoicing and of sorrow in the last stanza. 7. What parts of the poem impress you with the deep personal grief of the poet? 8. This poem put into words the nation’s deep grief at the time of Lincoln’s death; do you think this accounts for the wide popularity of the poem? 9. Read Whitman’s poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed,” describing the journey of the train bearing the body of the martyred President from Washington to Springfield, Illinois.

=Phrases=

weather’d every rack, 588, 2 all exulting, 588, 3 steady keel, 588, 4 swaying mass, 589, 4

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

LIEUT. COL. JOHN D. McCRAE

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks still bravely singing fly, Scarce heard amidst the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you from falling hands we throw The torch. Be yours to hold it high! If ye break faith with us who die, We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= John D. McCrae, a physician of Montreal, was made a Lieutenant Colonel in the Canadian Army and went overseas early in the war. He died of pneumonia at the front in January, 1918. This beautiful poem, was written by him during the second battle of Ypres, April, 1915.

=Discussion.= 1. Tell in your own words the scene which the poet describes in the first five lines. 2. Of what is the poppy a symbol? 3. What does the poet bid us do? 4. What do you think was the motive which inspired Lieutenant Colonel McCrae to write this poem?

=Phrases=

poppies blow, 590, 1 mark our place, 590, 3 felt dawn, 590, 7 falling hands, 590, 11

AMERICA’S ANSWER

R. W. LILLARD

Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead. The fight that ye so bravely led We’ve taken up. And we will keep True faith with you who lie asleep With each a cross to mark his bed, And poppies blowing overhead, Where once his own lifeblood ran red. So let your rest be sweet and deep In Flanders fields.

Fear not that ye have died for naught. The torch ye threw to us we caught. Ten million hands will hold it high, And Freedom’s light shall never die! We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught In Flanders fields.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= “America’s Answer” was written by R. W. Lillard of New York City after the death of Lieutenant Colonel McCrae, the author of “In Flanders Fields.” It was printed in the _New York Evening Post_ as a fitting response to the sentiment expressed in Dr. McCrae’s poem.

=Discussion.= 1. Why does the poet say that the “Flanders dead” may now rest in peace? 2. Who took up the struggle? 3. Why does the poet say that the heroes of Flanders have not “died for naught”? 4. Do you think this poem is as stirring as the one that precedes it?

=Phrases=

true faith, 591, 4 lifeblood, 591, 7 Freedom’s light, 591, 13 learned the lesson, 591, 14

GLOSSARY

KEY TO THE SOUNDS OF MARKED VOWELS

ā as in ate ă as in bat â as in care ȧ as in ask ä as in arm a᷵ as in senate e᷵ as in event ẽ as in maker ē as in eve ĕ as in met ī as in kind ĭ as in pin ō as in note ŏ as in not ô as in or o᷵ as in obey ū as in use ŭ as in cut û as in turn u᷵ as in unite o̅o̅ as in food o͡o as in foot

=a-banˈdon= (ȧ-bănˈdŭn), to leave, quit.

=a-baseˈment= (ȧ-bāseˈmĕnt), humiliation, shame.

=a-batˈed= (ȧ-bātˈĕd), reduced, decreased.

=abˈbess= (ăbˈĕs), head of a convent.

=abˈbey= (ăbˈī), the church of a monastery, convent.

=Abˌer-deenˈshire= (ăbˌẽr-dēnˈshẽr), a county in northeastern Scotland.

=Abˌer-dourˈ= (ăbˌẽr-do̅o̅rˈ), same as Abˌ-er-deenˈ, a city in Scotland.

=abˈdi-cate= (ăbˈdĭ-kāt), to surrender, abandon.

=ab-horˈrence= (ăb-hôrˈĕns), extreme hatred.

=a-bideˈ= (ȧ-bīdˈ), to entrust.

=a-bodeˈ= (ȧ-bōdˈ), residence, dwelling.

=a-bom-i-naˈtion= (ȧ-bŏm-ĭ-nāˈshŭn), disgust, hatred.

=a-booneˈ= (ȧ-bo̅o̅nˈ), Scotch for =above=.

=abˌo-rigˈi-nes= (ăbˌō-rĭjˈĭ-nēz), native races.

=ab-ruptˈ= (ăb-rŭptˈ), very steep, rough, sudden.

=abˈso-lute= (ăbˈsō-lūt), clear, positive; owned solely.

=ab-sorbedˈ= (ăb-sôrbdˈ), swallowed up.

=ab-stracˈtion= (ăb-străkˈshŭn), separation.

=ab-surdˈ= (ăb-sŭrdˈ), ridiculous.

=a-byssˈ= (ȧ-bĭsˈ), a bottomless pit.

=a-byssˈ of the whirl= (ȧ-bĭsˈ), great depth of the whirlpool.

=Abˌys-sinˈi-a= (ăbˌĭ-sĭnˈĭ-ȧ), a country in East Africa.

=A-caˈdi-a= (ȧ-kāˈdĭ-ȧ), the original French, and now poetic, name of Nova Scotia.

=acˈcess= (ăkˈsĕs; ăk-sĕsˈ), admission.

=ac-comˈpa-nied= (ă-kŭmˈpȧ-nĭd), went with.

=ac-cordˈ= (ă-kôrdˈ), agreement of will, assent, blend.

=ac-cordˈing-ly= (ă-kôrdˈĭng-lĭ), consequently, so.

=ac-countˈa-ble= (ă-kounˈtȧ-b’l), responsible.

=ac-countˈant= (ă-kountˈănt), one skilled in keeping accounts.

=ac-cuˌmu-laˈtion= (ă-kūˌmū-lāˈshŭn), collection.

=acˌcu-saˈtion= (ăkˌu᷵-zāˈshŭn), the charge of an offense or crime.

=ac-cusˈtomed= (ă-kŭsˈtŭmd), wont, used.

=a-chieveˈ= (ȧ-chēvˈ), achieve your adventure, do your favor.

=A-chilˈles= (ȧ-kĭlˈēz), the central hero in the =Iliad=. See Elson Reader, Book II.

=ac-quireˈ= (ă-kwīrˈ), gain.

=a-cuˈmen= (ȧ-kūˈmĕn), keenness, shrewdness.

=adˈage= (ădˈăj), an old saying.

=adˌa-manˈtine= (ȧdˌȧ-mănˈtĭn), impenetrable, hard.

=a-daptˈing= (ȧ-dăptˈĭng), fitting, adjusting.

=adˈder= (ădˈẽr), a kind of snake.

=ad-dressˈ= (ă-drĕsˈ), skill, tact; to make a speech.

=adˈe-quate= (ădˈe᷵-kwa᷵t), sufficient.

=ad-herˈence= (ăd-hērˈĕns), steady attachment, fidelity.

=ad-herˈent= (ăd-hērˈĕnt), follower.

=a-dieuˈ= (ȧ-dūˈ), farewell, good-by.

=ad-jaˈcent= (ă-jāˈsĕnt), near by.

=ad-justˈ= (ă-jŭstˈ), to arrange.

=ad-minˈis-ter= (ăd-mĭnˈĭs-tẽr), to apply, serve out.

=ad-minˌis-traˈtion= (ăd-mĭnˌĭs-trāˈshŭn), management of public affairs.

=adˈmi-ra-ble= (ădˈmĭ-ra᷵-b’l), wonderful, marvelous.

=adˈmi-ral= (ădˈmĭ-răl), a naval officer of the highest rank.

=a-dornˈ= (ȧ-dôrnˈ), to set off to advantage, beautify, decorate.

=a-dornˈment of all India= (ȧ-dôrnˈmĕnt), a flattering phrase—one that helps to beautify India.

=a-droitˈness in traffic= (ȧ-droitˈnĕs, trăfˈĭk), skill in bargaining or commerce.

=ad-vanceˈ= (ăd-vănsˈ), offer, set forth.

=adˌvan-taˈgeous-ly= (ădˌvăn-tāˈjŭs-lĭ), beneficially.

=ad-venˈture= (ăd-vĕnˈtu᷵r), undertaking.

=ad-venˈtur-ous= (ăd-vĕnˈtu᷵r-ŭs), daring.

=adˈver-sa-ries= (ădˈvẽr-sa᷵-rĭz), foes, opponents.

=adˈverse= (ădˈvẽrs), unfavorable.

=ad-vertˈ= (ăd-vûrtˈ), to refer, allude.

=ad-visˈa-ble= (ăd-vīzˈȧ-b’l), desirable.

=adˈvo-cate= (ădˈvō-ka᷵t), counselor, one who pleads for another.

=a-eˈri-al= (ā-ēˈrĭ-ăl), airy, pertaining to air

=af-fectˈed= (ă-fĕktˈĕd), fancied; laid hold of.

=af-fectsˈ so many genˈer-ous senˈti-ments= (ă-fĕktsˈ; jĕnˈẽr-ŭs; sĕnˈtĭ-mĕnts), assumes so many noble feelings.

=af-frontˈed= (ă-frŭnˈtĕd), provoked, nettled.

=aft= (ȧft), toward the rear part of a vessel.

=Agˈas-siz= (ăgˈȧ-se᷵).

=aˈged= (āˈjĕd), old.

=agˈgra-vatˌed= (ăgˈgrȧ-vātˌĕd), added to, magnified.

=ag-gresˈsion= (ă-grĕshˈŭn), an unprovoked attack, invasion.

=a-ghastˈ= (a-gȧstˈ), amazed, astounded.

=agˈile= (ăjˈĭl), lively.

=agˌi-taˈtion= (ăjˌī-tāˈshŭn), a stirring up or arousing commotion.

=Agˈra-vaine= (ăgˈrȧ-vān).

=a-greeˈ= (ȧ-grēˈ), be in accord.

=aˈgue= (ȧˈgū), chill.

=aidˈde-camp= (ādˈde᷵-kămp, ādˈdē-kän), an officer who assists a general in correspondence and in directing movements.

=alˈa-basˌte=r (ălˈȧ-bȧsˌtẽr), white stone resembling marble.

=alˌ-beˈit= (ălˌbēˈĭt), although.

=Al-giersˈ= (ăl-jērzˈ), seaport in Africa.

=Al-hamˈbra= (ăl-hămˈbrȧ), the fortress, palace, or alcazar, of the Moorish kings.

=alˈien= (ālˈyĕn), foreign, strange.

=A-li-eˈna= (ā-lĭ-ēˈnä).

=al-leˈgiance= (ă-lēˈjăns), loyalty, allegiance merely nominal, loyalty so-called, not real.

=al-legˈing= (ă-lĕjˈĭng), declaring, asserting.

=al-litˌer-aˈtion= (ă-lĭtˌẽr-āˈshŭn), repetition of the same letter or sound at the beginning of two or more words immediately succeeding each other.

=al-lotˈment= (ă-lŏtˈmĕnt), share by chance.

=al-lowˈance= (ă-lŏwˈăns), share.

=al-ludeˈ= (ă-lūdˈ), refer, hint.

=al-luˈsion= (ă-lūˈzhŭn), indirect reference, hint.

=al-lyˈ= (ă-līˈ), partner, relative.

=Almesˈbury= (ämzˈbẽr-ĭ).

=alms= (ämz), charity.

=a-loftˈ= (ȧ-lŏftˈ), to the mast head, overhead.

=a-loofˈ= (ä-lo̅o̅fˈ), apart.

=al-terˈnate= (ăl-tûrˈna᷵t; ălˈtẽr-nāt), by turns.

=al-terˈna-tive= (ăl-tûrˈnä-tĭv), choice.

=amˌa-teurˈ in-specˈtion= (ămˌȧ-tûrˈ ĭn-spĕkˈshŭn), not professional inspection.

=amature=, dialect for =amˌa-teurˈ= (ămˌȧ-tûrˈ), a beginner, not a professional.

=Amˌa-zoˈni-an= (ămˌȧ-zōˈnĭ-ăn), of or pertaining to the river Amazon.

=Amˌba-arˈen= (ămˌbȧ-ärˈĕn).

=ambitious projects=, schemes for greater power.

=amˈbush= (ămˈbo͡osh), concealed place, snare.

=a-mendˈ= (ȧ-mĕndˈ), make better, give back.

=aˈmi-a-ble= (āˈmĭ-ȧ-b’l), friendly.

=a-midˈships= (ȧ-mĭdˈshĭps), in the middle of a ship.

=amˈi-ty= (ămˈĭ-tĭ), friendship.

=amˈo-rou=s (ămˈō-rŭs), loving.

=aˌmoursˈ= (ȧˌmo̅o̅rzˈ), loves.

=Am-phicˈty-on= (ăm-fĭkˈtĭ-ŏn), an assembly of deputies from the different states of Greece.

=anˌa-conˈda= (ănˌȧ-kŏnˈdȧ), a large snake.

=a-natˈo-my= (ă-nătˈō-mĭ), the science which treats of the structure of the body.

=Anˈdre=, =Major= (änˈdra᷵), a British officer in the Revolutionary War who was arrested at Tarrytown and executed as a spy.

=anˈec-dote= (ănˈĕk-dōt), particular incident or fact of an interesting nature.

=an-gelˈic kinˈdred= (ăn-jĕlˈĭk kĭnˈdrĕd), heavenly relationship.

=anˈguish= (ănˈgwĭsh), agony, distress.

=anˈi-mate= (ănˈĭ-māt), to enliven, inspire.

=anˈkus= (ănˈkŭs), an elephant goad.

=Anˈnoure= (ănˈōr), a sorceress of King Arthur’s time.

=an-nulˈ= (ăn-nŭlˈ), to cancel, abolish.

=a-nonˈ= (ȧ-nŏnˈ), soon.

=An-taeˈus= (ăn-tēˈŭs), a son of Poseidon. He was of gigantic size and strength, and grew stronger as long as he touched his mother Earth.

=an-tagˈo-nist= (ăn-tăgˈō-nĭst), opponent.

=anˈte= (ănˈte᷵), to put up.

=anˈthem= (ănˈthĕm), a song of praise.

=an-ticˈi-pate= (ăn-tĭsˈĭ-pāt), to have a previous view of what is to happen.

=anˈti-quatˌed= (ănˈtĭ-kwātˌĕd), old fashioned.

=anˈvil= (ănˈvĭl), a block usually of iron, steel faced, and of characteristic shape, on which metal is shaped as by hammering or forging.

=apˈa-thy= (ăpˈȧ-thĭ), lack of feeling.

=aˈpex= (āˈpĕks), summit, point.

=apˈing= (āpˈĭng), mimicing, imitating.

=a-pocˌa-lypˈti-cal= (ȧ-pŏkˌȧ-lĭpˈtĭ-kăl), revealing.

=a-posˈtle= (ȧ-pŏsˈ’l), one of the twelve disciples of Christ, specially chosen as his companions and witnesses, and sent forth to preach the gospel.

=apˌos-tolˈic= (ȧpˌŏs-tŏlˈĭk), like one having a great mission.

=ap-pallˈing= (ă-pôlˈĭng), fearful, unusual.

=ap-parˈel= (ă-părˈĕl), clothing.

=ap-parˈent= (ă-pârˈĕnt), easily seen, seeming.

=apˌpa-riˈtion= (ăpˌȧ-rĭshˈŭn), ghost.

=apˌper-tainˈing= (ăpˌẽr-tānˈĭng), belonging to.

=apˈpli-ca-ble= (ăpˈlĭ-kȧ-b’l), suitable.

=ap-preˌci-aˈtion= (ă-prēˌshĭ-āˈshūn), valuation, estimate.

=apˌpre-hendˈ= (ăpˌre᷵-hĕndˈ), fear; seize.

=apˌpre-henˈsion= (ăpˌre᷵-hĕnˈshŭn), distrust, suspicion, fear.

=apˌpre-henˈsive= (ăpˌre᷵-hĕnˈsĭv), quick to learn or grasp.

=ap-proachˈ= (ă-prōchˈ), to draw near to stealthily.

=apˌpro-baˈtion= (ăpˌrō-bāˈshŭn), liking.

=apt= (ăpt), suitable.

=aptness to acts of violence=, tending to commit deeds of violence, tendency to kill.

=Arˈa-bic= (ărˈȧ-bĭk), the Arabs’ language.

=arˈbi-tra-ry= (ärˈbĭ-tra᷵-rĭ), irresponsible.

=arˈbu-tus= (ärˈbu᷵-tŭs; är-būˈtŭs), a small trailing plant having fragrant flowers.

=Arˌca-bu-ceˈro= (ärˌkä-bo̅o̅-thāˈrō), a soldier armed with firearms of the middle fifteenth century.

=arˈchi-tect= (ärˈkĭ-tĕkt), master builder, designer.

=arˈchi-tecˌture= (ärˈkĭ-tĕkˌtu᷵r), art or science of building.

=arˈdent= (ärˈdĕnt), fervent, glowing.

=arˈdor= (ärˈdẽr), heat, zeal.

=arˈdu-ous= (ärˈdu᷵-ŭs), hard, difficult.

=arˈgent= (ärˈjĕnt), silver.

=A-riˈca= (ä-rĕˈkä), in Chile.

=Aˈri-el= (āˈrĭ-ĕl).

=Ar-maˈda= (är-māˈdä), a fleet; especially the great Spanish fleet defeated by England in 1588.

=ar-maˈdos= (är-māˈdōs), large ships, battleships.

=arˈmor-er= (ärˈmẽr-ẽr), one who cleans and repairs the small arms or iron parts on a ship.

=arms at the trail=, a military term, rifles carried at side in horizontal position.

=arˈrack= (ărˈăk), liquor made from rice, or molasses, or the sap of palms.

=arˈrant= (ărˈănt), downright.

=ar-rayˈ= (ă-rāˈ), order, dress.

=arˈro-gance= (ărˈō-găns), pride.

=arˈse-nal= (ärˈse᷵-năl), a public establishment for the storage or manufacture of arms and military equipment.

=ar-tifˈi-cer= (är-tĭfˈĭ-sẽr), skilled worker.

=arˌti-fiˈcial-ly= (ärˌtĭ-fĭshˈă-lĭ), not genuinely.

=as-cendˈan-cy= (ă-sĕnˈdăn-sĭ), control, superiority.

=as-cendˈing= (ă-sĕndˈĭng), moving or climbing upward.

=asˌcer-tainˈ= (ăsˌẽr-tānˈ), find out for a certainty.

=as-cribˈing= (ăs-krībˈĭng), attributing, assigning.

=asˈpect= (ăsˈpĕkt), appearance.

=Asˈpi-net= (ăsˈpĭ-nĕt), an Indian chief.

=asˌpi-raˈtion= (ăsˌpĭ-rāˈshŭn), high desire.

=as-sailˈ= (ă-sālˈ), attack.

=as-sailˈant= (ă-sālˈănt), one that attacks.

=as-saultˈ= (ă-sôltˈ), attack.

=as-sertˈ= their lordship (ă-sûrtˈ), state their right to rule.

=as-simˌi-latˈing= (ă-sĭmˌĭ-lātˈĭng), resembling.

=as-suredˈ= (ă-sho̅o̅rdˈ), made sure.

=as-surˈed-ly= (ă-sho̅o̅rˈĕd-lĭ), certainly.

=Asˈta-roth= (ăsˈtȧ-rŏth), the Phoenician goddess of love.

=asthˈma= (ăzˈmȧ), a disease causing difficulty of breathing.

=Asˈto-lat= (ăsˈtō-lȧt), a name for Guildford, Surrey, England.

=astral lamp= (ăsˈtrăl), a kind of brilliant lamp.

=Atherfield= (ăthˈẽr-fēld).

=ath-letˈic= (ăth-lĕtˈĭk), strong, muscular.

=a-thwartˈ= (ȧ-thwôrtˈ), across.

=Atˈlas= (ătˈlăs), in Greek mythology, a god who bore up the pillars which upheld the heavens.

=a-toneˈ= (ȧ-tōnˈ), to make satisfaction for.

=a-troˈcious= (ȧ-trōˈshŭs), wicked, terrible.

=a-trocˈi-ties= (ȧ-trŏsˈĭ-tĭz), savagely brutal deeds.

=at-tendˈance= (ă-tĕnˈdăns), service.

=atˌtenˈtive-ly scruˈti-nized= (ă-tĕnˌtĭv-lĭ skro̅o̅ˈtĭ-nīzd), examined closely.

=atˈti-tude= (ătˈĭ-tŭd), posture or position.

=atˈtri-bute= (ăˈtrĭ-būt), quality.

=Auchmuty=, =Judge= (ŏkˈmu᷵-tĭ), British general (1756-1822).

=au-daˈcious= (ô-dāˈshŭs), impudent, daring.

=auˈdi-ble= (ôˈdĭ-b’l), actually heard.

=auˈdi-tor= (ôˈdĭ-tẽr), a hearer, listener.

=aug-mentˈed= (ôg-mĕntˈĕd), increased.

=auld= (ôld; äld), Scotch for old.

=aus-tereˈ= (ôs-tērˈ), stern, severe.

=au-thenˈtic= (ô-thĕnˈtĭk), real, trustworthy, true.

=auˌthen-ticˈi-ty= (ôˌthĕn-tĭsˈĭ-tĭ), genuineness.

=au-thorˈi-ta-tive= (ô-thŏrˈĭ-ta᷵-tĭv), commanding, positive.

=auˌto-bi-ogˈra-phy= (ôˌtō-bī-ŏgˈrȧ-fĭ), history of one’s life written by himself.

=auˈto-crat= (ôˈtō-krăt), an absolute monarch.

=auˌto-cratˈic= (ôˌtō-krătˈĭk), absolute.

=au-tumˈnal= (ô-tŭmˈnăl), belonging to, or like autumn.

=aux-ilˈia-ry= (ôg-zĭlˈyȧ-rĭ), helper, assistant.

=a-vengedˈ= (ȧ-vĕnjdˈ), punished the injuring party.

=a-verseˈ= (ȧ-vẽrsˈ), disinclined, contrary.

=aversion=, =unbounded= (ȧ-vûrˈshŭn), unlimited dislike.

=A-vilˈion= (ȧ-vĭlˈyŏn), in Celtic mythology an earthly paradise in the western seas where heroes were carried at death.

=avˌo-caˈtions= (ăvˌō-kāˈshŭnz), pursuits.

=a-vowˈal= (ȧ-vouˈăl), declaration.

=awed= (ôd), struck with great fear.

=Ayˈmer de Vaˈlence= (āˈmẽr da᷵ väˈlŏns).

=Ayr= (âr), a seaport in southwestern Scotland.

=A-zoresˈ= (ā-zōrzˈ), islands near and belonging to Portugal.

=azˈure= (ăzhˈu᷵r), sky-blue.

=Baˈal= (bāˈăl), a Phoenician god whose worship was attended by wild revelry.

=babˈble= (băbˈ’l), utter unintelligible sounds, prattle.

=Babˌy-loˈni-an vauntˈing= (Băbˌĭ-lōˈnĭ-ăn väntˈĭng), referring to the hanging gardens of Babylon, one of the seven wonders of the world.

=bachˈe-lor= (băchˈē-lẽr), the lowest university degree.

=Bacon=, =Sir Francis=, English philosopher and statesman (1561-1626).

=bade= (băd), ordered, commanded.

=badge of his au-thorˈi-ty= (băj of his ô-thŏrˈĭ-tĭ), sign of his power.

=bafˈfled= (băfˈ’ld), defeated, thwarted.

=balˈdric= (bôlˈdrĭk), a broad belt, worn over one shoulder, across the breast and under the opposite arm.

=balˈing= (bālˈĭng), dipping out water; making large bundles for shipping.

=balˈlast= (bălˈȧst), any heavy substance put into the hold of a ship to sink it in the water.

=bam-booˈ= (băm-bo̅o̅ˈ), a woody kind of grass.

=Bancroft=, =George=, American historian.

=baneˈful= (bānˈfo͡ol), injurious, deadly.

=bang= (băng), a thump, a whack.

=bar=, an obstructing bank of sand.

=barb= (bärb), horse

=Barbary powers=, the countries on the north coast of Africa, from Egypt to the Atlantic.

=bard= (bärd), a poet.

=barge= (bärj), a vessel or boat of state elegantly furnished and decorated.

=bark= (bärk), a three-masted vessel.

=ba-roucheˈ= (bȧ-ro̅o̅shˈ), a four-wheeled carriage, with a falling top, and two double seats on the inside.

=Barreˈ, Colonel= (bȧˈrāˈ), a British officer and politician.

=barˈren= (bărˈĕn), sterile, fruitless, empty.

=barˌri-cadeˈ= (bărˌĭ-kādˈ), a bar or obstruction.

=barˈter= (bärˈtẽr), to trade one article for another.

=basˈtions= (băsˈchŭnz), walls.

=Bath-sheˈba= (Băth-shēˈbȧ), the wife of Uriah the Hittite. 2 Samuel II.

=batˈten= (bătˈ’n), to fasten down with strips of wood.

=Baudˈwin= (bôdˈwĭn).

=beam-ends= (bēm-ĕndz), to lie upon the beam-ends, to incline, as a vessel, so much on one side that her beams approach a vertical position.

=bear sway=, rule.

=Beauˈmains= (bōˈmānz).

=be-calmˈ= (be᷵-kämˈ), to stop the progress of the boat by lack of wind.

=be-daubedˈ= (bē-dôbdˈ), covered, coated.

=Bedˈi-vere= (bĕdˈĭ-vēr).

=beeˈtling= (bēˈtlĭng), projecting.

=be-fitsˈ the scene= (be᷵-fĭtˈ), suits or becomes the place.

=beget that golden time again=, recall to mind that wonderful time again.

=begˈgar de-scripˈtion=, phrase used to imply great magnificence.

=be-guiledˈ= (be᷵-gīldˈ), lured

=be-guilˈing= (be᷵-gīlˈĭng), whiling away.

=be-hests= (be᷵-hĕstsˈ), commands.

=be-hooveˈ= (be᷵-ho̅o̅vˈ), is proper for, suits.

=be-laˈbor-ing= (bē-lāˈbe᷵r-ĭng), thrashing.

=belaying pins= (bē-lāyˈĭng), strong cleats around which ropes are made fast.

=belch= (bĕlch), to throw out.

=belˈfry= (bĕlˈfrĭ), room in a tower where a bell is hung.

=Bellˈi-cent= (bĕlˈĭ-sĕnt).

=bel-ligˈer-ent= (bĕ-lĭjˈẽr-ĕnt), warlike.

=belˈlow= (bĕlˈō), to roar, clamor.

=belˈlows= (bĕlˈōz), an instrument for blowing fires.

=be-neathˈ= (be᷵-nēthˈ).

=benˌe-dicˈtion= (bĕnˌe᷵-dĭkˈshŭn), blessing.

=benˌe-facˈtor= (bĕnˌe᷵-făkˈtẽr), one who does good.

=be-nefˈi-cence= (be᷵-nĕfˈĭ-sĕns), goodness.

=be-nevˈo-lent= (be᷵-nĕvˈō-lĕnt), kind.

=Ben-galˈ= (bĕn-gôlˈ), a division of British India.

=be-nignˈ= (be᷵-nīnˈ), of a kind disposition.

=be-nigˈnant= (be᷵-nĭgˈnănt), kind.

=Benˈwick= (bĕnˈĭk).

=be-reavedˈ= (be᷵-rēvdˈ), deprived.

=be-reaveˈment= (be᷵-rēvˈmĕnt), the loss of a loved one by death.

=Berˈnard, Francis, Sir= (bûrˈnȧrd).

=berˈserk= (bûrˈsûrk), a wild warrior of heathen times in Scandinavia.

=be-setˈ= (be᷵-setˈ), surrounded.

=be-stirsˈ him well= (be᷵-stûrzˈ), moves about briskly, or busily.

=be thy man=, be loyal to you as a vassal.

=be-trayˈ= (be᷵-trāˈ), to show or indicate.

=bevˈy= (bĕvˈĭ), flock.

=be-yondˈ perˌad-venˈture= (bē-yŏndˈ pĕrˌăd-vĕnˈtu᷵r), without doubt.

=beˈzoar= (bēˈzōr), a mineral matter found in the digestive organs of certain animals, supposed to be an antidote for poison.

=biˈas= (bīˈăs), to prejudice, change.

=bickˈer-ing= (bĭkˈẽr-ĭng), wrangling.

=bide my time=, pass my life.

=bigˈot-ed= (bĭgˈŭt-ĕd), prejudiced, narrow minded toward others’ opinions.

=bi-ogˈra-phy= (bī-ŏgˈrȧ-fĭ), the written history of a person’s life.

=Bisˈcay-an= (bĭsˈkā-ăn), belonging to Spaniards of Biscay.

=bisˈcuit= (bĭsˈkĭt), hard-tack, a kind of hard sea bread baked in large round cakes, without salt.

=biˈson= (bīˈsŭn), the buffalo.

=bite the dust=, to die on the battlefield.

=bitter east=, a cold, east wind.

=bivˈouac= (bĭvˈwăk), encampment of soldiers in the open air prepared for fighting.

=blade= (blād), a wild fellow.

=Blake, Robert= (1599-1657), a British admiral.

=blared across the shalˈlows= (blârd across the shălˈōz), made a noise like a trumpet across the shoals, or shallow places in the river.

=blastˈed= (blȧstˈed), withered or blighted.

=blazed= (blāzd), marked (a tree) by chipping off a piece of bark.

=blaˈzon= (blāˈz’n), a coat of arms.

=bleak= (blēk), without color, pale, barren.

=blench= (blĕnch), to draw back, shrink from.

=Bligh= (blī).

=blight= (blīt), to ruin, frustrate.

=Blighty= (blīˈtĭ), the British soldier’s slang for =home=.

=blitheˈsome= (blīthˈsŭm), cheery, gay.

=block chafes= (chāfs), anything goes wrong.

=blossom into melody=, break into song.

=blow= (blō), to blossom; =blows his nail=; blows on his fingers to warm them.

=bluff= (blŭff), rough and hearty.

=boar= (bōr), a wild hog.

=boasts a crown=, is proud of its empire.

=bob-linˈcon=, bobolink, an American bird.

=Boche= (bōsh), a name given by the French to the German soldier.

=bodˈed ill= (bōdˈĕd), foretold ill.

=bog= (bŏg), swamp, marsh.

=boisterous rapidity= (boisˈtẽr-ŭs rȧ-pĭdˈĭ-tĭ), roaring rate.

=bomb= (bŏm; bŭm), a shell, especially a spherical shell, like those fired from mortars.

=Bonˌa-ven-ˌture=ˈ (bōnˌă-vĕn-ˌtūrˈ), a ship of England’s fleet.

=bonny bird=, the fair lady.

=boon= (bo̅o̅n), favor; gay.

=bosˈom= (bo͡ozˈŭm), heart.

=botˈtoms= (bŏtˈŭmz), bed of river, valley.

=bounˈti-ful= (bounˈtĭ-fo͡ol), liberal, generous.

=bou-quetˈ= (bo̅o̅-kāˈ), a bunch of flowers.

=bour-geoisˈ= (bo̅o̅r-zhwȧˈ), head man.

=bow= (bou), the forward part of a vessel.

=bowˈer= (bouˈẽr), a lady’s private apartment.

=Boylsˈton= (boilzˈtŭn).

=Bra-bantˈ= (brȧ-băntˈ), a province of Belgium.

=brackˈish= (brăkˈĭsh), salt, distasteful.

=braes of broom= (brā, bro̅o̅m), hillsides covered with low shrubs bearing yellow flowers.

=brake= (brāk), thicket.

=brand= (brănd), a burning piece of wood; sword.

=Branˈdi-les= (brănˈdĭ-lēz).

=brat= (brăt), a child.

=Brathˈwick= (brăthˈĭk).

=brawlˈing= (brôlˈĭng), quarreling noisily.

=breach= (brēch), an opening, a quarrel.

=breakˈer= (brākˈẽr), waves breaking into foam against the shore or reef.

=breastˈing= (brĕstˈĭng), forcing one’s way.

=breechˈes= (brĭchˈĕz), trousers.

=briˈer= (brīˈẽr), any plant with a woody stem bearing thorns or prickles.

=brig= (brĭg), a two-masted vessel.

=bri-gadeˈ= (brĭ-gādˈ), a body of troops consisting of two or more regiments.

=brigˈan-tine= (brĭgˈăn-tēn), a two-masted vessel, square rigged forward and schooner rigged aft.

=brinˈdled= (brĭnˈd’ld), having dark streaks or spots on a gray or tawny ground, streaked.

=bring him to knowledge= (nŏlˈĕj), recognize him.

=brink= (brĭnk), verge or edge.

=Britˈta-ny= (brĭtˈȧ-nĭ), formerly an independent province, now a part of France.

=broached= (brōcht), uttered, put forth.

=broach-to=, to veer suddenly into the wind and expose the vessel to the danger of capsizing.

=broad-sideˈ= (brôd-sīdˈ), broad surface of any object.

=Broadway=, a famous street in New York.

=broil=, a noisy quarrel.

=bronˈco= (brŏnˈkō), a small horse or pony.

=brook= (bro͡ok), to bear, endure.

=brought to bay=, brought to a standstill.

=brunt= (brŭnt), the force of a blow, shock.

=brutˈish= (bro̅o̅tˈĭsh), coarse, stupid.

=Brutus= (bro̅o̅ˈtŭs), a Roman politician and one of Cæsar’s slayers.

=bucˈca-neerˌ= (bŭkˈȧ-nērˌ), a robber, pirate.

=Buchˈan= (bŭkˈăn).

=Buckˈholm= (bŭkˈhōm).

=budgˈet= (bŭjˈĕt), stock, accumulation.

=bufˈfet= (bŭfˈĕt), blow.

=bullˈdozˌing= (bo͡olˈdōzˌĭng), restraining by threats or violence. [Slang, U. S.]

=bulˈlied= (bo͡olˈĭd), intimidated or frightened.

=bulˈlion= (bo͡olˈyŭn), uncoined gold or silver.

=bulˈly-rag= (bo͡olˈĭ-răg), to scare by bullying.

=bulˈrushˌes= (bo͡olˈrŭshˌĕz), a kind of large rush growing in water.

=bulˈwark= (bo͡olˈwȧrk), the side of a ship above the upper deck; a protecting wall, sea wall.

=bumpˈkin= (bŭmpˈkĭn), an awkward, heavy fellow.

=buoyˈant= (boiˈănt), tending to rise or float.

=buoyˈant-ly= (bouˈănt-lĭ), lightly.

=burˈgess= (bûrˈjĕs), a resident of a town.

=burghˈer= (bûrˈgẽr), a freeman of a borough, an enfranchised male citizen.

=Burˈgo-masˌter= (bûrˈgō-mȧsˌtẽr), the chief magistrate of a town in Holland.

=bur-lesqueˈ= (bûr-lĕskˈ), droll, treated ridiculously as a caricature.

=burˈnish= (bûrˈnĭsh), to make bright, to polish.

=burˈthen= (bûrˈth’n), burden.

=busˈkin= (bŭsˈkĭn), a covering for the foot coming some distance up the leg.

=buttes= (būts), hills, small mountains.

=buxˈom= (bŭkˈsŭm), plump and rosy.

=by sheer weight= (shēr), by the very weight, by weight alone.

=Byles, Mather= (bīlz), American clergyman.

=Caer-leˈon= (kär-lēˈŏn), a town in south-western England, the traditional seat of King Arthur’s court.

=ca-lamˈi-ties= (kă-lămˈĭ-tēz), misfortunes, disasters.

=Caˌla-veˈras= (käˌlȧ-vāˈrȧs), a county in central California.

=calˈcu-late= (kălˈku᷵-lāt), expect, plan, reckon.

=Calˈi-ban= (kălˈĭ-băn).

=calˈklated=, dialect for =calˈcu-late= (kălˈkûlāt).

=calm= (käm), freedom from motion, quiet.

=calˈthrop= (kălˈthrŏp), steel spike.

=Camˈel-iard= (kămˈĕl-yärd), the home of Leodogran.

=Camˈe-lot= (kămˈe᷵-lŏt), a legendary spot in southern England where Arthur was said to have had his court and palace.

=Campˈbell, Thomˈas= (kămˈĕl; kămˈbĕl).

=canˈdid= (kănˈdĭd), fair, just.

=canˈo-py= (kănˈō-pĭ), covering, shelter.

=canˈyon= (kănˈyŭn), a deep valley with high, steep slopes.

=ca-paˈcious= (kȧ-pāˈshŭs), broad, large.

=ca-pacˈi-ty= (kȧ-păsˈĭ-tĭ), ability, power, position, extent of room or space.

=caˈper= (kāˈpẽr), =cutting a caper=, to leap about in a frolicsome manner.

=capˈi-tal= (kăpˈĭ-tăl), stock of accumulated wealth; seat of government.

=ca-priˈcious= (kȧ-prĭshˈŭs), fitful, whimsical.

=carˈcas-ses= (kärˈkȧs-ĕz), dead bodies, of beasts.

=cardˈed= (kärˈdĕd), made ready for spinning by the use of a card.

=ca-reerˈing= (kȧ-rērˈĭng), moving or running rapidly.

=carˈi-bou= (kărˈĭ-bo̅o̅), a species or kind of reindeer found in North America and Greenland.

=carol so madly=, sing so joyfully.

=Carˈrick= (kărˈĭk).

=carˈtridge= (kärˈtrĭj), a case or shell holding a complete charge for a firearm.

=caseˈment= (kāsˈmĕnt), a hinged window sash.

=case under native rule=, if the people of India ruled themselves.

=casˈu-al= (kăzhˈu᷵-ăl), occasional, happening without design.

=catˈa-ract= (kătˈȧ-răkt), a great fall of water over a precipice.

=ca-tasˈtro-phe= (kȧ-tăsˈtrō-fe᷵), disaster, calamity, misfortune.

=ca-theˈdral= (kȧ-thēˈdrăl), the church which contains the bishop’s official chair or throne.

=cauld= (kawld), Scotch for =cold=.

=causeˈway= (kôzˈwā), a raised road over wet ground.

=cauˈtious= (kôˈshŭs), watchful, wary, careful.

=cavˌal-cadeˈ= (kăvˌăl-kādˈ), a procession of persons on horseback.

=cavˌa-lierˈ= (kăvˌȧ-lērˈ), a leader in the party of King Charles I; knight, gallant.

=ca-vortˈing= (kȧ-vôrtˈĭng), prancing.

=cavˈi-ty= (kăvˈĭ-tĭ), a hollow place.

=cay= (kā), Spanish for =quay=.

=ceased= (sēst), stopped, left off.

=ceaseˈless= (sēsˈlĕs), without stop.

=ce-lesˈtial= (se᷵-lĕsˈchăl), heavenly, divine.

=cenˈsure= (sĕnˈshu᷵r), disapproval, hostile criticism, blame.

=century-circled=, with circles showing one hundred years’ growth.

=cerˈe-mo-ny= (sĕrˈe᷵-mō-nĭ), a formal act laid down by custom.

=ce-ruˈle-an= (se᷵-ro̅o̅ˈle᷵-ăn), deep blue.

=ces-saˈtion= (sĕ-sāˈshŭn), a stop.

=chafed= (chāft), rubbed so as to wear away; irritated.

=chafˈfer= (chăfˈeẽr), bargain, haggle.

=chaˈos= (kāˈŏs), confused mixture, yawning chasm.

=cha-otˈic= (ka᷵-ŏtˈĭk), confused.

=chalˈlenge= (chălˈĕnj), act of defiance.

=chamˈpi-on= (chămˈpĭ-ŭn), supporter, defender.

=’Change= (chānj), for =Exchange=, a place where merchants and others meet to transact business.

=chant= (chȧnt), a song resembling a church chant; the recitation of words in musical monotones; to sing.

=chanˈti-cleer= (chănˈtĭ-klēr), cock.

=chapˈlain= (chăpˈlĭn), a clergyman officially appointed to a court or to a section of the army or navy.

=chapˈlet= (chăpˈlĕt), a wreath worn on the head.

=charge= (chärj), to attack, rush upon; command.

=charmˈing lay=, pleasing song, poem.

=charˈter-ing= (chärˈtẽr-ĭng), hiring for exclusive use for some special purpose.

=chasm= (kăz’m), a gap or break.

=chas-tiseˈ= (chăs-tīzˈ), to punish.

=Chaˈtillˌon= (shäˈtēˌyôn).

=cherˈished= (chĕrˈĭsht), held dear.

=cherˈub= (chĕrˈŭb), beautiful child; angel.

=chid= (chĭd), found fault.

=chiefˈtain= (chēfˈtĭn), leader.

=Chiˈhun= (chēˈhŭn).

=Chilˌli-cothˈe= (chĭlˌĭ-kŏthˈe᷵).

=chime= (chīm), a set of bells musically tuned.

=chi-meˈra= (kĭ-mēˈrȧ), an absurd or impossible creature of the imagination.

=chip the shell=, to crack the shell of the egg and come out into the nest.

=chi-rurˈgeon= (kī-rûrˈjŭn), surgeon.

=chivˈal-rous= (shĭvˈăl-rŭs), gallant.

=chivˈal-ry= (shĭvˈăl-rĭ), system of knighthood.

=cholˈer-ic= (kŏlˈẽr-ĭk), hot-tempered.

=chopˈfallˌen= (chŏpˈfôlˌ’n), cast down, dejected.

=Chrisˈten-dom= (krĭsˈ’n-dŭm), the Christian world.

=chronˈi-cle= (krŏnˈĭ-k’l), record, history.

=chro-nomˈe-ter= (krō-nŏmˈe᷵-tẽr), an instrument for measuring time.

=chrysˈo-lite= (krĭsˈō-līt), a semi-precious stone, commonly yellow or green.

=churl= (chûrl), one of the lowest class of freemen.

=cinch= (sĭnch), a strong girth for a pack or saddle.

=cinˈna-mon= (sĭnˈȧ-mŭn), a dark chestnut-colored bear.

=cinqueˈfoil= (sĭnkˈfoil), a plant called “five-finger,” because of the resemblance of the leaves to the fingers of the hand.

=cirˈcuit= (sûrˈkĭt), act of moving, a route.

=cirˈcum-stance= (sûrˈkŭm-stăns), situation.

=cirˌcum-stanˈtial= (sûrˌkŭm-stănˈshăl), detailing all circumstances, exact.

=citˈa-del= (sĭtˈȧ-dĕl), a fortress.

=citˈi-zen-ship= (sĭtˈĭ-z’n-shĭp), state of being a citizen, of owing allegiance to a government and entitled to protection from it.

=civˈil= (sĭvˈĭl), of, pertaining to, or made up of citizens, or individuals taking part in a common society.

=civˈil of-fiˈcial= (sĭvˈĭl ŏ-fĭshˈăl), officer dealing with ordinary affairs, or government matters as opposed to military matters.

=civˈil war=, war between two parties of citizens of the same country.

=clamˈber-ing= (klămˈbẽr-ĭng), climbing with difficulty.

=clamˈor= (klămˈẽr), a loud, continued noise, uproar.

=clanˈgor= (klănˈgẽr), a sharp, harsh, ringing sound.

=clarˈi-on-et= (klărˈĭ-ŭn-ĕt), properly called clarinet, a musical wind instrument.

=clash the cymbals= (sĭmˈbălz), beat the brass half globes or concave plates clashed together to produce a sharp ringing sound.

=clenched= (klĕncht), closed tightly.

=clog= (klŏg), that which hinders or impedes motion.

=cloisˈter= (kloisˈtẽr), a place for retirement from the world for religious duties, convent.

=close dealing=, driving a sharp bargain.

=close quarters=, near or close to each other.

=close-reefed vessels=, vessels or boats with their sails tightly folded.

=cloth of gold=, a fabric woven wholly or partly of threads of gold.

=cloˈven= (klōˈv’n), divided, cleft.

=clutch= (klŭtch), grasp.

=coast was clear=, way was safe.

=coasting-vessel=, a ship sailing along the coast.

=cocked= (kŏkt), turned or stuck up.

=cockˈle-shellˌ= (kŏkˈ’l-shĕlˌ), a certain kind of shell.

=cog-noˈmen= (kŏg-nōˈmĕn), name.

=co-inˈci-dence= (kō-ĭnˈsĭ-dĕns), occurrences at the same time.

=coir-swab= (koir-swŏb), a kind of mop or cloth made from the fiber of the outer husk of the coconut.

=Coldˈstream= (Guards), a famous English infantry regiment.

=collapsed in proportion= (kŏ-lăpstˈ), the other side caved in as far as the one side puffed out.

=col-latˈing= (kŏ-lātˈĭng), comparing.

=collision of waves= (kŏ-lĭzhˈŭn), intermixing of waters.

=col-loˈqui-al= (kŏ-lōˈkwĭ-ăl), conversational, informal.

=Co-lomˈbo= (kō-lōmˈbō), capital of Ceylon.

=co-losˈsal team= (kō-lŏsˈăl), a very large team.

=colˈum-bine= (kŏlˈŭm-bīn), a flower.

=colˈumn= (kŏlˈŭm), an upright body or mass.

=comˈe-dy= (kŏmˈe᷵-dĭ), a drama of light and amusing character.

=comeˈly= (kŭmˈlĭ), good-looking.

=com-mandˈment= (kŏ-mȧndˈmĕnt), order.

=com-memˈo-rate= (kŏ-mĕmˈō-rāt), to celebrate.

=comˌmen-daˈtion= (kŏmˌĕn-dāˈshŭn), praise, compliment.

=comˈmen-ta-ries= (kŏmˈĕn-ta᷵-rĭz), notebook, series of memoranda.

=comˈments= (kŏmˈĕnts), talks, remarks.

=comˈmen-taˌtor= (kŏmˈĕn-tāˌtẽr), one who writes notes or comments upon a subject.

=com-misˈsion= (kŏ-mĭshˈŭn), to appoint.

=com-misˈsion and con-trolˈ=, authority and rule.

=com-mitˈ= (kŏ-mĭtˈ), to intrust.

=com-modˈi-ty= (kŏ-mŏdˈĭ-tĭ), goods, wares.

=comˈmon= (kŏmˈŭn), joint or mutual.

=comˈmon-wealthˌ= (kŏmˈŭn-wĕlthˌ), state, republic.

=com-moˈtion= (kŏ-mōˈshŭn), disturbance.

=com-muneˈ= (kŏ-mūnˈ), to take counsel.

=com-muˈni-cate= (kŏ-mūˈnĭ-kāt), to make known.

=com-panˈion= (kŏm-pănˈyŭn), a stairway from one deck to the other.

=comˈpass= (kŭmˈpȧs), an instrument for determining directions.

=com-pasˈsion= (kŏm-păshˈŭn), pity.

=comˈpe-ten-cy= (kŏmˈpe᷵-tĕn-sĭ), supply.

=com-petˈi-tor= (kŏm-pĕtˈĭ-tẽr), rival.

=comˈple-ment= (kŏmˈple᷵-mĕnt), the whole number allowed to a ship.

=com-pliˈance= (kŏm-plīˈăns), agreement.

=comˈpli-mentˌ= (kŏmˈplĭ-mĕntˌ), flattery, praise.

=com-poˈnent= (kŏm-pōˈnĕnt), composing, an ingredient, a part.

=com-portˈ= (kŏm-pōrtˈ), agree, accord; conduct.

=comˌpo-siˈtion= (kŏmˌpō-zĭshˈŭn), a literary, musical, or artistic product.

=comˌpre-hendˈ= (kŏmˌpre᷵-hĕndˈ), to understand.

=com-pressˈ= (kŏm-prĕsˈ), to condense.

=com-priseˈ= (kŏm-prīzˈ), to include.

=Comˈyn= (kŭmˈĭn), a Scottish noble.

=con= (kŏn), to study over.

=con-cedeˈ= (kŏn-sēdˈ), to grant or allow.

=con-ceiveˈ= (kŏn-sēvˈ), to imagine, think.

=con-cenˈtric= (kŏn-sĕnˈtrĭk), having a common center.

=con-cepˈtion= (kŏn-sĕpˈshŭn), idea, notion.

=conch-shell= (kŏnk-shel), sea-shell.

=con-cludˈed= (kŏn-klo̅o̅dˈĕd), decided.

=con-cluˈsion= (kŏn-klo̅o̅ˈzhŭn), end, result.

=con-cluˈsive= (kŏnˈklo̅o̅ˈsĭv), convincing.

=con-curˈrence= (kŏn-kŭrˈĕns), approval, consent.

=con-demned= (kŏn-dĕmdˈ), doomed, sentenced.

=conˌde-scendˈed= (kŏnˌde᷵-sĕndˈĕd), agreed, consented.

=conˌde-scenˈsion= (kŏnˌde᷵-sĕnˈshŭn), courtesy, kindness.

=Coney Island= (kōˈnĭ), an amusement park much frequented by New Yorkers.

=con-fedˈer-acy= (kŏn-fĕdˈẽr-ȧ-sĭ), states or nations united in a league.

=conˈfer-ence= (kŏnˈfẽr-ĕns), meeting for discussion.

=conˈfi-dantˌ= (kŏnˈfi-dăntˌ), one to whom another tells secrets.

=conˈfi-dent= (kŏnˈfĭ-dĕnt), sure, trustful.

=con-fineˈ= (kŏn-fīnˈ), to hold back, restrain.

=con-firmedˈ= (kŏn-fûrmdˈ), chronic, habitual.

=con-foundˈ= (kŏn-foundˈ), confuse, perplex.

=con-fuˈsion alone was supreme=, disorder reigned instead of a king.

=con-genˈial= (kŏn-jēnˈyăl), of the same kind, sympathetic.

=conˈger= (kŏnˈgẽr), a kind of eel.

=con-gestˈed= (kŏn-jĕstˈĕd), overcrowded.

=conˈgre-gate= (kŏnˈgre᷵-gāt), to assemble.

=conˌgre-gaˈtion= (kŏnˌgre᷵-gāˈshŭn), a gathering.

=con-jecˈture= (kŏn-jĕkˈtu᷵r), to guess, imagine.

=conˌnois-seurˈ= (kŏnˌĭ-sûrˈ), one well versed in any subject, expert.

=con-nuˈbi-al= (kŏ-nūˈbĭ-ăl), of or pertaining to marriage.

=Co-nonˈchet= (kō-nŏnˈchĕt).

=con-san-guinˈi-ty= (kŏn-săn-guĭnˈĭ-tĭ), blood relationship.

=conˈse-cratˌed= (kŏnˈse᷵-krātˌĕd), made sacred or holy.

=conˈse-quence= (kŏnˈse᷵-kwĕns), result.

=conˈse-quent= (kŏnˈse᷵-kwĕnt), that which follows, following.

=con-servˈa-to-ries= (kŏn-sûrˈvȧ-tô-rĭz), greenhouses.

=con-sidˈer-able= (kŏn-sĭdˈẽr-ȧ-b’l), rather large in extent, of importance or value.

=con-sidˌer-aˈtion= (kŏn-sĭdˌẽr-āˈshŭn), careful thought.

=con-signedˈ= (kŏn-sīndˈ), intrusted, given over.

=con-so-laˈtion= (kŏn-sŏ-lāˈshŭn), comfort.

=con-solˈa-to-ry= (kŏn-sŏlˈȧ-tō-rĭ), comforting.

=con-spicˈu-ous= (kŏn-spĭkˈu᷵-ŭs), plainly seen, striking.

=conˈsta-ble= (kŭnˈstâˈ-b’l), a township or parish officer.

=conˈstan-cy= (kŏnˈstăn-sĭ), loyalty, firmness under suffering.

=constantly acting a studied part=, always acting, not naturally as a child would, but as his experience has taught him.

=conˌstel-laˈtion= (kŏnˌstĕ-lāˈshŭn), a number of fixed stars; an assemblage of splendors.

=conˈsti-tut-ed= (kŏnˈstĕ-tūt-ĕd), established, formed.

=conˌsti-tuˈtion= (kŏnˌstĭ-tūˈshŭn), physique, health; a written document laying down rules for the conduct of affairs.

=con-strainˈ= (kŏn-strānˈ), to compel, to force.

=conˈsul= (kŏnˈsŭl), an official appointed by a government to a foreign country.

=con-taˈgion= (kŏn-tāˈjŭn), spreading, exciting similar emotions or conduct in others.

=conˈtem-plat-ing= (kŏnˈtĕm-plāt-ĭng; kŏn-temˈplāt-ĭng), regarding or looking at thoughtfully.

=conˌtem-plaˈtion= (kŏnˌtĕm-plāˈshŭn), study, thought.

=con-temˈpo-ra-ry= (kŏn-tĕmˈpō-ra᷵-rĭ), living at the same time.

=con-tempˈtu-ous= (kŏn-tĕmpˈtu᷵-ŭs), scornful, haughty.

=con-tendˈ= (kŏn-tĕndˈ), to cope, fight.

=conˈtent= (kŏnˈtĕnt; kŏn-tĕntˈ), that which is contained.

=con-tentˈed himself= (kŏn-tĕntˈĕd), satisfied himself.

=con-ti-nentˈal blood in-ter-veinedˈ= (kŏn-tĭ-nĕntˈal; ĭn-tẽr-vāndˈ), the blood of the East and the West intermingled.

=con-torˈtion= (kŏn-tôrˈshŭn), twisting.

=conˈtra-band= (kŏnˈtrȧ-bănd), smuggled.

=con-tra-dicˈto-ry= (kŏn-trȧ-dĭkˈtō-rĭ), contrary, opposite.

=con-triˈtion= (kŏn-trĭshˈŭn), deep sorrow.

=con-trivˈance= (kŏn-trīvˈăns), device, invention.

=con-trivˈed= (kŏn-trīvdˈ), planned, invented.

=con-venˈtion-al= (kŏn-vĕnˈshŭn-ăl), dependent on usage, formal.

=conˈverse= (kŏnˈvûrs), communication, talk, conversation.

=con-veyˈ= (kŏn-vāˈ), impart, communicate; carry.

=conˈvo-lutˌed= (kŏnˈvō-lūtˌĕd), rolled together, one part upon another.

=con-voyˈ= (kŏn-voiˈ), to escort for protection; go with.

=con-vulˈsion= (kŏn-vŭlˈshŭn), tumult; a violent shaking.

=coop of the counter=, a small place used for storage purposes in the stern of the ship.

=cope= (kōp), to enter into a hostile contest, to struggle.

=coˈpi-ous-ness= (kōˈpĭ-ŭs-nĕs), fullness, abundance.

=copse= (kŏps), contracted from =coppice=, a grove of small growth.

=co-quetteˈ= (kō-kĕtˈ), a flirt.

=corˈal= (kŏrˈăl), the skeletons of certain small sea-animals, which have been deposited during the ages and form reefs and islands.

=Corˈbi-tant= (kôrˈbĭ-tănt), an Indian chief.

=cordˈage= (kôrˈda᷵j), ropes in the rigging of a ship.

=corˈdial= (kôrˈjăl), hearty.

=Corˈdo-van= (kôrˈdō-vȧn), from Cordova, a city in Spain, famous for leather.

=corˈdu-royˌ= (kôrˈdŭ-roi; kôrˌdŭ-roiˈ), a kind of coarse, durable cotton fabric having a surface raised in ridges.

=cork-heild= (kôrk-hēld), Scotch for =cork-heeled=.

=corˈmo-rant= (kôrˈmŏ-rănt), a large sea-bird.

=Cornˈwall= (kôrnˈwôl), county in southwestern England.

=corˌre-spondˈent= (kŏrˌe᷵-spŏndˈĕnt), a person employed to contribute news regularly from a particular place or scene of action.

=corˌre-spondˈing= (kŏrˌe᷵-spŏndˈĭng), matching, similar, agreeing.

=cor-rupˈtion= (kŏ-rŭpˈshŭn), the change from good to bad, wickedness.

=corˈsair= (kôrˈsâr), pirate vessel.

=corseˈlet= (kôrsˈlĕt), armor for the body.

=cos-mogˈra-pher= (kŏz-mŏgˈrȧ-fẽr), one who knows the science that teaches how the whole system of worlds is made.

=cot= (kŏt), cottage.

=couched= (koucht), placed, put.

=couˈlies= (ko̅o̅ˈlĭz), the beds of streams, even if dry, when deep and having inclined sides.

=counˈcil= (kounˈsĭl), an assembly of persons met to give advice.

=council board=, meeting of the board.

=counˈci-lor= (kounˈsĭ-lẽr), a member of a council.

=counˈseled= (kounˈsĕld), advised.

=counˈte-nance= (kounˈte᷵-năns), the expression or color of the face; favor, encouragement.

=counˈter-feit= (kounˈtẽr-fĭt), to imitate.

=counˈter-partˈ= (kounˈtẽr-pärtˈ), a copy, duplicate.

=couˈri-er= (ko̅o̅ˈrĭ-ẽr), a messenger.

=course= (kōrs), track, way.

=coursˈer= (kōrˈsẽr), a war horse.

=courtˈed perˈil= (kōrtˈĕd pĕrˈĭl), sought danger.

=courˈte-ous= (kûrˈte᷵-ŭs), polite.

=courˈte-sy= (kûrˈte᷵sī), courtliness.

=courtˈier= (kōrtˈyĕr), one who attends courts, one having courtly manners.

=cove= (kōv), a small sheltered inlet, creek, or bay.

=covˈe-nant= (kŭvˈe᷵-nănt), an agreement between two or more persons or parties.

=covˈer-hauntˈing=, shelter-frequenting.

=covˈert= (kŭvˈẽrt), shelter, covering.

=covˈet= (kŭvˈĕt), to wish for eagerly.

=cowˈer= (kouˈẽr), crouch, quail.

=crabˈbed-ly honˈest= (krăbˈĕd-lĭ ŏnˈĕst), unpleasantly or sullenly honest.

=cradle-crooning=, a lullaby.

=craft= (krȧft), trade; a vessel.

=craftˈi-ly= (krȧftˈĭ-lĭ), slyly, cunningly.

=crafty= (krȧfˈtĭ), skillful, shrewd.

=crag= (krăg), a steep, rugged rock.

=crane= (krān), a wading bird, having a long bill and long legs and neck.

=craˈni-um= (krāˈnĭ-ŭm), skull, head.

=crankˈy= (krănkˈĭ), out of order, ill-tempered, liable to tip.

=crave= (krāv), to beg.

=cre-duˈli-ty= (kre᷵-dūˈlĭ-tĭ), belief or readiness of belief.

=crest= (krĕst), peak, summit, top.

=crestˈfall-en= (krĕstˈfôl’n), with hanging head, dejected.

=crest-waving Hector=, Hector, a famous Trojan warrior, represented with waving plume, fantastically applied to a weed.

=crevˈice= (krĕvˈĭs), a small opening.

=crimp= (krĭmp), to give a wavy appearance to.

=criˈsis= (krīˈsĭs), decisive moment, time of difficulty.

=critˈi-cal= (krĭtˈĭ-kăl), with careful judgment, exact.

=croakˈing= (krōkˈĭng), hoarse, dismal sound.

=cropˈped= (krŏpt), bit or snipped off.

=crossˈ-hiltˌed= (krŏsˈhĭltˌĕd), a sword hilt having a cross guard, thus forming with the blade a Latin cross.

=cruˈci-fix= (kro̅o̅ˈsĭ-fĭks), a representation of the figure of Christ upon the cross.

=cruise= (kro̅o̅z), to wander hither and thither.

=crulˈler= (krŭlˈẽr), a small, sweet cake fried brown in deep fat.

=crysˈtal= (krĭsˈtăl), clear.

=cuckˈoo= (ko͡okˈo̅o̅), a bird grayish brown in color with a note like the name.

=cudgˈel= (kŭjˈĕl), a short thick stick; to beat.

=cuˈli-na-ry= (kūˈlĭ-na᷵-rĭ), of the kitchen, cooking.

=cullˈing= (kŭlˈĭng), choosing.

=cumˈber= (kŭmˈbẽr), trouble; vexation.

=cunˈning= (kŭnˈĭng), skillful, shrewd; craft, wisdom.

=cuˈpo-la= (kūˈpō-lȧ), a small structure built on top of a building.

=curb= (kûrb), a chain or strap attached to the upper part of a bit.

=curbˈstoneˈ= (kûrbˈstōnˈ), an edge stone, a stone set along a margin as a limit and protection.

=curˈdling= (kûrˈdlĭng), thickening.

=cuˈri-ous inˌcon-sisˈten-cy= (kūˈrĭ-ŭs inˌkŏn-sĭsˈtĕn-sĭ), something strangely out of place with its surroundings.

=curˈlew= (kûrˈlū), a kind of bird.

=curˈrent coinˈage= (kŭrˈĕnt koinˈa᷵j), the money in circulation.

=cutˈlass= (kŭtˈlȧs), a short, heavy, curving sword.

=cy-linˈdri-cal= (sĭ-lĭnˈdrĭ-kăl), having the form of a cylinder.

=cynˈi-cal= (sĭnˈĭ-kăl), with sneering disbelief in sincerity.

=cyˈpress= (sīˈprĕs), a dark-green tree.

=dabˈbling= (dăbˈlĭng), working slightly or superficially.

=dalˈli-er= (dălˈĭ-ẽr), one who wastes time.

=dam= (dăm), the mother bear.

=Da-masˈcus= (dȧ-măsˈkŭs), a city of Syria, famous for its silks and steel.

=dame= (dām), wife.

=Dan Apolˈlo= (dăn ȧpŏlˈlō), the sun.

=dangˈling= (dănˈglĭng), hanging loosely.

=dapˈpled= (dăpˈl’d), spotted.

=dark as-serˈtion= (ă-sûrˈshŭn), a statement with a hidden meaning.

=daunt= (dänt), to dismay.

=de-barkedˈ= (de᷵-bärktˈ), removed from on board a ship.

=de-bouchˈ= (de᷵-bo̅o̅shˈ), to march out from a wood, defile, etc., into open ground; issue.

=de-ceaseˈ= (de᷵-sēsˈ), death.

=de-ceitˈ= (de᷵-sētˈ), fraud.

=de-cepˈtion= (de᷵-sĕpˈshŭn), fraud.

=de-cidˈed-ly= (de᷵-sīdˈĕd-lĭ), unquestionably.

=de-ciˈpher= (de᷵-sīˈfẽr), to make out or read.

=de-ciˈsion= (de᷵-sĭzhˈŭn), judgment, conclusion.

=de-clinˈing= (de᷵-klīnˈĭng), failing.

=de-clivˈi-ty= (de᷵-klĭvˈĭ-tĭ), slope.

=de-coˈrum= (de᷵-kōˈrŭm), fitness, propriety.

=de-creedˈ= (de᷵-krēdˈ), decided, ordered.

=de-crepˈi-tude= (de᷵-krĕpˈĭ-tūd), weakness.

=de-facedˈ= (de᷵-fāstˈ), disfigured, marred.

=de-fendˈant= (de᷵-fĕndˈănt), a person required to make answer (defense) in an action or suit in law.

=de-fiˈance= (de᷵-fīˈăns), challenge.

=de-frayˈ= (de᷵-frāˈ), to pay.

=de-fyˈ= (de᷵-fīˈ), to challenge.

=deign= (dān), to condescend.

=de-jectˈed= (de᷵-jĕkˈtĕd), depressed, sad.

=de-lecˈta-ble= (de᷵-lĕkˈtȧ-b’l), delightful, delicious.

=de-libˌer-aˈtion= (de᷵-lĭbˌẽr-āˈshŭn), careful consideration; slowness in action.

=de-linˈe-ate= (de᷵-lĭnˈe᷵-āt), to describe.

=de-lirˈi-ous= (de᷵-lĭrˈĭ-ŭs), insane, raving.

=de-livˈer-ance= (de᷵-lĭvˈẽr-ăns), rescue.

=de-ludˈed= (de᷵-lūdˈĕd), misled, disappointed, deceived.

=delˈuge= (dĕlˈūj), flood.

=de-luˈsions= (de᷵-lūˈzhŭnz), false beliefs, misleadings.

=de-luˈsive= (de᷵-lu᷵ˈsĭv), deceptive.

=delve= (dĕlv), labor.

=de-meanˈor= (de᷵-mēnˈẽr), manner, conduct.

=de-morˈal-ized= (de᷵-mŏrˈăl-īzd), cast into disorder.

=de-nomˈi-natˌed= (de᷵-nŏmˈĭ-nātˌed), called, named.

=de-plorˈa-bly desˈo-late= (dē-plōrˈȧ-blĭ dĕsˈō-lāt), with nothing to relieve the gloom.

=de-ploreˈ= (de᷵-plōrˈ), regret.

=de-portˈment= (de᷵-pôrtˈmĕnt), behavior.

=de-posedˈ= (de᷵-pōzdˈ), dethroned, deprived of office.

=de-preˈci-ate= (de᷵-prēˈshĭ-āt), to lower.

=depˌre-daˈtion= (dĕpˌre᷵-dāˈshŭn), act of plundering.

=de-rangedˈ= (de᷵-rānjdˈ), unsettled, disturbed, disarranged.

=de-scriedˈ= (de᷵-skrīdˈ), beheld.

=desˈe-crate= (dĕsˈe᷵-krāt), to profane, put to an unworthy cause.

=desˈo-late= (dĕsˈō-lāt), uninhabited, lonely, forsaken.

=desˌo-laˈtion= (dĕsˌō-lāˈshŭn), waste, ruin, destruction.

=desˈper-ate= (dĕsˈpẽr-āt), hopeless, extremely dangerous, mad.

=desˈper-ate specˌulaˈtion= (dĕsˈpẽr-ȧt spĕkˌu᷵-lāˈshŭn), extreme uncertainty.

=de-spondˈen-cy= (de᷵-spŏn-dĕn-sĭ), discouragement, hopelessness.

=de-spondˈent= (de᷵-spŏnˈdĕnt), low-spirited.

=des-potˈic= (dĕs-pŏtˈĭk), tyrannical.

=desˌti-naˈtion= (dĕsˌtĭ-nāˈshŭn), the place set for the end of the journey.

=desˈtined= (dĕsˈtĭnd), intended, doomed.

=desˈti-ny= (dĕsˈtĭ-nĭ), doom, fate.

=de-tachˈ= (de᷵-tăchˈ), to separate.

=de-tachˈment= (de᷵-tăchˈmĕnt), a body of troops or part of a fleet sent on.

=de-tailˈ= (de᷵-tālˈ; dēˈtāl), an account which dwells on particulars.

=de-tailedˈ= (de᷵-tāldˈ), related in particulars.

=de-tainˈ= (de᷵-tānˈ), to stop, keep.

=de-terˈmined= (de᷵-tûrˈmĭnd), decided, resolute.

=devˈas-tatˌing= (dĕvˈȧs-tātˌĭng), wasting or ravaging.

=deˈvi-ous= (dēˈvĭ-ŭs), winding, rambling.

=de-voidˈ= (de᷵-voidˈ), destitute.

=dex-terˈi-ty= (dĕks-tĕrˈĭ-tĭ), skill, aptness.

=dexˈter-ous= (dĕksˈtẽr-ŭs), clever.

=diˈal= (dīˈăl), face of a watch or clock.

=diˈa-ry= (dīˈă-rĭ), a record of personal adventures and experiences.

=dicˈtates of his judgˈment= (dĭkˈtātz; jŭjˈ-mĕnt), those things which his good sense forces him to do.

=dicˌta-toˈri-al= (dĭkˌtȧ-tōˈrĭ-ăl), overbearing

=diˈet= (dīˈĕt), food.

=difˌfer-enˈti-aˈtion= (dĭfˌẽr-ĕnˈshĭ-āˈshŭn), act of showing the differences.

=dif-fuseˈ= (dĭ-fūzˈ), to spread.

=dif-fuseˈly= (dĭ-fūzˈlĭ), fully, copiously.

=digˈgers= (dĭgˈẽrz), miners, gold-seekers, especially those lured to California in 1849, when gold was discovered.

=di-lapˈi-datˌed= (dĭ-lăpˈĭ-dātˌĕd), out of repair, ruined.

=di-lateˈ= (dĭ-latˈ; dīˈlāt), to grow large.

=dilˈi-gence= (dĭlˈĭ-jĕns), care, caution.

=dilˈi-gent= (dĭlˈĭ-jĕnt), careful.

=dim twiˈlight of tra-diˈtion= (twīˈlīt; trȧ-dĭˈshŭn), times long past about which stories are not clear.

=dinna ye=, pronounce for the meter din’ye; Scotch for =did not you=.

=dint of much effort=, by means of much labor.

=direˈful= (dīrˈfo͡ol), terrible.

=dire-struck= (dīr-strŭk), struck with terror.

=disˌad-vanˈtage= (dĭsˌăd-vȧnˈta᷵j), unfavorable condition, disadvantage of situation, having a poorer place to fight.

=dis-cardˈed= (dĭs-kărdˈĕd), refused.

=dis-cernˈi-ble= (dĭ-zûrˈnĭ-b’l), seen, distinguishable.

=disˈci-plined= (dĭsˈĭ-plĭnd), trained.

=dis-comˈfit-ed= (dĭs-kŭmˈfĭt-ĕd), put to route, defeated.

=dis-conˈso-late= (dĭs-kŏnˈsō-la᷵t), hopeless, forlorn.

=dis-cordˈant= (dĭs-kôrˈdănt), incongruous, contrary.

=dis-courseˈ= (dĭs-kōrsˈ), conversation.

=dis-credˈit= (dĭs-krĕdˈĭt), to disbelieve, accept as untrue.

=dis-creˈtion= (dĭs-krĕshˈŭn), judgment, prudence.

=dis-dainedˈ= (dĭs-dāndˈ), scorned.

=dis-guiseˈ= (dĭs-gīzˈ), a change in manner or dress to mislead.

=dis-heartˈen-ing= (dĭs-härˈt’n-ĭng), hopeless.

=disˈmal-est= (dĭzˈmăl-ĕst), most dreadful.

=dis-mayˈ= (dĭs-māˈ), fright.

=dis-missˈ the world= (dĭs-mĭsˈ), leave the world.

=dis-orˈder-ly rabˈble= (dĭs-ôrˈdẽr-lĭ răbˈb’l), a mob without order.

=dis-patchˈ= (dĭs-păchˈ), to slay, kill.

=dis-perseˈ= (dĭs-pûrsˈ), to scatter.

=disˌpo-siˈtion= (dĭsˌpō-zĭshˈŭn), temper, mood; getting rid of anything.

=disˌpro-porˈtioned= (dĭsˌprō-pŏrˈshŭnd), not suitable in form, mismatched.

=dis-quiˈet= (dĭs-kwīˈĕt), uneasiness, anxiety.

=dis-ruptˈed= (dĭs-rŭptˈĕd), broken or thrust asunder.

=dis-secˈtion= (dĭ-sĕkˈshŭn), cutting in pieces.

=dis-semˈble= (dĭ-sĕmˈb’l), to hide the real facts.

=dis-solvesˈ= (dĭ-zŏlvzˈ), breaks up, separates.

=dis-suadeˈ= (dĭ-swādˈ), advise against.

=disˈtaff= (dĭsˈtȧf), the staff for holding the flax or wool, from which the thread is drawn in spinning.

=dis-temˈper= (dĭs-tĕmˈpẽr), general illness.

=dis-tincˈtive= (dĭs-tĭnkˈtĭv), marking, characteristic.

=dis-tinˈguished= (dĭs-tĭnˈgwĭsht), marked.

=dis-tracˈtion= (dĭs-trăkˈshŭn), confusion, disorder, tumult.

=dis-tribˈut-er= (dĭs-trĭbˈu᷵t-ẽr), one who divides or deals out something among several or many.

=ditˈty= (dĭtˈĭ), a little song.

=diˈvers= (dīˈvẽrz), several, various, different.

=di-vestˈ= (dĭ-vĕstˈ), to deprive.

=di-vineˈ= (dĭ-vīnˈ), godlike; to foretell, guess.

=dockˈ-baˌsin= (dŏkˈ-bāˌs’n), a hollow or inclosed place containing water, a dock for ships.

=dogˈged= (dôgˈĕd;—ĭd), sullen.

=doleˈful fore-bodˈings= (dōlˈfo͡ol fōr-bōdˈĭngz), sad or gloomy predictions of coming evil.

=dolˈing= (dōlˈĭng), distributing.

=Dolˈor-ous Garde= (dŏlˈẽr-ŭs gärd), sorrowful castle.

=do-mesˈtic e-moˈtions= (dō-mĕsˈtĭk e᷵-mōˈshŭnz). feelings for home things, family feelings.

=domˈi-cile= (dŏmˈĭ-sĭl), house.

=domˈi-nate= (domˈĭ-nāt), to rule.

=do-minˈion= (dō-mĭnˈyŭn), estate; control.

=Don Cosˈsacks= (dŏn kŏsˈăks), a warlike people inhabiting the steppes of Russia along the lower Don.

=donned= (dŏnd), donned the serge, put on the habit of a monk.

=Dons= (dŏnz), Spanish noblemen.

=doˈtard= (dōˈtȧrd), a foolish person, imbecile.

=doth= (dŭth), third person singular for =do=.

=doubˌle-reefed tryˈsail= (dŭbˌ’l-rēft trīˈsāl; trīˈs’l), a small sail taken in twice.

=douˈblet= (dŭbˈlĕt), a close-fitting garment for men, with or without sleeves, covering the body.

=doub-loonˈ= (dŭb-lo̅o̅nˈ), an old Spanish gold coin varying in value at different times from five to fifteen dollars.

=doubˈly wild= (dŭbˈlĭ), twice as wild.

=dram= (drăm), a small drink.

=draught=; draft (drȧft), act of drinking.

=draughts that led nowhere= (drȧfts), drinks that did no good.

=drawˈbridge= (drôˈbrĭj), a bridge of which either the whole or a part is made to be raised up, let down, or drawn or turned aside, to admit or hinder communication.

=dread= (drĕd), fear, imagine.

=dreadˈnaught= (drĕdˈnôt), a fearless person; a huge battleship.

=dressed their shields=, prepared their shields for battle.

=dressˈer= (drĕsˈẽr), a cupboard.

=drew our sadˈdle-girths= (sădˈ’l-gûrthz), tightened the straps encircling the body of a horse.

=drifˈters= (drĭfˈtẽrz), the trawlers, riding at anchor.

=driftˈwoodˈ= (drĭftˈwo͡odˈ), wood drifted or floated by water.

=dronˈing= (drōnˈĭng), dull, monotonous humming, deep murmuring.

=dubbed= (dŭbd), called, named.

=Duke de la Rowse= (dūke dŭ lȧ rōs).

=dulse= (dŭls), coarse, red seaweed.

=Dumferling=, same as Dunfermline.

=Dum-friesˈ= (dŭm-frēsˈ).

=dunˈder-pateˌ= (dŭnˈdẽr-pātˌ), blockhead.

=Dun-fermˈline= (dŭn-fĕrmˈlĭn), a town near Edinburgh, Scotland.

=duˌpli-caˈtion= (dūˌplĭ-kāˈshŭn), doubling.

=Durˈham= (dŭrˈăm), a town near Edinburgh, Scotland.

=dyˈna-mite= (dīˈnȧ-mīt), an explosive.

=eagle of the sea=, warship.

=easy wings=, slow-moving wings.

=ebˈon-y= (ĕbˈŭn-ĭ), a heavy wood from the tropics, capable of a fine polish; black.

=ebˌul-liˈtion= (ĕbˌŭ-lĭshˈŭn), outburst.

=ec-statˈic= (ĕk-stătˈĭk), enthusiastic.

=edˈdies= (ĕdˈĭz), currents of air or water running contrary to the main current.

=edercate=, dialect for =edˈu-cate=.

=ef-fectˈed= (ĕ-fĕkˈtĕd), done, carried out.

=ef-feteˈ= (ĕf-fētˈ), exhausted of productive energy, worn out.

=ef-fiˈcient= (ĕ-fĭshˈĕnt), capable, competent.

=effˈi-gy= (ĕfˈĭ-jĭ), an image made to represent some person.

=ef-fulˈgent= (ĕ-fŭlˈjĕnt), shining, bright.

=eˈgo= (ēˈgō), self.

=e-jacˌu-laˈtion= (e᷵-jăkˌu᷵-lāˈshŭn), sudden exclamation.

=eke out= (ēk), to add to or piece out by a small addition.

=e-lapsedˈ= (e᷵-lăpsdˈ), slipped away.

=e-lateˈ= (e᷵-lātˈ), exultant.

=El-do-raˈdo= (ĕl-dō-räˈdō), a fabulous city of great wealth, hence, any place or region of fabulous richness.

=e-lecˈtion= (e᷵-lĕkˈshŭn), choice.

=e-lecˌtion-eerˈ= (e᷵-lĕkˌshŭn-ērˈ), to work for a person or party in an election.

=e-lecˈtric telˈe-graph= (e᷵-lĕkˈtrĭk tĕlˈe᷵-grȧf), an apparatus constructed for sending messages along a wire by means of electricity.

=e-lecˈtro-typed= (e᷵-lĕkˈtrō-tīpt), covered with metal.

=elˈe-gy= (ĕlˈe᷵-jĭ), a mournful or plaintive poem.

=elˈfin= (ĕlˈfĭn), fairy.

=elˈi-gi-ble= (ĕlˈĭ-jĭ-b’l), desirable.

=Elˈi-ot, John= (ĕlˈĭ-ŭt), the apostle to the Indians of North America.

=elk= (ĕlk), an animal similar to the moose.

=Elˈlers-lie= (ĕlˈlẽrz-lĭ), a town near Glasgow, Scotland.

=elm= (ĕlm), a tree generally of large size.

=elˈo-quence= (ĕlˈō-kwĕns), forceful talk showing strong feeling.

=e-maˈci-atˌed= (e᷵-māˈshĭ-ātˌĕd), wasted away in flesh.

=e-manˌci-paˈtion= (e᷵-mănˌsĭ-pāˈshŭn), freedom.

=emˈbas-sies= (ĕmˈbȧ-sĭz), messages, missions.

=em-belˈlish= (ĕm-bĕlˈĭsh), beautify.

=em-blaˈzon-ry= (ĕm-blāˈz’n-rĭ), brilliant decoration, as pictures or figures on shields, standards.

=em-bosˈomed= (ĕm-bo͡ozˈŭmd), sheltered.

=emˈer-ald= (ĕmˈẽr-ăld), a green gem.

=e-merˈgen-cy= (e᷵-mûrˈjĕn-sĭ), necessity, crisis.

=Emˈpire State= (ĕmˈpīr), New York.

=em-ploy-eeˈ= (ĕm-ploi-ēˈ), a clerk or workman in the service of an employer.

=emˌu-laˈtion= (ĕmˌu᷵-lāˈshŭn), striving to imitate.

=en-chantˈed= (ĕn-chȧntˈĕd), bewitched, charmed.

=en-comˈpass= (en-kŭmˈpȧs), surround.

=en-counˈtered= (ĕn-kounˈtẽrd), met face to face.

=en-croachˈing zeal= (ĕn-krōchˈĭng zēl), eagerness which goes beyond desirable limits.

=en-cumˈbered= (ĕn-kŭmˈbẽrd), burdened.

=en-deavˈor= (ĕn-dĕvˈẽr), trial.

=en-dowˈment= (ĕn-douˈmĕnt), gift.

=enˈer-get-i-cal-ly= (ĕnˈẽr-jĕt-ĭ-kăl-lĭ), strenuously.

=en-forˈcing= (ĕn-fōrˈsĭng), putting in force or operation.

=en-gagˈing= (ĕn-gājˈĭng), pledging, promising.

=en-genˈdered= (ĕn-jĕnˈdẽrd), caused, bred.

=en-joinedˈ= (ĕn-joindˈ), commanded, charged.

=en-meshedˈ= (ĕn-mĕshtˈ), caught or entangled, as in meshes.

=enˈsign= (ĕnˈsīn), flag.

=en-suedˈ= (ĕn-sūdˈ), followed as a result.

=en-tailˈed the ne-cesˈsi-ty= (ĕn-tāldˈ the ne᷵-sĕsˈĭ-tĭ), made it necessary.

=enˈter-tained= (ĕnˈtẽr-tānd), held.

=enˈter-tainˈment= (ĕnˌtẽr-tānˈmĕnt), encounter, diversion.

=en-treatˈy= (ĕn-trētˈĭ), an earnest request.

=en-velˈop= (ĕn-vĕlˈŭp), to surround.

=enˈvoy= (ĕnˈvoi), one sent on a mission, a representative to a foreign country.

=epˈau-let= (ĕpˈô-lĕt), a shoulder ornament worn by military and naval officers and indicating differences of rank.

=epˈi-cur-ism= (ĕpˈĭ-kūr-ĭz’m; ĕpˈĭ-kūˈrĭz’m), pleasures of the table, delight in food.

=epˈi-sodes= (ĕpˈĭ-sōds), experiences, occurrences.

=epˈi-taph= (ĕpˈĭ-tȧf), an inscription on a tombstone.

=eˈqual aˈgen-cy= (ēˈkwăl āˈjĕn-sĭ), equal share.

=eqˈui-ta-ble= (ĕkˈwĭ-tȧ-b’l), just, fair.

=e-radˈi-catˌed= (e᷵-rădˈĭ-kātˌĕd), destroyed.

=erˈrant= (ĕrˈănt), wandering.

=er-ratˈic= (ĕ-rătˈĭk), irregular, queer.

=erˌu-diˈtion= (ĕrˌo͡o-dĭshˈŭn), learning.

=Eshˈcol= (ĕshˈkŏl), a valley in Palestine from which the spies, sent out by Moses, brought back fine grapes. Numbers XIII.

=es-pousˈal= (ĕs-pouzˈăl), marriage.

=es-pousedˈ= (ĕs-pouzdˈ), took up the cause of; adopted, made his own.

=es-sayedˈ= (ĕ-sādˈ), tried.

=es-tateˈ= (ĕs-tātˈ), possessions.

=esteemed it not=, cared nothing for it.

=e-terˈnal= (e᷵-tẽrˈnăl), always existing.

=eˈther= (ēˈthẽr), sky.

=e-theˈre-al= (e᷵-thēˈre᷵-ăl), heavenly.

=e-theˈre-al-ize= (e᷵-thēˈre᷵-ăl-īz), spiritualize.

=E-vanˈge-line= (e᷵-vănˈje᷵-lēn).

=e-vincedˈ= (e᷵-vĭnstˈ), showed clearly.

=evˌo-luˈtion= (ĕvˌō-lūˈshŭn), development.

=eweˈneck= (ūˈnĕk), an insufficiently arched neck, like that of a sheep.

=ex-agˈger-at-ˌed ap-pre-ci-aˈtion= (ĕg-zăjˈẽr-āt-ˌed ă-prē-shĭ-āˈshŭn), enlarged valuation.

=ex-altˈing= (ĕg-zôltˈĭng), lifting up with joy.

=ex-asˈper-atˌed= (ĕg-zăsˈpẽr-ātˌĕd), made more grievous, embittered, made harsher.

=Ex-calˈi-bur= (ĕks-kălˈĭ-bŭr), the sword of King Arthur.

=ex-ceedˈ= (ĕk-sēdˈ), to go beyond.

=ex-cessˈ= (ĕk-sĕsˈ), superabundance.

=ex-cesˈsive-ly= (ĕk-sĕsˈĭv-lĭ), exceptionally, more than usually.

=Ex-cheqˈuer= (ĕks-chĕkˈẽr), department of English government for collection of revenues.

=ex-culˈpat-ing= (ĕks-kŭlˈpāt-ĭng; ĕksˈkŭlpāt-ĭng), proving to be guiltless.

=exˈe-cute= (ĕkˈse᷵-kūt), perform.

=exˌe-cuˈtion= (ĕkˌse᷵-kūˈshŭn), putting to death.

=ex-ecˈu-tor= (ĕg-zĕkˈu᷵-tẽr), the person named by another person to carry out his will after death.

=ex-emptˈ= (ĕg-zĕmptˈ), exclude.

=ex-ertˈ= (ĕg-zûrtˈ), put forth, attempt.

=exˌha-laˈtion= (ĕksˌhȧ-lāˈshŭn), breath.

=ex-haustˈed= (ĕg-zôstˈĕd), tired out, wearied.

=ex-hortˈed= (ĕg-zôrtˈĕd), urged.

=ex-panseˈ= (ĕks-pănsˈ), stretch, extent of space.

=ex-peˈdi-ent= (ĕks-pēˈdĭ-ĕnt), shift, suitable means to accomplish an end.

=exˌpe-diˈtion= (ĕksˌpe᷵-dĭshˈŭn), an important journey for a specific purpose.

=ex-pertˈ= (ĕks-pûrtˈ), skillful.

=exˌpi-aˈtion= (ĕksˌpĭ-āˈshŭn), atonement, reparation.

=ex-ploitˈ= (ĕks-ploitˈ), deed.

=ex-posedˈ= (ĕks-pōzdˈ), deprived of shelter.

=ex-poˈsure= (ĕks-pōˈzhu᷵r), being open to danger.

=ex-poundˈ= (ĕks-poundˈ), explain.

=express intention= (ĭn-tĕnˈshŭn), clear determination or one idea.

=exˈqui-site= (ĕksˈkwĭ-zĭt), rare, perfect.

=ex-tentˈ= (ĕks-tĕntˈ), space, measure.

=ex-tenˈu-ate= (ĕks-tĕnˈū-āt), to treat as of small importance.

=ex-terˈmi-natˌing= (ĕks-tûrˈmĭ-nātˌĭng), destroying utterly, killing all the members of.

=ex-tinctˈ= (ĕks-tĭnktˈ), no longer living, inactive.

=ex-tractˈed= (ĕx-trăkˈtĕd), got.

=ex-traorˈdi-na-ry= (ĕks-trôrˈdĭ-na᷵-ry), remarkable.

=ex-travˈa-gance= (ĕks-trăvˈȧ-găns), overdoing, recklessness.

=ex-tremeˈ= (ĕks-trēmˈ), farthest.

=ex-tremˈi-ty= (ĕks-trĕmˈĭ-tĭ), greatest need.

=exˈtri-cate= (ĕksˈtrĭ-kāt), to free.

=ex-ultˈ= (ĕgz-ŭlt), rejoice exceedingly.

=fabˈri-cate= (făbˈrĭ-kāt), construct.

=fa-cilˈi-ty= (fȧ-sĭlˈĭ-tĭ), ease in performance; advantage; aid.

=facˈtor= (făkˈtẽr), element.

=facˈul-ties= (făkˈŭl-tĭz), talents, cleverness, means, resources.

=fagˈot=; fagˈgot (făgˈŭt), bundle of sticks.

=fain= (fān), eagerly.

=fain en-treatˈ= (fān ĕn-trētˈ), gladly ask.

=fair conquest=, what he had won honorably.

=fair-languaged=, of fine and appropriate speech.

=faith I owe=, pledge I owe.

=faithˈless= (fāthˈlĕs), disloyal.

=Falˈkirk= (fôlˈkûrk).

=falˈter= (fôlˈtẽr), to hesitate.

=fanˈcies= (fănˈsĭz), whims.

=Faneuil= (fănˈĕl) =Hall=, one of the landmarks of colonial Boston.

=fang= (făng), a long, sharp tooth.

=Faroe Islands= (fârˈo; fāˈrō), a group of islands in the North Sea between the Shetlands and Iceland.

=fasˈci-natˌing crook= (făsˈĭ-nātˌĭng kro͡ok), charming hook, enticing hook.

=fast by=, close by.

=fasten a quarrel=, start a quarrel.

=fas-tidˈi-ous= (făs-tĭdˈĭ-ŭs), difficult to please.

=fathˈom= (făthˈŭm), search; a measure of length containing six feet used chiefly in measuring cables and depth of water.

=fa-tiguedˈ= (fȧ-tēgdˈ), tired.

=Feast of the Holy Trinity= (trĭnˈĭ-tĭ), the Sunday next after Pentecost.

=feat= (fēt), noble deed, exploit.

=feign= (fān), pretend.

=fe-licˈi-ty= (fe᷵-lĭsˈĭ-tĭ), bliss, happiness.

=fell= (fĕl), an elevated wild field, moor, down.

=feller=, dialect for =fellow= (fĕlˈō), man.

=felˈlow= (fĕlˈō), companion.

=felˈlow-ship= (fĕlˈō-shĭp), company.

=felˈon= (fĕlˈŭn), criminal, a wicked person.

=ferˈment= (fûrˈmĕnt), tumult, excitement.

=fe-rocˈi-ty= (fe᷵-rŏsˈĭ-tĭ), cruelty, fury, fierceness.

=ferˈrule= (fĕrˈo͡ol), ruler.

=ferˌry-boatˈ= (fĕrˌĭ-bōtˈ), a vessel to carry passengers or freight across a narrow body of water.

=fer-tilˈi-ty of ex-peˈdi-ents= (fẽr-tĭlˈĭ-tĭ; ĕks-pēˈdĭ-ĕnts), quickness of finding a suitable means to accomplish an end.

=ferˈvor= (fûrˈvẽr), earnestness.

=fes-toonˈ= (fĕs-to̅o̅nˈ), a wreath; to hang in a curve.

=feud= (fūd), strife.

=fever-and-aˈgue= (āˈgū), fever and chills and sweats.

=fi-delˈi-ty= (fĭ-dĕlˈĭ-tĭ), faith, loyalty.

=fie= (fī), an exclamation denoting disgust.

=files= (fīlz), rows.

=filˈial= (fĭlˈyăl), becoming to a child in relation to his parents.

=filˈly= (fĭlˈĭ), young horse.

=filmed eyes= (fĭlmd), half covered eyes.

=fi-nanˈcial= (fĭ-nănˈshăl), connected with money matters.

=fi-nesseˈ= (fī-nĕsˈ), cunning.

=fire= (fīr), courage, enthusiasm.

=fire-box= (fīr-bŏks), tinder box furnished with flint and steel to produce a spark.

=firˈma-ment= (fûrˈmȧ-mĕnt), heavens, sky.

=fitˈful song= (fĭtˈfo͡ol) irregular song.

=flail= (flāl), a tool for threshing grain.

=Flanˈders= (flănˈdẽrz), an ancient country of Europe, now part of Belgium, Holland, and France.

=flank= (flănk), the fleshy part of the side of an animal between the ribs and the hip.

=flash of flutˈter-ing draˈper-y= (flăsh of flŭtˈẽr-ĭng drāˈpẽr-ĭ), sight of her dress fluttering or blowing about.

=flauntˈing= (fläntˈĭng), displaying with pride or in a showy manner.

=Flemˈish= (flĕmˈĭsh), pertaining to Flanders, one of the provinces of Belgium.

=Flimˈen= (flĭmˈ’n).

=flinched= (flĭncht), withdrew, drew back.

=flood of golden glory=, a great shining light reaching into every part.

=Floˈres= (flōˈrĕz).

=floutˈed= (floutˈĕd), mocked.

=fluˈen-cy= (flo̅o̅ˈĕn-sĭ), smoothness, readiness of speech.

=flume= (flo̅o̅m), an inclined channel, usually of wood, for conveying water from a distance, to be utilized for power.

=flurˈried= (flŭrˈĭd), excited.

=flush= (flŭsh), well supplied with money.

=flush deck=, floor of the boat is even with the sides, no railing.

=flux and reflux=, flowing in and out.

=fold= (fōld), offspring.

=forˈard, forˈward= (fôrˈwẽrd), the fore part of a vessel.

=forˈay= (fŏrˈȧ), raid.

=for-bearˈance= (fôr-bârˈăns), the exercise of patience, long-suffering.

=ford= (fōrd), a stream, a place in a river where it may be passed by wading.

=foreˈbent ears= (fōrˈbĕnt ērz), ears turned forward.

=foreˈcas-tle= (fōrˈkȧs’l; nautical, fōkˈs’l), a short upper deck forward, raised like a castle.

=fore-goˈ= (fōr-gōˈ), renounce, give up.

=foreˌtopˈmast= (fōrˌtŏpˈmȧst), a mast next above the first mast.

=forˈfeit-ed= (fôrˈfĭt-ĕd), lost by an error or offense.

=forˈmi-da-ble= (fôrˈmĭ-dȧ-b’l), terrible.

=for-soothˈ= (fôr-so̅o̅thˈ), certainly.

=forthˈwith= (fōrthˈwĭthˈ), directly, without delay.

=forˈti-tude= (fôrˈtĭ-tūd), strength, courage.

=Fort Larˈa-mie= (lărˈȧ-mĭ), in Wyoming.

=Fort Mont-gomˈer-y= (mŏnt-gŭmˈẽr-ĭ), an American fort on the Hudson river, during the Revolutionary War.

=fosˈter father= (fŏsˈtẽr), a man who has performed the duties of a parent to the child of another by rearing the child as his own.

=fouled= (fould), entangled.

=foun-daˈtion= (foun-dāˈshŭn), basis.

=founˈder= (founˈdẽr), to become filled with water and sink.

=fowlˈing-piece= (foulˈĭng-pēs), light gun for shooting birds or small animals.

=franˈti-cal-ly= (frănˈtĭ-kăl-ĭ), wildly.

=fraudˈu-lent= (frôdˈu᷵-lĕnt), dishonest.

=fraught= (frôt), filled, burdened.

=freak= (frēk), whim.

=free of their lives=, willingly ready to give their lives.

=fre-quentˈed= (fre᷵-kwĕntˈĕd), visited often, resorted to frequently.

=frigˈate= (frĭgˈāt), a light vessel propelled by sails and by oars.

=fringed genˈtian= (frĭnjd jĕnˈshăn), a flower.

=frinˈging= (frĭnˈjĭng), bordering.

=frisk= (frĭsk), a frolic, gay time, vacation.

=frolˈic= (frŏlˈĭk), merry.

=fronˈtier= (frŏnˈtēr), border.

=fruˈgal= (fro̅o̅ˈgăl), sparing, unwasteful.

=fruitˈless strugˈgles= (fro̅o̅tˈlĕs strŭgˈ’lz), great effort without results.

=fuˈgi-tive= (fūˈjĭ-tĭv), one who flees from pursuit, danger, or service.

=fuˈgi-tive sovˈer-eign= (fūˈjĭ-tĭv sŏvˈẽr-ĭn), ruler who was in hiding.

=ful-filˈling your be-hestˈ= (fo͡ol-fĭlˈĭng your be᷵ˈhĕst), carrying out your order.

=full noble surgeon= (sûrˈjŭn), a good doctor.

=fume= (fūm), to fill with vapors or odors, as a room, to perfume as with incense.

=funˈnel= (fŭnˈĕl), anything the shape of a hollow cone.

=furˈbish-ing= (fûrˈbĭsh-ĭng), cleaning, freshening.

=furˈlong= (fûrˈlŏng), forty rods.

=fuˈry= (fūˈrĭ), rage, fierceness.

=fu-tilˈi-ty= (fu᷵-tĭlˈĭ-tĭ), uselessness.

=fu-tuˈri-ty= (fu᷵-tu᷵ˈrĭ-tĭ), time to come.

=Gaelˈic= (gālˈĭk), pertaining to the Gaels, or Scotch Highlanders.

=Gaˈher-is= (gāˈhẽr-ĭs).

=gainˌsayˈ= (gānˌsāˈ), to speak against, contradict.

=gait= (gāt), manner of walking, running.

=galˈlant= (gălˈănt), brave; gay or smart in dress.

=galˈle-on= (gălˈe᷵-ŭn), a sailing vessel.

=Gallipoli= (gäl-lēˈpō-lē), a town in European Turkey.

=game= (gām), animal hunted.

=gangˈwayˌ= (găngˈwāˌ), the opening through a vessel by which persons enter or leave it.

=garb= (gärb), dress.

=garˈish= (gârˈĭsh), showy, glaring.

=garˈri-son= (gărˈĭ-s’n), troops on duty in a fort.

=garˈru-lous= (găro͡o-lŭs), talkative.

=gashed with numberless ravines= (găsht; rā-vēnzˈ), cut with or by means of numberless depressions worn out by running water.

=gaud= (gôd), an ornament.

=gaudˈy= (gôdˈĭ), showy.

=gauntˈlet= (gäntˈlĕt), a glove, sometimes made of chain mail and leather.

=gave audience= (ôˈdĭ-ĕns), received and listened to (as a ruler would receive a subject).

=Gaˈwain= (gôˈwa᷵n).

=ga-zetteˈ= (gȧ-zĕtˈ) a newspaper.

=gear= (gēr), clothing and ornaments, armor, treasure.

=geˈni-al= (jēˈnĭ-ăl), kindly.

=genˈius= (jēnˈyŭs), gifted with unusual power; talent.

=genˈtry= (jĕnˈtrĭ), people of education and culture.

=genˈu-ine= (jĕnˈu᷵-ĭn), real, true.

=Geofˈfrey of Monˈmouth= (jĕfˈrĭ of mŏnˈmŭth).

=ge-ogˈra-pher= (je᷵-ŏgˈrȧ-fẽr), one versed in geography.

=geˌo-graphˈi-cal con-sidˌer-aˈtions= (jēˌ-ō-grăfˈĭ-kăl kŏn-sĭdˌẽr-āˈshŭnz), locations according to geography.

=gerˈfalˌcon= (jûrˈfôˌk’n), a large falcon of arctic Europe.

=germ= (jûrm), beginning.

=gesˈture= (jĕsˈtu᷵r), movement of the hands or body expressive of feeling.

=giˌganˈtic= (jīˌgănˈtĭk), immense.

=Giles de Arˈgen-tine= (jīlz da᷵ ärˈjĕn-tēn).

=gilˈlies= (gĭlˈlēz), servants.

=girth= (gûrth), the band which encircles the body of a horse to fasten anything upon its back.

=glade= (glād), an open place in a forest.

=Glasˈgow= (glȧsˈkō; glȧsˈgō), the largest city in Scotland.

=Glasˈton-bur-y= (glȧsˈtŭn-bẽr-ĭ), a town near Bristol, England.

=glazˈing= (glāzˈĭng), icy.

=gleamˈing spray= (glēmˈĭng sprā), shining water.

=glebe= (glēb), soil.

=glibˈly= (glĭbˈlĭ), smoothly, easily.

=gnarled= (närld), knotted.

=gnome= (nōm), a goblin.

=goad= (gōd), a pointed rod.

=gob= (gŏb), lump, mass.

=gobˈlin= (gŏbˈlĭn), ghost.

=Goffe, William= (gŏf), 1605-1679.

=gold-diggings=, mines in California.

=goldˈen-cui-rassedˈ= (gōlˈd’n-kwe᷵-rȧstˈ), covered with a breastplate of golden hue.

=goldˈsmithˌ= (gōldˈsmĭthˌ), an artisan who manufactures vessels or ornaments of gold.

=Go-liˈath of Gath= (gō-līˈăth of găth), in biblical history, a giant who was slain by David. See I Samuel XVII, 32-49.

=Gon-zaˈlo= (gŏn-zäˈlō).

=Good Queen Bess=, Queen Elizabeth (1558-1603).

=Goomˈtee= (gŭmˈtē), a river in India on which Lucknow is situated.

=goˈpher= (gōˈfẽr), a small burrowing animal about the size of a large rat.

=gorge= (gôrj), narrow passage.

=gorˈgeous= (gôrˈjŭs), showy, fine.

=gorˈget= (gôrˈjĕt), collar.

=gorˈy= (gōrˈĭ), bloody.

=govˈern-ment= (gŭvˈẽrn-mĕnt), the direction of the affairs of state.

=graˈcious= (grāˈshŭs), pleasing.

=granˈdeur= (grănˈdu᷵r), majesty, dignity.

=grave= (grāv), cut.

=Gravesˈend= (grāvzˈĕnd), a town in England, on the right bank of the Thames river.

=gravˈi-ty= (grăvˈĭ-tĭ), seriousness.

=greenˈing= (grēnˈĭng), growing green.

=greenˈswardˌ= (grēnˈswôrdˌ), turf green with grass.

=Grenˌa-dierˈ Guards= (grĕnˌȧ-dērˈ gärdz), a famous English regiment.

=grievˈance= (grēvˈăns), burden, hardship.

=grievˈous= (grēvˈŭs), severe.

=grim= (grĭm), fierce, stern, ferocious.

=gross= (grōs), heavy, coarse.

=gro-tesqueˈ= (grō-tĕskˈ), oddly formed.

=groundˈing his musˈket=, forcing the musket to the ground firmly.

=grouse= (grous), a bird somewhat similar to a partridge.

=grubˈbing= (grŭbˈĭng), digging.

=grumˈbling so-lilˈo-quies= (grŭmˈblĭng sō-lĭlˈō-kwĭz), acts of talking to one’s self in an ill-natured manner.

=Guayaquil= (gwīˌä-kēlˈ), a city in Ecuador.

=Guerˌri-ereˈ= (gĕrˌe᷵-ĕrˈ).

=guid= (gēd). Scotch for =good=.

=guinˈea= (gĭnˈĭ), a domestic fowl.

=Guinˈe-vere= (gwĭnˈe᷵-vẽr).

=guise= (gīz), manner.

=gules= (gūlz), red color.

=Gulf of Bothˈni-a= (bŏthˈnĭ-ȧ), the north part of the Baltic sea, between Sweden and Finland.

=gulˈly= (gŭlˈĭ), a channel worn in the earth by water.

=gulped= (gŭlpt), swallowed eagerly.

=gunˈwale= (gŭnˈĕl), the upper edge of a vessel’s side.

=gutˈtur-al= (gŭtˈŭr-ăl) throaty.

=gyˈrat-ing= (jīˈrāt-ĭng), moving in a circle.

=gy-raˈtions of the whirl= (jī-rāˈshŭns), the circular movements of the water.

=habˈit= (hăbˈĭt), dress, suit of clothes.

=ha-bitˈu-al-ly= (hȧ-bĭtˈu᷵-ăl-lĭ), regularly, usually.

=hackˈney-coach= (hăkˈnĭ-kōch), a four-wheeled carriage drawn by two horses.

=haft= (hȧft), hilt, handle.

=hail= (hāl), greeting.

=Hai-naultˈ= (hā-nōˈ), a province of Belgium.

=half-felt wish for rest=, slight wish for rest.

=hamˈpered= (hămˈpẽrd), hindered.

=hand-gre-nade= (hănd-gre᷵-nādˈ), an explosive to be thrown by hand.

=handˈi-cap= (hănˈdĭ-kăp), disadvantage.

=hands= (hănds), every one on the boat.

=hapˈless= (hăpˈlĕs), unlucky.

=hapˈpy meˈdi-um=, most useful thing.

=harˈass= (hărˈăs), trouble; raid.

=harˈbin-ger= (härˈbĭn-jẽr), a forerunner, usher.

=harˈdi-er= (härˈdĭ-ẽr), bolder, braver.

=harˈdi-hood= (härˈdĭ-ho͡od), bravery.

=harˈmo-nies of law= (härˈmō-nĭz), international law.

=Ha-rounˈ Al-ra-schidˈ= (hä-ro̅o̅nˈ äl-rȧ-shēdˈ), Aaron the Just, Caliph of Bagdad (786-809).

=harˈpies of the shore=, commerce.

=harˈpy= (härˈpĭ), a monster with a woman’s head and a bird’s wings, tail, and claws.

=hatchˈwayˌ= (hăchˈwāˌ), an opening in a deck, from one deck to another.

=haunch= (hänch), the hip.

=haunt= (hänt; hônt), recur to the mind frequently; to visit as a ghost; a place to which one often resorts.

=Haveˈlock= (Hăvˈlŏk).

=Haˈver-hill= (hāˈvẽr-ĭl).

=Havˈi-lah= (hăvˈĭ-lä), in the description of Eden, a land containing gold, and surrounded by one of the four rivers which go out from Eden. Genesis II.

=havˈoc= (hăvˈŏk), wide and general destruction, waste.

=hazˈard= (hăzˈȧrd), risk, danger, chance.

=head-winds=, winds blowing straight over the bow of the ship.

=hearkˈen to a comˌpo-siˈtion= (härk’n, kŏmˌpō-zĭshˈŭn), listen to terms (for ending the battle).

=hearth= (härth), that part of a room where the fire is made.

=heathˈer= (hĕthˈẽr), a low shrub, with minute evergreen leaves and pinkish flowers.

=heaved= (hēvd), rose upward and fell again; raised.

=heaven-born= (hĕv’n-bôrn), name applied to the upper classed by the people of India.

=heave to= (hēv to), get to work, turn around.

=heavˈy-gaitˈed= (hĕvˈĭ-gātˈĕd), heavy walking.

=Hebˈri-des= (hĕbˈrĭ-dēz), islands off the west coast of Scotland.

=Hecˈla= (hĕkˈlȧ), a volcano in Iceland.

=heeled over=, tipped.

=heighˈhoˌ= (hīˈhōˌ), an exclamation of surprise or joy.

=height of the ri-dicˈu-lous= (hīt of the rĭ-dĭkˈū-lŭs), extremely laughable.

=heir= (âr), one who inherits.

=heirˈloom= (ârˈlo̅o̅m), any piece of personal property owned by a family for many generations.

=held his own=, suffered no losses or disadvantages.

=helm= (hĕlm), tiller or wheel by which the ship is steered.

=Hel-segˈgen= (hĕl-sĕgˈ’n).

=Hel-veˈti-a= (hĕl-vēˈshĭ-ȧ), an ancient and poetic name for Switzerland.

=herˈald= (hĕrˈăld), one who publishes or announces.

=herbˈage= (ûrˈba᷵j), green plants or grass.

=Her-cuˈle-an= (hẽr-kūˈle᷵-ăn), requiring the strength of Hercules, a mighty hero of Greek mythology.

=he-redˈi-ta-ry= (he᷵-rĕdˈĭ-tâ-rĭ), ancestral.

=he-retˈi-cal= (he᷵-rĕtˈĭ-kăl), unbelieving.

=hereˌun-toˈ ap-pendˈ=, to this attach.

=herˈmit in the crowd= (hûrˈmĭt), alone even though in a crowd.

=herˈo-ism= (hĕrˈō-ĭz’m), courage, bravery.

=herˈon= (hērˈŭn), a bird that wades in water.

=Hiˌa-waˈtha= (hīˌȧ-wôˈthȧ; hēˌȧ-wôˈthȧ).

=hiˈber-nates= (hīˈbẽr-nāt), to pass the winter sleeping in close quarters.

=hie= (hī), hasten.

=higˈgle-dy-pigˈgle-dy= (hĭgˈ’l-dĭ-pĭgˈ’l-dĭ), in confusion, topsy-turvy.

=high time=, about time, the time.

=hind= (hīnd), farm servant.

=Hin-do-stanˈ= (hĭn-dō-stänˈ), the Persian name for India.

=hinˈdrance= (hĭnˈdrăns), something which checks or prevents.

=hoard= (hōrd), treasure, hidden supply.

=hobˈbled= (hŏbˈld), fettered, as a horse, by having the legs tied.

=Hoˈbo-mok= (hōˈbō-mŏk), an Indian guide.

=Hoˈey-holm= (hōˈā-hōm).

=hoist the signal=, raise the flag; request it.

=hold= (hōld), possession, power.

=hold the middle guard=, keep watch during the middle part of the night.

=hole up= (hōl), to take to a hole for winter, as a bear.

=holˈlows= (hŏlˈōz), holes, low places.

=holsˈters= (hōlˈstẽrz), leather cases for pistols.

=homˈage= (hŏmˈa᷵j), respect.

=homeˈly= (hōmˈlĭ), plain.

=hoodˈwink= (ho͡odˈwĭnk), deceive.

=ho-riˈzon line= (hō-rīˈzŭn), the line where the earth and sky seem to meet.

=hosˈpi-ta-ble= (hŏsˈpĭ-tȧ-b’l), indicating kindness and generosity to guests and strangers.

=housˈings= (houzˈĭngz), trappings.

=hovˈer= (hŭvˈẽr), to hang about.

=hove up=, brought to a stop.

=howˈitz-er= (houˈĭt-sẽr), cannon.

=hrrump= (hrŭmp), a noise.

=hudˈdled= (hŭdˈ’ld), crowded together for protection.

=hulk= (hŭlk), the body of an old, wrecked, or dismantled ship.

=hull= (hŭl), the frame or body of a vessel.

=hu-maneˈ ofˈfice= (hū-mān ŏfˈĭs), kind service.

=humˈdrumˌ crone= (hŭmˈdrŭmˌ krōn), dull old fellow.

=huˈmor= (hūˈmẽr; ūˈmẽr), please, gratify; fancy.

=huntˈed for the bounˈty= (hŭntˈed for the bounˈtĭ), hunted for the reward offered by the state or county.

=husˈband-man= (hŭzˈbănd-măn), a tiller of the soil, farmer.

=husˈband-ry= (hŭzˈbănd-rĭ), farming.

=Hyde Park= (hīd), a fashionable park in London.

=hysted= (hīstˈĕd), dialect for =hoistˈed=.

=hys-terˈic-al= (hĭs-tĕrˈĭ-kȧl), over-excited.

=I-beˈri-an= (ī-bēˈrĭ-ăn), Spanish.

=i-denˈti-cal= (ī-dĕnˈtĭ-kăl), the very same.

=i-deˈa= (ī-dēˈȧ), image, picture.

=idˈi-o-cy= (ĭdˈĭ-ŏ-sĭ), condition of being a fool.

=iˈdle= (īˈd’l), foolish.

=iˈdle ruˈmor= (īˈd’l ro̅o̅ˈmẽr), groundless tale.

=Iˈdyl= (īˈdĭl), a poem giving a picture.

=If-leˈsen= (ēf-lāˈsĕn).

=ig-noˈble= (ĭg-nōˈb’l), dishonorable, base.

=igˌno-minˈi-ous= (ĭgˌnō-mĭnˈĭ-ŭs), shameful, dishonorable.

=I-graineˈ= (e᷵-grānˈ).

=illegal and void= (ĭl-lēˈgăl), not lawful and hence having no force.

=illˌstarredˈ= (ĭlˌstärdˈ), unlucky.

=il-luˌmi-naˈtion= (ĭ-lūˌmĭ-nāˈshŭn), festive lighting up or decorating.

=il-luˈsion= (ĭl-lūˈzhŭn), appearance which is not real, falsity.

=il-lusˈtrate= (ĭ-lŭsˈtrāt; ĭlˈŭs-trāt), make clear.

=il-lusˈtri-ous= (ĭ-lŭsˈtrĭ-ŭs), distinguished, celebrated.

=im-bibeˈ= (ĭm-bībˈ), take in.

=im-bueˈ= (ĭm-būˈ), tinge deeply, fill.

=imˌi-taˈtion= (ĭmˌĭ-tāˈshŭn), that which is made to resemble something.

=im-measˈur-a-bly= (ĭ-mĕzhˈu᷵r-ȧ-blĭ), cannot be measured.

=im-meˈdi-ate= (ĭ-mēˈdĭ-a᷵t), not far distant.

=im-peachedˈ= (ĭm-pēchtˈ), challenged.

=im-pedˈi-ment= (ĭm-pĕdˈĭ-mĕnt), hindrance.

=im-pendˈing= (ĭm-pĕndˈĭng), threatening.

=im-penˈe-tra-ble= (ĭm-pĕnˈe᷵-trȧˈ-b’l), not to be entered.

=imˌper-cepˈti-ble= (ĭmˌpẽr-sĕpˈtĭ-b’l), not easily seen or noticed.

=im-perˈfect con-nectˈing links= (ĭm-pûrˈfĕkt kŏ-nĕktˈĭng lĭnks), points of likeness which are not exact.

=im-perˈvi-ous= (ĭm-pûrˈvĭ-ŭs), impassable, impenetrable.

=im-petˌu-osˈi-ty= (ĭm-pĕtˌu᷵-ŏsˈĭ-tĭ), violence.

=im-petˈu-ous= (ĭm-pĕtˈu᷵-ŭs), furious.

=imˈpi-ous= (ĭmˈpĭ-ŭs), profane, ungodly.

=im-plaˈca-ble= (ĭm-plāˈkȧ-b’l), incapable of being pacified; unyielding.

=imˈple-ment= (ĭmˈple᷵-mĕnt), tool, instrument.

=im-plyˈ= (ĭm-plīˈ), hint, suggest.

=im-porˈtu-nate= (ĭm-pôrˈtu᷵-nāt), urgent.

=im-por-tuneˈ= (ĭm-pōr-tūnˈ), urge, beg.

=im-pracˈti-ca-ble= (ĭm-prăkˈtĭ-kȧ-b’l), impassable.

=im-pre-caˈtion= (ĭm-pre᷵-kāˈshŭn), curse.

=im-pregˈna-ble= (ĭm-prĕgˈnȧ-b’l), able to resist attack.

=imˈpulse= (ĭmˈpŭls), quick feeling.

=imˈpulses of his inˌcli-naˈtion= (ĭmˈpŭls-ez of his ĭnˌklĭ-nāˈshŭn), his own natural desires or wishes, the forces of his nature.

=im-puˈni-ty= (ĭm-pūˈnĭ-tĭ), without punishment.

=imˌpu-taˈtion= (ĭmˌpu᷵-tāˈshŭn), insinuation, hinted accusation.

=in-adˈe-quate= (ĭn-ădˈe᷵-kwāt), insufficient.

=in-alˈien-a-ble rights= (ĭn-ālˈyĕn-ȧ-b’l), rights that cannot be taken away.

=in-apˈpli-ca-ble= (ĭn-ăpˈlĭ-kȧ-b’l), unsuitable.

=in-auˌgu-raˈtion= (ĭn-ôˌgu᷵-rāˈshŭn), an ushering in, the ceremony of investing the president with the powers of his office.

=Inˈca= (ĭnˈkȧ), a South American tribe of Indians, which attained unusual culture and art.

=inˌcan-taˈtion so se-reneˈ= (ĭnˌkăn-tāˈshŭn so se᷵-rēnˈ), a charm sung so clearly and calmly.

=in-carˈcer-ate= (ĭn-kärˈsẽr-āt), to imprison, to confine.

=in-cesˈsant= (ĭn-sĕsˈănt), continual.

=Inch-afˈfray= (ĭnch-ăfˈfrā).

=inˈci-dent= (ĭnˈsĭ-dĕnt), event.

=inˌci-vilˈi-ty= (ĭnˌsĭ-vĭlˈĭ-tĭ), impoliteness.

=in-clemˈen-cy= (ĭn-klĕmˈĕn-sĭ), extreme coldness, storminess.

=in-clinedˈ= (in-klīndˈ), sloping.

=in-comˈpa-ra-ble= (ĭn-kŏmˈpȧ-rȧ-b’l), matchless.

=in-conˌse-quenˈtial= (ĭn-kŏnˌse᷵-kwĕnˈ-shăl), unimportant.

=inˈcon-sidˌer-a-ble inˈter-val= (ĭnˈkŏn-sĭdˌẽr-ȧ-b’l ĭnˈtẽr-văl), very small space of time.

=inˌcon-sidˈer-ate= (ĭnˌkŏn-sĭdˈẽr-a᷵t), not regarding the rights or feelings of others, thoughtless, heedless.

=in-conˈstant= (ĭn-kŏnˈstănt), changeable.

=inˌcon-trolˈla-ble= (ĭnˌkŏn-trōlˈȧ-b’l), not governable.

=in-corˈpo-rate= (ĭn-kôrˈpō-rāt), to unite, combine into one body.

=inˈcrease= (ĭnˈkrēs), enlargement, growth.

=in-cumˈbrance= (ĭn-kŭmˈbrăns), hindrance.

=in-curredˈ= (ĭn-kûrdˈ), brought upon oneˈs self.

=in-curˈsion= (ĭn-kûrˈshŭn), a raid.

=inˌde-cisˈion= (ĭnˌdē-sĭzhˈŭn), want of settled purpose, hesitation.

=inˈdex= (ĭnˈdĕks), that which points out.

=Inˈdian file= (ĭnˈdĭ-ăn fīl), single file as the Indians traveled.

=Indian tiger=, meaning Indian soldiers.

=in-dicˈa-tive= (ĭn-dĭkˈȧ-tĭv), pointing out.

=in-difˈfer-ent= (ĭn-dĭfˈẽr-ĕnt), heedless, unconcerned.

=inˌdig-naˈtion= (ĭnˌdĭg-nāˈshŭn), anger mingled with disgust, rage.

=inˌdi-vidˈu-al= (ĭnˌdĭ-vĭdˈu᷵-ăl), person, single one; special.

=in-duˈbi-ta-ble= (ĭn-dūˈbĭ-tȧ-b’l), not doubtful, sure.

=in-duceˈ= (ĭn-dūsˈ), cause, influence.

=in-dulgedˈ= (ĭn-dŭljdˈ), gratified, given way to.

=in-dulˈgence= (ĭn-dŭlˈjĕns), favor granted.

=in-dulˈgent= (ĭn-dŭlˈjĕnt), kind.

=in-dusˈtri-al= (ĭn-dŭsˈtrĭ-ăl), relating to industry or labor.

=inˌef-fecˈtu-al= (ĭnˌĕ-fĕkˈtu᷵-ăl), useless, weak.

=in-esˈti-ma-ble= (ĭn-ĕsˈtĭ-mȧ-b’l), very valuable, priceless.

=in-evˈi-ta-ble= (ĭn-ĕvˈĭ-tȧ-b’l), unavoidable.

=in-exˈo-ra-ble= (ĭn-ĕkˈsō-rȧ-b’l), unyielding.

=in ex-tremeˈ form= (ĕks-trēmˈ fôrm), in fine physical condition.

=in-exˈtri-ca-ble= (ĭn-ĕksˈtrĭ-kȧ-b’l), incapable of being disentangled or untied.

=in-falˈli-ble= (ĭn-fălˈlĭ-b’l), not capable of erring.

=inˈfa-mous= (ĭnˈfȧ-mŭs), disgraceful.

=in-ferˈnal= (ĭn-fûrˈnăl), deadly, tiresome.

=in-festˈ= (ĭn-fĕstˈ), plagued by many.

=inˈfi-del= (ĭnˈfĭ-dĕl), unbeliever.

=inˈfi-nite= (ĭnˈfĭ-nĭt), endless; all embracing.

=in-firˈmi-ty= (ĭn-fûrˈmĭ-tĭ), weakness.

=in-flexˈi-ble= (ĭn-flĕkˈsĭ-b’l), firm, unyielding.

=in-flictˈed= (ĭn-flĭktˈĕd), caused.

=Inˈgel-ram de Umˈphra-ville= (ĭnˈgĕl-rȧm da᷵ ŭmˈfrȧ-vĭl).

=in-genˈious-ly= (ĭn-jēnˈyŭs-lĭ), cleverly.

=inˌge-nuˈi-ty= (ĭnˌje᷵-nūˈĭ-tĭ), cleverness in design.

=in-genˈu-ous-ly= (ĭn-jĕnˈu᷵-ŭs-lĭ), frankly, sincerely.

=in-graˈti-atˌing= (ĭn-grāˈshĭ-ātˌĭng), pleasing.

=in-gratˈi-tude= (ĭn-grătˈĭ-tūd), ungratefulness.

=in-habˈits in-difˈfer-ent-ly= (ĭn-hăbˈĭts ĭn-dĭfˈẽr-ĕnt-lĭ), dwells in a manner not interested.

=in-herˈit-ance= (ĭn-hĕrˈĭ-tăns), a possession which passes by descent, something inherited.

=in-imˈi-ta-ble= (ĭn-ĭmˈĭ-tȧ-b’l), not capable of being imitated, surpassingly excellent.

=in-iˈtial= (ĭn-ĭshˈȧl), beginning.

=in league with evil=, in partnership with wickedness.

=inˌno-vaˈtion= (ĭnˌō-vāˈshŭn), change.

=inˌnu-enˈdoes= (ĭnˌu᷵-ĕnˈdōz), hints.

=in-quirˈy= (ĭn-kwīrˈĭ), question.

=in-scribedˈ= (ĭn-skrībdˈ), written on.

=in-scruˈta-ble= (ĭn-skro̅o̅ˈtȧ-b’l), not able to be understood.

=in-senˈsi-ble= (ĭn-sĕnˈsĭ-b’l), without sensation.

=in-sepˈa-ra-ble= (ĭn-sĕpˈȧ-rȧ-b’l), closely united; not separate.

=in-sidˈi-ous= (ĭn-sĭdˈĭ-ŭs), deceitful, crafty.

=in-sigˈni-a= (ĭn-sĭgˈnĭ-ȧ), emblem, distinguishing marks of authority or honor.

=in-sinˈu-atˌing= (ĭn-sĭnˈu᷵-ātˌĭng), suggestive, indirect.

=in-sipˈid= (ĭn-sĭpˈĭd), flat.

=inˈso-lence= (ĭnˈsō-lĕns), insult.

=in-specˈtion= (ĭn-spĕkˈshŭn), investigation, act of looking over.

=inˈstant-ly echˈoed= (ĭnˈstănt-lĭ ĕkˈōd), repeated.

=inˈsti-gate= (ĭnˈstĭ-gāt), to stir up.

=inˈstinct= (ĭnˈstĭnkt), natural feeling.

=in-stincˈtive-ly= (ĭn-stĭnkˈtĭv-lĭ), naturally.

=inˈsuf-fiˌcient= (ĭnˈsŭ-fĭshˌĕnt), not capable.

=inˈsu-latˌed= (ĭnˈsu᷵-lātˌĕd), separated.

=in-surˈgent= (ĭn-sûrˈgĕnt), rebel.

=in-tactˈ= (ĭn-tăktˈ), untouched, whole.

=in-tegˈri-ty= (ĭn-tĕgˈrĭ-tĭ), uprightness, honesty.

=in-telˈli-gence was acting against= (ĭn-tĕlˈĭ-jĕns), understanding was discouraging them.

=inˌter-gra-daˈtion= (ĭnˌtẽr-grȧ-dāˈshŭn), changes through a series of grades, or forms.

=in-terˈmi-na-ble= (ĭn-tûrˈmĭ-nȧ-b’l), endless.

=inˌter-poseˈ= (ĭnˌtẽr-pōzˈ), step in.

=inˌter-po-siˈtion= (ĭnˌtẽr-pō-zĭshˈŭn), intervention.

=in-terˈpret= (ĭn-tûrˈprĕt), tell the meaning of.

=in-terˌpre-taˈtion= (ĭn-tûrˌprē-tāˈshŭn), explanation.

=inˌter-rupˈtion= (ĭnˌtẽ-rŭpˈshŭn), break, stop.

=inˈter-vals= (ĭnˈtẽr-vălz), brief spaces of time; here and there.

=in the lines=, in the boundaries or limits of the estate, in the rows.

=in the teeth of the sleet=, with faces turned in the direction in which the sleet was falling.

=inˈti-mate= (ĭnˈtĭ-ma᷵t), close, confidential.

=in-toxˌi-caˈtion= (ĭn-tŏksˌĭ-kāˈshŭn), delirium, feeling of delight.

=inˈtri-ca-cies= (ĭnˈtrĭ-kȧ-sĭz), entanglements, complexities.

=in-trudˈed= (ĭn-tro̅o̅dˈĕd), invaded.

=in-truˈsive polˈi-cy= (ĭn-tro̅o̅ˈsĭv pŏlˈĭ-sĭ), scheme or method of entering without right or welcome.

=in-uredˈ= (ĭn-ūrdˈ), accustomed.

=in-valˈid= (ĭn-vălˈĭd), illegal.

=in-vaˈri-a-ble= (ĭn-vāˈrĭ-ȧ-b’l), unchanging, constant.

=in-venˈtion= (ĭn-vĕnˈshŭn), originality, faculty of inventing.

=in-vestˈed= (ĭn-vĕstˈĕd), surrounded or hemmed in with troops or ships.

=in-vesˌti-gaˈtion= (ĭn-vĕsˌtĭ-gāˈshŭn), research, following up.

=in-vetˈer-ate= (ĭn-vĕtˈẽr-a᷵t), habitual.

=in-vinˈci-ble= (ĭn-vĭnˈsĭ-b’l), unconquerable.

=in-viˈo-late= (ĭn-vīˈō-la᷵t), uninjured.

=in-volˈun-tary= (ĭn-vŏlˈŭn-ta᷵-rĭ), without control of will, unwillingly.

=in-volvedˈ= (ĭn-vŏlvdˈ), enveloped, entangled.

=in-volvedˈ in the shalˈlows= (ĭn-vŏlvdˈ in the shălˈōz), mixed up in the shallow places.

=i-rasˈci-ble= (ī-răsˈĭ-b’l), easily provoked to anger, fiery, hasty.

=ire= (īr), anger.

=irˌre-sistˈible= (ĭrˌe᷵-zĭsˈtĭ-b’l), overpowering.

=ir-resˌo-luˈtion= (ĭ-rĕzˌō-lūˈshŭn), doubt, uncertainty.

=ir-revˈer-ent= (ĭ-rĕvˈẽr-ĕnt), disrespectful.

=ir-revˈo-ca-ble= (ĭ-rĕvˈōkȧ-b’l), unchangeable, past recall.

=irˌri-ta-ble= (ĭrˌĭ-tȧ-b’l), touchy, fretful.

=irˌri-taˈtion= (ĭrˌĭ-tāˈshŭn), excitement of impatience, anger; or passion; annoyance, anger.

=ir-rupˈtion= (ĭ-rŭpˈshŭn), a sudden and violent inroad or invasion.

=iˌso-laˈtion= (īˌsō-lāˈshŭn), being alone, separate from others.

=isˈsue= (ĭshˈū), outcome, result.

=issˈued on the praiˈrie= (ĭshˈūd on the prāˈrĭ), came forth on the prairie.

=i-tinˈer-ant= (ī-tĭnˈẽr-ănt), wandering.

=jagˈger-y= (jăgˈẽr-ĭ), a coarse brown sugar.

=Ja-iˈrus= (ja᷵-īˈrŭs), Luke VIII, 49-56.

=jasˈmine= (jăsˈmĭn), a shrub bearing flowers of a peculiarly fragrant odor.

=jasˈper= (jăsˈpẽr), a kind of quartz.

=jaunt= (jänt; jônt), a short excursion for pleasure.

=jealˈous rage= (jĕlˈŭs), selfish anger.

=jeopˈard-y= (jĕpˈȧr-dĭ), risk.

=Je-ruˈsa-lem= (je᷵-ro̅o̅ˈsȧ-lĕm), the chief city of Palestine, closely associated with the life and death of Jesus Christ.

=jesˈsa-mine= (jĕsˈȧ-mĭn), same as jasmine.

=Joan= (jōn), short for Joanna.

=jockˈey= (jŏkˈĭ), a professional rider of horses in races.

=jocˈund= (jŏkˈŭnd), merry.

=jogˈging= (jŏgˈĭng), moving slowly.

=john’s-wort=, St. John’s-wort, a small plant having yellow flowers.

=joinˈer= (joinˈẽr), one who repairs furniture.

=jourˈnal-ist= (jûrˈnăl-ĭst), one who writes for a public journal.

=jousts= (jŭsts; jo̅o̅sts), combats on horseback between two knights with lances.

=ju-diˈcious-ly= (jo̅o̅-dĭshˈŭs-lĭ), wisely.

=junˈgle= (jŭnˈg’l), land overgrown with brushwood.

=jungle-serpent=, meaning Indian soldiers.

=juˈror= (jo̅o̅ˈrẽr), member of a jury, one of a number of men sworn to deliver a verdict as a body.

=juˈry-mast= (jo̅o̅ˈrĭ mȧst), temporary mast.

=jusˌti-fi-caˈtion= (jŭsˌtĭ-fĭ-kāˈshŭn), defense, support.

=Kaˈla Nag= (käˈlȧ näg).

=keel= (kēl), the timber or combination of timbers supporting a vessel’s framework.

=keel the pot=, to skim or stir, as to prevent boiling over.

=Khe-diveˈ= (kĕ-dēvˈ), the governor of Egypt.

=Kieldˈholm= (kēldˈhōm).

=Kil-drumˈmie= (kĭl-drŭmˈmĭ).

=Kil-menˈy= (kĭl-mĕnˈĭ).

=kinˈdred= (kĭnˈdrĕd), family.

=King Log=, a character in one of Aesopˈs fables.

=King Solomon=, a Biblical king of great magnificence. I Kings I, 32-40.

=kinˌni-kin-nicˈ= (kĭnˌĭ-kĭ-nĭkˈ), the red bearberry.

=kinsˈman= (kĭnzˈmăn), a relative.

=Kirchˈer= (kĭrkˈẽr), a Jesuit scientist.

=knave= (nāv), rascal.

=knee-hal-tered= (nȧ-hălˈtẽrd), haltered or tied at the knees.

=knell= (nĕl), stroke or sound of a bell.

=Knickˈer-bockˈer, Dieˈdrick= (dēˈdrĭk nĭkˈẽr-bŏkˈẽr).

=knightly exercises=, practice for knighthood.

=knocked down=, sold at auction.

=knolled= (nōld), summoned by a bell.

=la-boˈri-ous= (lȧ-bōˈrĭ-ŭs), toilsome.

=labˈy-rinth= (lăbˈĭ-rĭnth), a place full of passageways which make it difficult to find the way out; confusion.

=labˈy-rinth of whims= (lăbˈĭ-rĭnth), a confusion of notions hard to understand.

=lackˈing= (lăkˈĭng), not there.

=ladˈing= (lādˈĭng), load, cargo.

=lair= (lâr), bed.

=Lanˈca-shire= (lănˈkȧ-shẽr), a northwestern county of England.

=landˈmarkˌ= (lăndˈmärkˌ), any object that marks a locality or serves as a guide.

=Land Office=, a government office in which the sales of public land are registered.

=landˈscape= (lăndˈskāp), a portion of land which the eye can see in a single glance.

=lanˈguor= (lănˈgẽr), dullness, lack of life.

=lappˈped in quiet= (lăpt), wrapped in quiet, or stillness.

=lapse= (lăps), a slip, a passing.

=larˈboard= (lärˈbōrd; bẽrd), the left-hand side of a ship to one on board facing toward the bow, port.

=larˈgess= (lärˈjĕs), gift.

=larˈi-at= (lărˈĭ-ăt), long, small rope of hemp or hide with a running noose, used for catching cattle or horses.

=lashˈing= (lăshˈĭng), striking.

=lashˈings= (lăshˈĭngz), cords, ropes.

=latˈer-al= (lătˈẽr-ăl), sidewise.

=latˈi-tude= (lătˈĭ-tūd), distance north or south of the equator.

=latˈtice= (lătˈĭs), a kind of framework, made by crossing thin strips so as to form a network.

=laudˈa-ble= (lôdˈȧ-b’l), praiseworthy.

=laudˈing= (lôdˈing), praising.

=launch= (länch; lônch), fling out; set afloat.

=lauˈrel= (lôˈrĕl), a shrub or tree, with fragrant leaves.

=La-vaineˈ= (lä-vānˈ).

=lavˈish= (lăvˈĭsh), generous.

=lay= (lā), not of the clergy.

=lay-to=, to lie head to windward without moving, except for drift.

=lazˌa-reetˈ=, for =lazˌa-retˈto=, in sailor’s language, a place near the stern of some merchant vessels, used as a storehouse.

=league= (lēg), a measure of distance varying for different times and countries from about 2.4 to 4.6 miles; combination for mutual support.

=leagued= (lēgd), united.

=leave= (lēv), permission.

=led horse= (lĕd), an extra horse.

=lee of a boulˈder= (bōlˈdẽr), sheltered side of a boulder or rock.

=leek= (lēk), a plant resembling the onion.

=leeˈward= (lēˈwẽrd; lēˈẽrd), the part or side of the ship opposite to the direction from which the wind blows; sheltered.

=legˈa-cy= (lĕgˈȧ-sĭ), a gift, something coming from an ancestor or predecessor.

=legˈend= (lĕjˈĕnd; lēˈjĕnd), a story that has been handed down.

=legˈend-a-ry= (lĕjˈĕn-da᷵-rĭ), fabulous, traditional.

=le-gitˈi-mate= (le᷵-jĭtˈĭ-māt), lawful.

=leiˈsure= (lēˈzhu᷵r), time free from work.

=Le Morte D’Arthur= (lĕ môrt därˈthẽr), French for =the death of Arthur=.

=Le-odˈo-gran= (lā-ŏdˈō-grăn).

=lepˈro-sy= (lĕpˈrō-sĭ), an incurable disease.

=le-tharˈgic= (le᷵-thärˈjĭk), heavy with sleep.

=lethˈar-gy= (lĕthˈȧr-jĭ), continued or profound sleep; state of inaction.

=likeˈli-est= (līkˈlĭ-ĕst), fittest.

=Liˈma Town= (lēˈmä), in Peru.

=limˌi-taˈtion= (lĭmˌĭ-tāˈshŭn), that which confines within limits.

=Linˈcoln-shire= (lĭnˈkŭn-shẽr), a county in England.

=linˈe-age= (lĭnˈe᷵-a᷵j), descent, family.

=linˈe-al= (lĭnˈe᷵-ăl), descending in a direct line.

=linˈnet= (lĭnˈĕt), a common small finch.

=Liˈon-el= (līˈŭn-ĕl).

=Liˈo-nesˌ= (lēˈō-nĕsˌ).

=linˈsey-woolˈsey= (lĭnˈzĭ-wo͡olˈzĭ), coarse cloth made of linen and wool.

=lists= (lĭsts), chooses, likes; the field of knightly combat.

=literal and metaphorical= (lĭtˈẽr-ăl, mĕtˈȧ-fôrˈĭ-kăl), speaking according to both fact and figure.

=litˈer-al-ly= (lĭtˈẽr-ăl-lĭ), word by word.

=litˈer-a-ture= (lĭtˈẽr-ȧ-tu᷵r), the class of writings of a given country, or period, or people, which is notable for form or expression.

=Lithˈgow= (lĭthˈgō), a town near Edinburgh.

=litˈter= (lĭtˈẽr), a stretcher so arranged with poles at the sides that a sick or wounded person may easily be carried on it.

=liveˈlongˌ= (lĭvˈlŏngˌ), whole.

=livˈer of his soul=, most loved possession.

=loadˈstoneˌ= (lōdˈstōnˌ), magnet.

=loath= (lōth), unwilling.

=loch= (lŏk), a lake.

=Loch-gyleˈ= (lŏk-gīlˈ).

=Loch-ielˈ= (lŏk-ēlˈ).

=Locke, John=, English philosopher (1632-1704).

=lockˈer= (lŏkˈẽr), a chest or compartment for stowing anything snugly.

=lodge-pole= (lŏj-pōl), a long, slender pole used in setting up a tent.

=Lo-foˈden= (lō-fōˈdĕn), a group of islands off the coast of northern Norway.

=loftˈi-est= (lŏftˈĭ-ĕst), highest.

=Log= (lŏg), the full nautical record of a ship’s voyage.

=logˈic= (lŏjˈĭk), reason.

=lolled= (lŏld), hung.

=lonˌgi-tuˈdi-nal= (lŏnˌjĭ-tūˈdĭ-năl), running lengthwise.

=’longˈshore lub-bers= (lŏngˈshōr lŭbˈbẽrz), people used to staying on shore.

=long-vanˈished=, long disappeared.

=loom= (lo̅o̅m), appearance of exaggerated size.

=loomˈing= (lo̅o̅mˈĭng), appearing.

=loosed= (lo̅o̅st) =storm breaks furiously=, the storm that has been released, breaks angrily.

=Lord Naˈpi-er= (nāˈpĭ-ẽr).

=lore= (lōr), wisdom, knowledge.

=loˈsel= (lōˈzĕl), a worthless person.

=Los Muerˈtos= (lōs mĕrˈtōs).

=lot is cast with men=, your life must be led among men.

=louˈis d’or= (lo̅o̅ˈē dōr), a former gold coin of France.

=loungˈing= (lounjˈĭng), idling, reclining.

=lour=, frown, to look threatening.

=loyˈal-ty= (loiˈăl-tĭ), faithfulness.

=lubˈber-ly= (lŭbˈẽr-lĭ), like a clumsy fellow, ignorant of seamanship.

=Luˈcan= (lūˈkăn).

=luckless starrˈd=, born under an unlucky star; unfortunate.

=Luckˈnowˌ= (lŭkˈnouˌ), a city in India.

=luˈcra-tive= (lūˈkrȧ-tĭv), making money, profitable.

=luˈdi-crous= (lūˈdĭ-krŭs), ridiculous, comical.

=lugˈsailˌ= (lŭgˈsālˌ), a four-sided sail without a boom.

=lu-guˈbri-ous= (lu᷵-gūˈbrĭ-ŭs), mournful.

=lulled= (lŭld), quieted.

=lumˈber-ing= (lŭmˈbẽr-ĭng), bulky, rumbling.

=luˈmi-nous= (lūˈmĭ-nŭs), shining; full of light.

=lurch= (lûrch), a sudden roll to one side.

=luˈrid= (lūˈrĭd), like glowing fire seen through cloud or smoke; terrible, blazing.

=lurkˈing= (lûrkˈĭng), hidden, sneaking.

=lusˈter= (lŭsˈtẽr), brightness, glitter.

=Luˈther, Martin= (lo̅o̅ˈthẽr), a German reformer, translator of the Bible and writer of many hymns.

=lux-uˈri-ous= (lŭks-ūˈrĭ-ŭs), extravagant; with unrestrained delight.

=madˈdened= (mădˈ’nd), enraged.

=made shift=, managed, contrived.

=Maelˈstrom= (mālˈstrŏm), a whirlpool on the coast of Norway.

=magˌa-zineˈ= (măgˌȧ-zēnˈ), the place where the cartridges are put in a gun; a storehouse, granary.

=Magˈda-la= (măgˈdȧ-lȧ).

=Maˈgi= (māˈjī), the three wise men who brought gifts to the Christ child. Matt. II.

=magˈic= (măjˈĭk), sorcery, witchery, charm.

=ma-giˈcian= (mȧ-jĭshˈăn), one skilled in magic.

=magˈis-tra-cy= (măjˈĭs-trȧ-sĭ), office of a magistrate or public officer.

=magˌna-nimˈi-ty= (măgˌnȧ-nĭmˈĭ-tĭ), great minded, raised above what is ungenerous.

=mag-nanˈi-mous= (măg-nănˈĭ-mŭs), unselfish.

=magˈni-tude= (măgˈnĭ-tūd), greatness, size.

=mag-noˈli-a= (măg-nōˈlĭ-ȧ), a genus of trees having aromatic bark and large fragrant white, pink, or purple blossoms.

=ma-houtˈ= (mȧ-houtˈ), the keeper and driver of an elephant.

=main= (mān), the great sea.

=main-tainedˈ= (mān-tāndˈ), kept, held.

=mainˈte-nance= (mānˈte᷵-năns), support.

=Ma-layˈ= (mȧ-lā; māˈlā), a native of the Malayan peninsula, the extreme south end of the mainland of Asia, or of the neighboring islands.

=ma-levˈo-lent= (mȧ-lĕvˈō-lĕnt), wishing evil.

=malˈice= (mălˈĭs), ill will.

=malˈlet= (mălˈlĕt), a wooden hammer.

=Malˈor-y, Sir Thomas= (mălˈō-rĭ).

=Mal-teseˈ= (môl-tēzˈ), a native of Malta, an island in the Mediterranean sea, south of Sicily.

=manˈage-a-ble= (mănˈa᷵j-ȧ-b’l), governable.

=manˈdate= (mănˈda᷵t), command, order.

=manˈgle= (mănˈg’l), spoil, injure, mutilate.

=maˈni-a= (māˈnĭ-ȧ), madness, violent desire, craze.

=maˈni-ac= (māˈnĭ-ăk), a madman.

=manˌi-fes-taˈtion= (mănˌĭ-fĕs-tāˈshŭn), revelation, disclosure.

=manˈi-fest-ly= (mănˈĭ-fĕst-lĭ), clearly, plainly.

=manˈi-fold= (mănˈĭ-fōld), numerous.

=manly motive and sustainment= (mōˈtĭv, sŭs-tānˈmĕnt), strength to face a situation bravely.

=manned= (mănd), supplied with men for a crew.

=manˈor= (mănˈẽr), house or hall of an estate.

=ma-raudˈer= (mȧ-rôdˈẽr), plunderer.

=Mareˈschal= (märˈshăl), general, commander-in-chief.

=Mare Tenˈe-braˈrum= (mäˈrĕ tĕnˈe᷵-bräˈrŭm), Latin words meaning sea of darkness.

=markˈing time= (märkˈĭng), moving of the feet alternately.

=mart= (märt), contraction of market.

=marˈtial= (märˈshăl), warlike.

=marˈtin= (märˈtĭn), kind of bird.

=Martˈling, Dofˈfue= (märtˈlĭng, dŏfˈfū).

=marˈvel= (märˈvĕl), wonder.

=Maseˈfield, John= (māsˈfēld).

=mask= (măsk), hide.

=maˈson-ry= (māˈs’n-rĭ), work of a mason.

=massˈa-cre= (mȧsˈă-kẽr), the murder of human beings in numbers.

=Masˈsa-soit= (măsˈȧ-soit), father of King Philip, a Wampanoag sachem.

=masˈsive= (mȧsˈĭv), heavy, weighty, bulky.

=matchˈlock= (măchˈlŏk), an old style gun.

=maˌteˈri-al enˈer-gy= (mȧˌtēˈrĭ-ăl ĕnˈĕr-jĭ), physical power.

=ma-terˈnal= (mȧ-tûrˈnăl), motherly, relating to a mother.

=mathˌe-ma-tiˈcian= (măthˌe᷵-mȧ-tĭshˈăn), one versed in the science of mathematics.

=Mathˈer, Cotton= (măthˈẽr), an American clergyman and author of a church history of America. He took an active part in the persecutions for witchcraft, carried on in New England.

=matˈtock= (mătˈŭk), an implement for digging and grubbing.

=ma-tureˈly= (mȧ-tūr-lĭ), completely.

=mauˈger= (môˈgẽr), in spite of.

=maulˈing= (môlˈĭng), beating.

=maunˈder= (mônˈdẽr; mänˈdẽr), mumble, mutter.

=maxˈim= (măkˈsĭm), proverb.

=May bedecks the naked trees=, May causes the flowers and leaves to come forth on the bare trees.

=mayˈflowˌer=, the trailing arbutus.

=McCraeˈ, John D.= (krā).

=mead= (mēd), meadow.

=me-anˈder= (me᷵-ănˈdẽr), to wind.

=measˈured in cups of ale= (mĕzhˈu᷵rd), counted the length (of the story) by the number of cups drunk.

=meat= (mēt), a meal.

=me-chanˈi-cal-ly= (me᷵-kănˈĭ-kăl-ĭ), like a machine.

=me-chanˈics= (me᷵-kănˈĭks), those who work with machinery or in the making of machinery.

=medˈdling= (mĕdˈ’lĭng), busying oneself, interfering with.

=mevdi-ocˈri-ty= (mēˌdĭ-ŏkˈrĭ-tĭ), common quality, average.

=medˈi-tate= (mĕdˈĭ-tāt), muse or ponder, think over again and again.

=medˈley= (mĕdˈlĭ), mixture.

=Me-doˈra= (mē-dōˈră).

=meetˈly= (mētˈlĭ), fitly.

=melˈan-cho-ly= (mĕlˈăn-kŏl-ĭ), mournful, sad, depressed; sadness.

=memˈoir= (mĕmˈwŏr; wär), an account of events as remembered or gathered from certain sources by the writer.

=memˈor-a-ble= (mĕmˈōr-ȧ-b’l), remarkable, notable, worthy of remembrance.

=menˈace= (mĕnˈa᷵s), threaten.

=menˈdi-can-cy= (mĕnˈdĭ-kăn-sĭ), state of being a beggar.

=men of my blood=, fellow Englishmen.

=men of worˈship=, men to be respected.

=men-talˈi-ty= (mĕn-tălˈĭ-tĭ), state of mind.

=merˈce-na-ry= (mûrˈse᷵-na᷵-rĭ), hired soldiers in the service of a country other than their own.

=merˈcu-ry= (mûrˈku᷵-rĭ), quicksilver, a heavy metal, liquid at all ordinary temperatures, used in barometers.

=Merˈcu-ry= (mûrˈku᷵-rĭ), in Roman mythology the messenger of Jupiter.

=mere= (mēr), lake.

=mereˈstead= (mērˈstĕd), farm.

=merˌe-triˈcious= (mĕrˌe᷵-trĭshˈŭs), tawdry, gaudy.

=Merˈsey= (mẽrˈzĭ), a river in England.

=me-seemˈeth= (me᷵-sēmˈĕth), it seems to me.

=meshes of steel=, the steel nets used to entangle the submarines.

=messˌmate= (mĕsˌmātˈ), table companion.

=Me-ta-comˈet= (mā-tȧ-kŏmˈĕt).

=met-alˈlic= (me᷵t-tălˈĭk), resembling metal.

=metˈa-phor= (mĕtˈȧ-fẽr), a figure of speech in which the characteristics of one thing are carried over to another.

=meˈte-or flag=, flag raised high in the air.

=meteor of the ocean air=, the flag.

=Methˈven= (mĕthˈvĕn), a village near Perth.

=metˈtle= (mĕtˈ’l), spirit.

=Mi-anˌto-niˈmo= (mĭ-ănˌtō-nīˈmō), Sachem of the Narragansetts.

=Miˈdas= (mīˈdȧs), a king, in fable, whose touch turned everything to gold.

=Midˈi-an-ites= (mĭdˈĭ-ăn-īts), an Arabian tribe that made war upon the Israelites.

=mien= (mēn), manner, air.

=might not serve him hitherto=, up to that time might not allow him to.

=mighˈty tuskˈer= (mĭtˈĭ tŭsˈkẽr), elephant having large tusks.

=miˈgrate= (mīˈgrāt), to go from one place to another, to move.

=Milˈan= (mīˈlăn; mīˌlanˈ), a city, also a province, of Lombardy, Italy.

=milˈlet= (mĭlˈlĕt), any one of several grasses bearing small, roundish grains.

=mimˈic= (mĭmˈĭk), imitate.

=minˈgled= (mĭnˈg’ld), mixed, blended.

=minˈis-ter= (mĭnˈĭs-tẽr), supply.

=Miˈnor-ites= (mīˈnŏr-ītz), a Franciscan order.

=minˈstrel= (mĭnˈstrĕl), one who sang verses to the accompaniment of a harp; a poet.

=mi-nuteˈ= (mĭ-nūtˈ), very small.

=mi-racˈu-lous= (mĭ-răkˈu᷵-lŭs), wonderful.

=Mi-ranˈda= (mĭ-rănˈdä).

=mirˈy= (mīrˈĭ), covered with mud.

=misvan-thropˈic= (mĭsˌăn-thrŏpˈĭk), avoiding one’s kind; not liking mankind.

=mis-calˌcu-laˈtion= (mĭs-kălˌku᷵-lāˈshŭn), a wrong judgment.

=misˈchie-vous= (mĭsˈchĭ-vŭs), full of mischief.

=mis-givˈing= (mĭs-gĭvˈĭng), fear, distrust.

=mis-ruleˈ= (mĭs-ro̅o̅lˈ), disorder, bad government.

=mis-shapˈen= (mĭs-shāp’n), deformed, having a bad or ugly shape or form.

=misˈsile= (mĭsˈĭl), a weapon or object thrown.

=mocˈca-sin= (mŏkˈȧ-sĭn), a shoe of deer-skin, with the sole and upper cut in one piece.

=mockˈer-y= (mŏkˈẽr-ĭ), ridicule, insult; imitation.

=mode= (mōd), manner.

=modˈer-ate= (mŏdˈẽr-a᷵t), reasonable; calm.

=modˈi-cum= (mŏdˈĭ-kŭm), a little, a small quantity.

=Moˈdred= (mōˈdrĕd).

=Moˈhawks= (mōˈhôks), Indians of the principal tribe of the Iroquois Confederacy, formerly occupying the Mohawk Valley, New York.

=moˌles-taˈtion= (mōˌlĕs-tāˈshŭn), disturbance, annoyance.

=molt= (mōlt), shed, cast off.

=moˈment= (mōˈmĕnt), importance.

=moˈmen-ta-ry= (mōˈmĕn-tȧ-rĭ), short-lived.

=mo-menˈtum= (mō-mĕnˈtŭm), the force of motion in a moving body.

=monˈgrel= (mŭnˈgrĕl), of mixed origin.

=mo-notˈo-ny= (mō-nŏtˈō-nĭ), sameness, want of variety.

=monˈstrous= (mŏnˈstrŭs), marvelous, enormous.

=Mon-teithˈ= (mŏn-tēthˈ).

=mon-teˈro= (mŏn-tāˈrō), a hunting cap with flaps.

=Monˌte-zuˈma= (mŏnˌte᷵-zo̅o̅ˈmȧ), a war chief or emperor of the Aztecs in ancient Mexico.

=moodˈy= (mo̅o̅dˈĭ), gloomy, sullen.

=moor= (mo̅o̅r), sandy ground more or less marshy.

=moored= (mo̅o̅rd), tied, fastened.

=moose= (mo̅o̅s), a large animal of the deer family.

=morˈal-izving= (mŏrˈăl-īzˌĭng), thinking about the meaning of life, drawing morals.

=mo-rassˈ= (mō-răsˈ), swamp.

=morˈsel= (môrˈsĕl), a little piece.

=morˈtal= (môrˈtăl), subject to death; causing death.

=mortal means=, human ways.

=morˌti-fi-caˈtion= (môrˌtĭ-fĭ-kāˈshŭn), shame, humiliation.

=Moˈses= (mōˈzĕz), the character in the Bible who led the Children of Israel through the Wilderness to the Promised Land. Exodus I.

=Mosˈkoe-strom= (mŏsˈkō-strŏm).

=Mosˈlem mosque= (mŏzˈlĕm mŏsk), a Mohammedan place of worship.

=Moˈti Guj= (mōˈtĭ go̅o̅j).

=moˈtive= (mōˈtĭv), cause, reason, object.

=motˈtled= (mŏtˈl’d), spotted.

=mounˈtain-men= (mounˈtĭn), men who live in mountainous regions.

=Mount Helˈi-con= (mount hĕlˈĭ-kŏn).

=Mount Par-nasˈsus= (mount pär-năsˈŭs), a mountain in Greece, sacred to Apollo and the Muses.

=mouthˈings= (mouthˈĭngz), excited talking, ravings.

=moy dore, moiˈdore= (moiˈdōr), a gold coin of Portugal.

=mufˈfled= (mŭfˈl’d), wrapped up closely.

=Mulatas Cays= (mo̅o̅-läˈtȧs kās).

=mule deer= (mūl dēr), a long-eared deer of western North America.

=mu-seˈum= (mu᷵-zēˈŭm), a collection of natural, scientific, or literary curiosities, or of works of art.

=musˈing= (mūzˈĭng), thinking, mediating.

=musˈket-eersˈ= (mŭsˈkĕt-ērz), soldiers armed with muskets.

=Musˈsul-mans= (mŭsˈŭl-mănz), Mohammedans.

=musˈter= (mŭsˈtẽr), the sum total of a body or ship’s company; assembly for parade; show, display; to collect.

=muˈta-ble= (mūˈtȧ-b’l), changeable.

=muˌti-neerˈ= (mūˌtĭ-nērˈ), one who refuses to obey lawful authority.

=muˈti-ny= (mūˈtĭ-nĭ), insurrection against, or refusal to obey authority.

=muˈtu-al= (mūˈtu᷵-ăl), common.

=muzˈzle= (mŭzˈ’l), mouth.

=my heart giveth unto you=, my liking for you tells me.

=myn-heerˈ= (mīn-hār; mĭn-hērˈ), the Dutch term for =mister=.

=myrˈi-ad-handˈed= (mĭrˈĭ-ăd-hăndˈĕd), thousand-handed.

=mysˈter-y= (mĭsˈtẽr-ĭ), profound secret.

=myth= (mĭth), imaginary person.

=Narˌra-ganˈsets= (nărˌȧ-gănˈsĕts), a tribe of Algonquian Indians formerly dwelling about Narragansett Bay in Rhode Island.

=nar-rateˈ= (nă-rātˈ), relate, tell.

=narˈra-tive= (nărˈȧ-tĭv), story, account.

=natˈu-ral hisˈto-ry= (nătˈu᷵-răl hĭsˈtō-rĭ), the study of animals and their habits.

=natˈu-ral-ist= (nătˈū-răl-ĭst), a student of natural history, especially of the natural history of animals.

=natˌu-ral provˈen-der= (nătˌu᷵-răl prŏvˈĕn-dẽr), usual food.

=navˈi-gate= (năvˈĭ-gāt), to journey on, to travel by water.

=Naˈzim= (näˈzĭm).

=ne-cesˈsi-tate= (ne᷵-sĕsˈĭ-tāt), make necessary.

=ne-cesˈsi-ty= (ne᷵-sĕsˈĭ-tĭ), need.

=necessity was upon them=, they needed, were obliged to.

=necˈro-manˌcy= (nĕkˈrō-mănˌsĭ), the art of revealing the future by communication with the spirits of the dead.

=Nelˈson, Ho-raˈtio= (1758-1805), a great English admiral.

=nestˈling= (nĕstˈlĭng), young bird.

=never a prophet so crazy=, never a foreteller of events so excited, or distracted with eager desire.

=Newˈcasˌtle= (nūˈkȧsˌ’l), a manufacturing city in the north of England.

=New-eˈra Elˈli-a= (nū-ēˈrȧ ĕlˈlĭ-ȧ).

=New South Shetland= (shĕtˈlănd), archipelago, in the Antarctic Ocean, near Cape Horn.

=Newˈton, Sir Isaac=, an English philosopher and mathematician (1642-1727).

=nice= (nīs), discriminating, exacting.

=niche= (nĭch), a hollow or recess, generally within the thickness of a wall, for a statue or bust.

=Nicholas Nickleby= (nĭkˈō-lȧs nĭk’l-bĭ).

=Nieuw-Nederlandts=, Dutch for New Netherlands.

=Niˈgel= (nīˈgĕl).

=nigˈgard-ly= (nīgˈȧrd-lĭ), stingy.

=nightˈrack=, night wreckage.

=nine at night=, nine o’clock.

=Nipˈmuck= (nĭpˈmŭk).

=nobly proportioned=, of great build.

=noised abroad=, told abroad.

=nomˈi-nal= (nŏmˈĭ-năl), not real or actual.

=noonˈing= (no̅o̅nˈĭng), noontime.

=northˈer= (nôrˈthĕr), a wind from the north.

=North-gaˈlis= (nôrth-gāˈlĭs).

=North-umˈber-land= (nôr-thŭmˈbẽr-lănd).

=Nor-weˈgian= (nŏr-wēˈjăn), pertaining to Norway, a country of northern Europe.

=noˈtion= (nōˈshŭn), fancy, imagination.

=notˌwith-standˈing= (nŏtˌwĭth-stănˈdĭng), although.

=novˈel= (nŏvˈĕl), new, unusual.

=Nuˈbi-an ge-ogˈra-pher= (nūˈbĭ-ȧn je᷵-ogˈ-rȧ-fẽr). Poe in all probability refers to the African geographer, Ptolemy.

=nugˈget= (nŭgˈĕt), a native lump of precious metal.

=nupˈtials= (nŭpˈshălz), marriage.

=obˈe-lisk= (ŏbˈe᷵-lĭsk), an upright, pointed, four-sided pillar.

=ob-liqueˈly= (ŏb-lēkˈlĭ), slantingly.

=oˈboe= (ōˈboi), a wind instrument.

=obˌser-vaˈtion= (ŏbˌzẽr-vāˈshŭn), taking notice; the ascertaining of the altitude of a heavenly body to find a vessel’s position at sea.

=obˈsta-cle= (ŏbˈstȧ-k’l), hindrance.

=obˈsti-na-cy= (ŏbˈstĭ-nȧ-sĭ), stubbornness.

=obˈsti-nate-ly main-tainedˈ= (ŏbˈstĭ-nāt-lĭ mān-tāndˈ), stubbornly kept up.

=oc-caˈsion= (ŏ-kāˈzhŭn), occurrence, favorable opportunity.

=oˈcean-warˈri-ors= (ōˈshŭn-wôrˈyẽrz), mariners.

=Ock-la-waˈha= (ŏk-lä-wäˈhä), a branch of the St. Johns river in Florida.

=ode= (ōd), a short poem suitable to be set to music or sung.

=of-fenˈsive war= (ŏf-ĕnˈsĭv), an attack made by an invading army.

=ofˈfice= (ŏfˈĭs), service.

=offˈing= (ŏfˈĭng), that part of the sea where there is deep water and no need of a pilot.

=of his own caste= (kȧst), of his own class in society.

=Og, King of Bashan= (ŏg, king of bāˈshăn), a giant defeated by the Hebrews. Deuteronomy III.

=oˈgling= (ōˈglĭng), glancing at, eyeing.

=Old Noll= (nōl), Oliver Cromwell.

=olˈy-koekˌ= (ŏlˈĭ-ko͡okˌ), kind of doughnut.

=oˈmen= (ōˈmĕn), sign, foreboding.

=omˈi-nous= (ŏmˈĭ-nŭs), foreboding, threatening evil.

=onˈer-ous= (ŏnˈẽr-ŭs), burdensome.

=oph-thalˈmi-a= (ŏf-thălˈmĭ-ȧ), inflammation of the membrane of the eye.

=opˌpor-tuneˈly= (ŏpˌŏr-tūnˈlĭ), timely.

=op-presˈsion= (ŏ-prĕshˈŭn), cruelty.

=op-pressˈive= (ŏ-prĕsˈĭv), unjustly severe.

=opˈu-lence= (ŏpˈu᷵-lẽns), wealth.

=orb= (ôrb), a spherical body, globe.

=or-dainedˈ= (ŏr-dāndˈ), appointed.

=orˈdi-na-ries= (ôrˈdĭ-na᷵-rĭz), hotels.

=ordˈnance= (ôrdˈnăns), cannon, artillery.

=orˈgy= (ôrˈjĭ), drunken revelry.

=Orkˈney= (ôrkˈnĭ), a county in Scotland, including the Orkney Islands.

=orˈner-y= (ôrˈnẽr-ĭ), dialect for =ordinary=, bad-tempered.

=orˌni-tholˈo-gy= (ôrˌnĭ-thŏlˈō-jĭ), the study of birds.

=ortˈa-gues= (ôrtˈȧ-gūz), Spanish coins.

=orˈtho-dox= (ôrˈthō-dŏks), sound of belief, approved.

=Otˈter-holm= (ŏtˈẽr-hōm).

=oust= (oust), to take away, remove.

=outˈlawˈ= (outˈlôˈ), one deprived of the protection of the law.

=outˈline= (outˈlīn), edge.

=out-stayˈing= (out-stāˈĭng), staying beyond.

=oˈver-haulˈ= (ōˈvẽr-hôlˈ), overtake.

=owed him a grudge=, held it against him deservedly.

=pace= (pās), walk over.

=pacˈi-fied= (păsˈĭ-fīd), quieted, smoothed over.

=padˈdy= (pădˈĭ), unhusked rice.

=paˈgan= (pāˈgăn), one who worships false gods, a heathen.

=page= (pāj), a youth undergoing training for knighthood.

=pagˈeant= (păjˈĕnt), a spectacle, a stately or showy parade, often with floats.

=pain of a fearful curse=, threatening dire punishment.

=paintˈed shell=, the ship.

=Paisˈley= (pāzˈlĭ), a city near Glasgow, Scotland.

=palˈfrey= (pălˈfrĭ), saddle horse for a lady.

=palˈing= (pālˈĭng), fence.

=palˈlet= (pălˈĕt), a small mean bed, a bed of straw.

=palˈlid= (pălˈĭd), pale.

=Pallˈ Mallˈ= (pĕlˈ mĕlˈ; pălˈ mălˈ), in London, a street which is the center of fashionable club life.

=palm-tree todˈdy= (päm-trē tŏˈdĭ), free or fermented sap of various East Indian palms.

=Pal-omˈi-des= (păl-ŏmˈĭ-dĕz).

=palˈsy= (pôlˈzĭ), paralysis, lack of energy.

=palˈtry= (pôlˈtrĭ), trifling, worthless.

=pangs= (pāngz), keen, intense pain.

=panˈic= (pănˈĭk), sudden fright.

=panˈo-raˈma= (pănˈō-räˈmȧ), a complete view in every direction.

=pant= (pȧnt), to breathe quickly or in a labored manner.

=pa-radeˈ= (pȧ-rādˈ), display.

=Parˈa-guay= (părˈȧ-gwā), a republic in South America.

=Paˈri-an= (päˈre᷵-än), from Paros, a small island in the Aegean Sea from which a beautiful white marble was obtained in ancient times.

=parˈley= (pärˈlĭ), speech; talk.

=Parˈlia-ment= (pärˈlĭ-mĕnt), the ruling body in England.

=parˈsi-mo-ny= (pärˈsĭ-mō-nĭ), stinginess.

=parˈtial-ly= (părˈshăl-ĭ), in part.

=par-ticˈu-lar-ize= (pär-tĭkˈu᷵-lȧr-īz), to mention particularly or in detail.

=particularizing manner= (pär-tĭkˈu᷵-lȧr-īzˈ-ĭng), explaining every detail.

=par-ticˈu-lar-ly= (pär-tĭkˈu᷵-lȧr-lĭ), expressly, in an especial manner.

=par-ticˈu-lars= (pär-tĭkˈu᷵-lȧrz), details.

=parˈtridge= (pärˈtrĭj), a kind of bird.

=pass= (pȧs), passage, road.

=passˈing= (pȧsˈĭng), very.

=pasˈsion= (păshˈŭn), feeling, deep interest or zeal.

=pasˈsive= (păsˈĭv), indifferent, not active.

=past musˈter-ing= (mŭsˈtẽr-ĭng), too much exhausted to tell.

=patˈent= (pȧtˈĕnt), apparent.

=pa-terˈnal= (pȧ-tûrˈnăl), pertaining to a father.

=paˈthos= (pāˈthŏs), pity.

=paˈtri-arch= (pātrĭ-ärk), veteran, an old man.

=pa-trolˈ= (pȧ-trōlˈ), to guard, watch.

=paˈtron= (pāˈtrŭn), a man of distinction under whose protection a client placed himself; one who helps a person, cause, work, sport, or the like.

=pavˈer= (pāvˈẽr), one who lays bricks or stones.

=pa-vilˈion= (pȧ-vĭlˈyŭn), tent.

=Paw-neeˈ= (pô-nēˈ), one of an Indian tribe.

=Paw-tuckˈet= (pô-tŭkˈĕt).

=peag= (pēg), shell beads used as money, etc., by the aborigines and settlers of the Atlantic coast of North America.

=peaˈ-jackˈet= (pēˈjăkˈĕt), a thick, loose, woollen, double-breasted coat.

=peal= (pēl), a sound, loud summons.

=peasˈant= (pĕzˈănt), countryman.

=peasˈant-ry= (pĕzˈănt-rĭ), peasants.

=pe-culˈiar= (pe᷵-kūlˈyȧr), belonging to or characteristic of; strange.

=pe-culˈiar porˈtion= (pe᷵-kūlˈyȧr pôrˈshŭn), own particular share.

=Peckˈsu-ot= (pĕkˈso̅o̅-ŏt), an Indian chief.

=pe-cuˈni-a-ry= (pe᷵-kūˈnĭ-a᷵-rĭ), financial.

=pedˈa-gogue= (pĕdˈȧ-gŏg), teacher.

=pedˈi-gree= (pĕdˈĭ-grē), line of ancestors.

=peer= (pēr), equal; lord.

=Pelˈli-nore= (pĕlˈĭ-nōr).

=pelˈtries= (pĕlˈtrĭz), skins.

=penˌe-tratˈed= (pĕnˌe᷵-trātˈĕd), entered into.

=penˈe-traˌtion= (pĕnˈe᷵-trāˌshŭn), sharpness, discrimination.

=penitence was sincere= (pĕnˈĭ-tĕns, sĭn-sērˈ), were really sorry for what they had done.

=penˈi-tent= (pĕnˈĭ-tĕnt), sorrowful for offenses.

=penˈnon= (pĕnˈŭn), flag.

=penˈny-royˈal= (pĕnˈĭ-roiˈăl), a plant of the mint family.

=Penˈrith= (pĕnˈrĭth), an ancient market town in northwestern England.

=penˈsive= (pĕnˈsĭv), thoughtful, sad.

=pent= (pĕnt), shut up or confined.

=Penˈte-cost= (pĕnˈte᷵-kŏst), a festival of the Christian church observed annually in remembrance of the descent of the Holy Ghost upon the disciples; the seventh Sunday after Easter.

=peˈon= (pēˈŏn), a common laborer; a serf in some countries.

=peˈo-ny= (pēˈō-nĭ), a large, showy flower, red, pink, or pure white.

=Pequod= or =Pequot= (pēˈkwŏt; pēˈkwōt), an Algonquian tribe of North American Indians.

=perˈad-venˈture= (pĕrˈăd-vĕnˈtu᷵r), perhaps.

=per-amˈbu-laˈtion= (pĕr-ăm-bu᷵-lāˈshŭn), walk.

=per-cepˈti-ble= (pĕr-sĕpˈtĭ-b’l), able to be seen; noticeable.

=perˈemp-tor-y= (pĕrˈĕmp-tō-rĭ), final, positive.

=per-fidˈi-ous inˌsti-gaˈtion= (pẽr-fĭdˈĭ-ŭs ĭnˌstĭ-gāˈshŭn), treacherous goading.

=perˈfi-dy= (pûrˈfĭ-dĭ), treachery.

=perˈil= (pĕrˈĭl), danger.

=perˈil-ous task=, dangerous undertaking.

=perˌpen-dicˈu-lar= (pûrˌpĕn-dĭkˈu᷵-lȧr), exactly upright or vertical.

=per-plexˈi-ty= (pẽr-plĕksˈĭ-tĭ), complication.

=Perˈsant= (pĕrˈsȧnt).

=perˌse-cuˈtion= (pûrˌse᷵-kūˈshŭn), the infliction of loss, pain, or death for belief, etc.; pursuing to injure or trouble.

=perˌse-vereˈ= (pûrˌse᷵-vērˈ), to continue.

=per-sistˈed= (pẽr-sĭstˈĕd), stood firm.

=perˈson-a-ble= (pûrˈsŭn-ȧ-b’l), good looking.

=per-suaˈsive iron hooks= (pẽr-swāˈsĭv), iron hooks or goads which force.

=perˌti-naˈcious= (pûrˌtĭ-nāˈshŭs), constant.

=pe-ruseˈ= (pe᷵-ro̅o̅zˈ), read.

=per-vadeˈ= (pẽr-vādˈ), spread through.

=per-verseˈ= (pẽr-vûrsˈ), turned aside or away from the right; contrary.

=pe-tiˈtion= (pe᷵-tĭshˈŭn), written request.

=petˈty= (pĕtˈĭ), small.

=pewˈter= (pūˈtẽr), dishes made of a combination of tin and some other metal.

=phanˈtom= (fănˈtŭm), a ghost, a fancied vision.

=phase= (fāz), aspect.

=phe-nomˈe-non=, pl. =phe-nomˈe-na= (fe᷵-nŏmˈe᷵-nŏn), an extraordinary or very remarkable person, thing, or occurrence.

=phi-lanˈthro-pist= (fĭl-ănˈthrō-pĭst), one who loves mankind and seeks to promote the good of others.

=Phi-lisˈtines= (fĭ-lĭsˈtĭnz), a people dwelling southwest of Palestine who were frequently at war with the Hebrews.

=Philˈlips Exˈe-ter A-cadˈe-my= (fĭlˈĭps ĕkˈse᷵-ter ȧ-kădˈe᷵-mĭ), a preparatory school for boys in Exeter, N. H.

=phi-losˈo-phy= (fĭ-lŏsˈō-fĭ), practical wisdom.

=Phlegˈe-thon= (flĕgˈe᷵-thŏn), in Greek mythology a river of fire in the lower world.

=physˈi-cal-ly= (fĭzˈĭ-kăl-lĭ), naturally.

=physˌi-ogˈno-my= (fĭzˌĭ-ŏgˈnō-mĭ), face.

=phy-siqueˈ= (fĭ-zēkˈ), constitution.

=pi-azˈza= (pĭ-ăzˈȧ), porch.

=piˈbroch= (pēˈbrŏk), a Highland air suited to some particular passion, especially a martial air played on the bagpipe.

=pickˈet= (pĭkˈĕt), a pointed stake, or post; to fasten with stakes.

=pier-glass= (pēr), a narrow mirror put up between windows.

=piˈe-ty= (pīˈe᷵-tĭ), goodness.

=pilˈlage= (pĭlˈa᷵j), plunder.

=pilˈlion= (pĭlˈyŭn), a pad or cushion put on behind a man’s saddle for a woman to ride on.

=piˈlot= (pīˈlŭt), a person who directs the course of a ship along the shore, or into and out of harbors and rivers.

=pin= (pĭn), a piece of wood or metal, used as a fastening or support, a peg.

=pine=d (pīnd), wasted away, longed.

=pinˈion= (pĭnˈyŭn), wing.

=pinˈnace= (pĭnˈa᷵s), a small sailing vessel.

=pinˈna-cle= (pĭnˈȧ-k’l), highest point.

=pˈints=, dialect for =points=.

=piˌo-neer=ˈ (pīˌō-nērˈ), one who goes before, as into the wilderness, preparing the way for others to follow.

=pipe the merry old strain=, sing the merry old song.

=pipˈer= (pīpˈẽr), a very large genus of plants, to which the tropical pepper belongs.

=piqued= (pēkt), prided.

=pitches= (pĭchˈĕz), points, peaks.

=pitch of pride=, height of pride, overbearance.

=plaˈca-ble= (plāˈkȧ-b’l), willing to forgive.

=placˈid= (plăsˈĭd), quiet.

=plaidˈed mountaineers= (plădˈĕd mounˈtĭn-ērz), Highlanders wearing the tartans or plaids of their clan.

=plainˈtive= (plānˈtĭv), sorrowful, melancholy.

=planˈet-presˈsing ocean=, the ocean pressing upon the planet earth.

=plan-taˈtion= (plăn-tāˈshŭn), land planted, an estate, usually large.

=plantˈer= (plănˈtẽr), one who plants or sows, one who owns or cultivates a plantation.

=plasˈtic= (plăsˈtĭk), pertaining to molding or modeling.

=pla-teauˈ= (plȧ-tōˈ), a broad, level, elevated area of land.

=platˈformˌ= (plătˈfôrmˌ), plan, basis.

=platˈi-num= (plătˈĭ-nŭm), a white metal, more valuable than gold, used for jewelry and in mechanics.

=Platte= (plăt), a river in Nebraska.

=plausible in perusal= (plôˈzĭ-b’l in pe᷵-ro̅o̅zˈăl), sensible to read.

=playˈwrightˌ= (plāˈrītˌ), a maker of plays, a dramatist.

=pliˌa-bilˈi-ty= (plīˌȧ-bĭlˈĭ-tĭ), ready yielding.

=plight= (plīt), sorry condition.

=Po-casˈset Neck= (pō-căsˈĕt).

=poet lauˈre-ate= (lôˈre᷵-a᷵t), a poet appointed to the office of laureate, the most honored poet of the land, in England, the court poet.

=poignˈant= (poinˈănt), keen, severe.

=Poˌka-nokˈet= (pōˌkȧ-nŏkˈĕt).

=poˈlar bear= (pōˈlȧr bâr), a large bear inhabiting the Arctic regions.

=po-litˈi-cal ex-isˈten-ces= (pō-lĭtˈĭ-kăl ĕks-ĭsˈtĕn-sĭz), governmental life.

=polˌi-tiˈcian= (pŏlˌĭ-tĭshˈăn), a statesman, one interested in politics.

=polˈi-tics= (pŏlˈĭ-tĭks), the science and art of government.

=pol-luteˈ= (pŏ-lūtˈ), to soil, defile.

=pol-luˈtion= (pŏ-lūˈshŭn), uncleanness, impurity.

=pome-granˈate= (pŏm-grănˈa᷵t), a fruit like an orange in size and color.

=pomˈmel= (pŭmˈĕl), the knob at the front of a saddle.

=pomp= (pŏmp), brilliant display.

=ponˈder-ous= (pŏnˈdẽr-ŭs), heavy, weighty.

=popˈish= (pōpˈĭsh), pertaining to the Pope.

=Popˈlar= (pŏpˈlär), a district in the east end of London, where there are many docks; among others, that of the famous East India Company.

=popˈpy= (pŏpˈĭ), a flower, usually red, the symbol of sleep.

=popˈu-lar o-pinˈion= (pŏpˈu᷵-lȧr ō-pĭnˈyŭn), belief of the public in general.

=popˈu-lous= (pŏpˈu᷵-lŭs), containing many inhabitants.

=porˈtal= (pōrˈtăl), entrance.

=por-tendˈ= (pŏr-tĕndˈ), foretell.

=por-tenˈtous= (pŏr-tĕnˈtŭs), foreshadowing.

=porˈter= (pōrˈtẽr), gate keeper.

=porˈti-co= (pōrˈtĭ-kō), a colonnade, a covered space before a building.

=pos-sesˈsion= (pŏ-zĕshˈŭn), ownership.

=pos-terˈi-ty= (pŏs-tẽrˈĭ-tĭ), descendants.

=posˈtern-gate= (pōsˈtẽrn-gāt), rear gate.

=posˈture= (pŏsˈtu᷵r), attitude, position.

=poˈtent= (pōˈtĕnt), strong, powerful.

=poˈten-tate= (pōˈtĕn-tāt), ruler.

=powˈwowˈ= (pouˈwouˈ), medicine man.

=pracˈticed= (prăkˈtĭst), skillful.

=prayed him for sucˈcor= (sŭkˈẽr), begged him for aid.

=pre-caˈri-ous= (pre᷵-kāˈrī-ŭs), not to be depended on, dangerous.

=pre-cauˈtion= (pre᷵-kôˈshŭn), previous care.

=preˈcept= (prēˈsĕpt), order.

=pre-cepˈtor= (pre᷵-sĕpˈtẽr), ruler, master.

=precˈious= (prĕshˈŭs), valuable.

=pre-cipˈi-tate= (pre᷵-sĭpˈĭ-tāt), throw headlong, rush; fall suddenly.

=pre-cipˈi-tous= (pre᷵-sĭpˈĭ-tŭs), steep.

=pre-cipˈi-tous de-scentsˈ= (pre᷵-sĭpˈĭ-tŭs de᷵-sĕnts), waterfalls.

=pre-ciseˈ= (pre᷵-sīsˈ), minutely exact.

=preˌcon-ceivedˈ= (prēˌkŏn-sēv’dˈ), formed in the mind beforehand.

=pre-domˈi-nate= (pre᷵-dŏmˈĭ-nāt), to rule.

=preface= (prĕfˈās), introduction.

=prejˈu-diced= (prĕjˈo͡o-dĭst), biased.

=prelˈa-cy= (prĕlˈȧ-sĭ), a body of church dignitaries.

=prelˈate= (prĕlˈa᷵t), a church dignitary.

=preˌma-tureˈly= (prēˌmȧ-tūrˈ-lĭ), untimely.

=preˈmi-um= (prēˈmĭ-ŭm), reward.

=preˌmo-niˈtion= (prēˌmō-nĭshˈŭn), forewarning.

=pre-posˈter-ous= (pre᷵-pŏsˈtẽr-ŭs), ridiculous, unheard of.

=presˈage= (prēˈsa᷵j), sign, token.

=pre-senˈti-ment= (prē-sĕnˈtĭ-mĕnt), a feeling of something about to happen.

=presˈer-vaˈtion= (pre᷵-zûr-vāˈshŭn), being saved from destruction.

=press= (prĕs), throng.

=pre-sumedˈ upon in-dulˈgence= (prē-zumedˈ upon ĭn-dūlˈjĕns), took advantage of the tolerance of the Indians.

=pre-sumˈing= (pre᷵-zūmˈĭng), undertaking without authority, daring, venturing.

=pre-sumpˈtu-ous= (pre᷵-zŭmpˈtu᷵-ŭs), rash, arrogant.

=pre-tendˈer= (pre᷵-tĕndˈẽr), false claimant.

=pre-tenˈtion= (pre᷵-tĕnˈshŭn), claim.

=preˌter-natˈu-ral= (prĕtˌẽr-nătˈu᷵-răl), beyond what is natural, abnormal.

=pre-vail= (pre᷵-vālˈ), persuade, overcome.

=pre-vailˈing= (pre᷵-vālˈĭng), most common, predominant.

=prevˈa-lence= (prĕvˈȧ-lĕns), general existence.

=prey= (prā), any animal that may be seized by another to be devoured.

=prickˈing= (prĭkˈĭng), stinging.

=prickˈly-pear= (prĭkˈlĭ-pâr), a flat-jointed, sharp-pointed cactus having pear-shaped fruit.

=priˈma-cy= (prīˈmȧ-sĭ), first rank.

=pri-meˈval= (prī-mēˈvăl), first, original.

=primˈi-tive= (prĭmˈĭ-tĭv), first, original.

=prince of bragˈgarts= (prĭns of brăgˈȧrts), chief of boasters.

=Prince of Orange=, William III of England.

=Princeton University= (prĭnsˈtŏn ū-nĭ-vẽrˈsĭ-tĭ), at Princeton, New Jersey.

=pri-va-cy= (prīˈvȧ-sĭ), seclusion.

=procˈla-maˌtion= (prŏkˈlȧ-māˌshŭn), notice.

=prodˈi-gal= (prŏdˈĭ-găl), spendthrift.

=pro-diˈgious= (prō-dĭjˈŭs), extraordinary in degree, huge.

=pro-diˈgious apˈpa-riˌtion= (prō-dĭjˈŭs ăpˈ-ȧ-rĭshˌŭn), marvelous appearance.

=prodˈuce= (prŏdˈūs), yield, result.

=pro-fanedˈ= (prō-fāndˈ), abused, debased.

=pro-fesˈsion= (prō-fĕshˈŭn), acknowledgment, claim, promise.

=pro-fesˈsion-al= (prō-fĕshˈŭn-ăl), regular, expert.

=profˈfer= (prŏfˈẽr), offer.

=projˈect= (prŏjˈĕkt), plan.

=promˈon-to-ry= (prŏmˈŭn-tō-rĭ), high point of land projecting into the sea.

=prone= (prōn), disposed, inclined.

=proneˈness to sus-piˈcion= (prōnˈnĕs to sŭs-pĭshˈŭn), inclination to distrust.

=pro-penˈsi-ty= (prō-pĕnˈsĭ-tĭ), inclination, habit.

=prophˈe-cy= (prŏfˈe᷵-sĭ), a foretelling.

=prophˈet= (prŏfˈĕt), one who foretells.

=pro-porˈtion-ate= (prō-pōrˈshŭn-āt), at the same rate.

=pro-porˈtioned= (prō-pōrˈshŭnd), corresponding, suited.

=pro-priˈe-ty= (prō-prīˈe᷵-tĭ), fitness.

=prosˈpect= (prŏsˈpĕkt), outlook, position, hope.

=prosˈper-ous gales=, favorable-winds.

=pro temˈpo-re= (prō tĕmˈpō-rē), for the time being, temporarily.

=pro-testˈing= (prō-tĕstˈĭng), declaring, proclaiming.

=Provˈi-dence= (prŏvˈĭ-dĕns), God.

=provˈi-denˌtial-ly= (prŏvˈĭ-dĕnˌshăl-lĭ), guided by Providence; with foresight.

=pro-vinˈcial= (prō-vĭnˈshăl), narrow, not liberal.

=provˈo-caˈtion= (prŏvˈō-kāˈshŭn), cause of resentment.

=prowˈess= (prouˈĕs), skill.

=pruˈdence= (pro̅o̅ˈdĕns), judgment.

=pruˈdence dicˈtates= (pro̅o̅ˈdĕns dĭkˈtāts), reason advises.

=pruˈdent= (pro̅o̅ˈdĕnt), wise, careful.

=psalmˈo-dy= (sämˈō-dĭ), art of singing psalms.

=pubˈlic measˈures= (pŭbˈlĭk mĕzhˈu᷵rz), action taken by the colonists together.

=puˈis-sant= (pūˈĭ-sănt), powerful.

=pull up=, stop.

=pul-saˈtion= (pŭl-sāˈshŭn), a beating or throbbing.

=pumpˈkin= (pŭmpˈkĭn).

=puncˈtu-al-ly= (pŭnkˈtu᷵ˈăl-ĭ), exactly, precisely.

=pur-blindˈ prank= (pŭr-blīndˈ), careless act.

=purˈport= (pûrˈpōrt), meaning.

=put his person in adventure=, endangered himself.

=quaffed= (kwȧft), drank.

=quagˈmires= (kwăgˈmīrz), soft, wet lands which yield under the feet.

=quail= (kwāl), to give way, tremble.

=Quakˈer= (kwākˈẽr), one of a religious sect; gray-clothed.

=qualˈi-ties= (kwŏlˈĭ-tĭz), distinguishing features or traits.

=quarˈry= (qwŏrˈrĭ), a place where marble is dug from the earth; the object of the chase or hunt.

=quarˈter= (kwôrˈtẽr), after part of a ship’s side; mercy.

=quarˈter-ing to me= (kwôrˈtẽr-ĭng), ranging to and fro towards me.

=quaˈver= (kwāˈvẽr), certain musical shakes or trills.

=Queen of Sheˈba= (shēˈbȧ), a famous queen of old. I Kings X, 1-13.

=quench= (kwĕnch), check, destroy.

=querˈu-lous= (kwĕrˈo͡ob-lŭs), complaining.

=queued= (kūd), plaited into pigtails.

=quinˈtal= (kwĭnˈtăl), a hundred weight.

=quivˈer= (kwĭvˈẽr), a case for arrows.

=Rachˈrin= (răkˈrĭn).

=rack= (răk), wreck.

=radˈi-cal= (rădˈĭ-kăl), extreme.

=rakˈing= (rākˈĭng), firing upon the length of.

=ralˈlied= (rălˈĭd), joked; assembled.

=ralˈly-ing point= (rălˈĭ-ĭng), place where his forces were collected.

=Ram-bodˈde= (räm-bōˈdȧ).

=rampˈant= (rămˈpănt), excited; rearing upon the hind legs, with fore legs extended.

=ramˈpart= (rămˈpärt), protecting wall.

=ranˈdom= (rănˈdŭm), chance, aimless.

=range= (rānj), the region where an animal naturally lives.

=rank= (rănk), grown coarse.

=rantˈi-pole= (rănˈtĭ-pōl), wild young person.

=rapˈture= (răp-tu᷵r), joyousness.

=ratˈi-fied= (rătˈĭ-fīd), confirmed.

=rat-tarriers=, incorrect for =rat-terˈri-er= (răt-tĕrˈĭ-ẽr), a breed of dogs, useful in catching rats.

=rave= (rāv), to move wildly or furiously.

=ravˈen-ous= (răvˈ’n-ŭs), greedy.

=ra-vineˈ= (rȧ-vēnˈ), a large gully.

=ravˈish-ment= (răvˈĭsh-mĕnt), rapture.

=rawˈboned pro-porˈtions= (rôˈbōndˈ prō-pōrˈshŭns), gaunt, or having little flesh upon its form.

=rawˈhide= (rôˈhīd), untanned cattle skin.

=razed= (rāzd), ruined, demolished.

=reˌad-justˈment= (rēˌă-jŭstˈmĕnt), rearrangement, new settlement.

=reaped the fruits=, received the reward.

=reaˈsoned upon the sitˌu-aˈtion= (rēˈz’nd upon the sĭtˌū-āˈshŭn), thought about the matter.

=Re-becˈca and Iˈsaac.= Genesis XXIV.

=re-bukeˈ= (re᷵-būkˈ), scold, reprove; forbid.

=re-cepˈta-cle= (re᷵-sĕpˈtȧ-k’l), that which holds anything.

=re-cessˈ= (re᷵-sĕsˈ), a short intermission; a place of retreat.

=reckˈon-ing= (rĕkˈ’n-ĭng), the calculation of the ship’s position.

=re-coiledˈ= (re᷵-koildˈ), drew back.

=recˌom-mendˈ= (rĕkˌŏ-mĕndˈ), advise; send greetings to.

=recˈom-pense= (rĕkˈŏm-pĕns), payment.

=recˈon-ciled= (rĕkˈŏn-sīld), made friendly again.

=recˌon-cilˌi-aˈtion= (rĕkˌŏn-sĭlˌĭ-āˈshŭn), a returning to friendship, reunion.

=re-covˈered= (re᷵-kŭvˈẽrd), regained.

=recˈre-ant= (rĕkˈre᷵-ănt), acknowledging defeat.

=red= (rĕd), slang for =cent=.

=re-deemedˈ= (re᷵-dēmdˈ), fulfilled.

=re-doubtˈa-ble= (re᷵-doutˈȧ-b’l), dread; formidable.

=red tribes=, Indians or red men.

=reed= (rēd), an ancient Jewish measure of six cubits, or about nine feet.

=re-flecˈtion= (re᷵-flĕkˈshŭn), opinion, thought.

=reˈflux= (rēˈflŭks), flowing back, ebb.

=re-frainˈ= (re᷵-frānˈ), to hold back, keep.

=refˈuge= (rĕfˈūj), shelter.

=refˌu-geeˈ= (rĕfˌu᷵-jēˈ), one who flees to a place of safety.

=refˈuse= (rĕfˈūs), waste matter.

=refused to execute=, would not carry out.

=reˈgal= (rēˈgăl), royal.

=regˈu-late= (rĕgˈu᷵-lāt), to control.

=relˈa-tive= (rĕlˈȧ-tĭv), in reference to something else.

=re-laxˈ= (re᷵-lăksˈ), loosen; calm down.

=re-leaseˈ= (re᷵-lēsˈ), set free; freedom.

=relˈic= (rĕlˈĭk), memorial, fragment.

=re-linˈquished= (re᷵-lĭnˈkwĭsht), gave up.

=re-lucˈtant= (re᷵-lŭkˈtănt), unwilling.

=re-lyˈ on cover= (re᷵-līˈ), depend upon some means of hiding.

=remˌi-nisˈcence= (rĕmˌĭ-nĭsˈĕns), recollection.

=re-monˈstrance= (re᷵-mŏnˈstrăns), protest.

=renˈdered me account= (rĕnˈdẽrd), given a reason.

=renˈe-gade= (rĕnˈe᷵-gād), traitorous.

=Renˈfrew-shire= (rĕnˈfro̅o̅-shẽr), a county.

=re-nouncedˈ= (re᷵-nounstˈ), gave up.

=re-nownedˈ= (re᷵-noundˈ), famous.

=re-pealˈ= (re᷵-pēlˈ), release.

=re-portˈed him-self= (re᷵-pōrtˈĕd), presented himself.

=repˈtile= (rĕpˈtĭl), an animal that creeps on its stomach.

=re-puteˈ= (re᷵-pūtˈ), character.

=reˈqui-em= (rĕkˈwĭ-ĕm), funeral mass or hymn.

=re-quireˈ= (re᷵-kwīrˈ), demand.

=re-searchˈ= (re᷵-sûrchˈ), inquiry, examination.

=re-serveˈ= (re᷵-zûrvˈ), backwardness.

=re-signedˈ= (re᷵-zīndˈ), not disposed to resist; abandoned.

=re-sistˈance= (re᷵-zĭsˈtăns), opposition.

=resˈo-lute= (rĕzˈō-lūt), determined, brave.

=re-soundˈed= (re᷵-zoundˈĕd), rang, echoed.

=re-sourceˈ= (re᷵-sōrsˈ), capability of meeting a situation; support.

=re-spectˈful-ly= (re᷵-spĕktˈfo͡ol-lĭ), civilly, courteously.

=re-specˈtive-ly= (re᷵-spĕkˈtĭv-lĭ), relatively, as relating to each.

=re-splendˈent= (re᷵-splĕnˈdĕnt), brilliant, shining.

=re-sponˌsi-bilˈi-ty= (re᷵-spŏnˌsĭ-bĭlˈĭ-tĭ), state of being accountable.

=rest= (rĕst), a projection from, or attachment on, the side of the breastplate to support the butt of the lance.

=resˌto-raˈtion= (rĕsˌtō-rāˈshŭn), reparation, giving back.

=re-straintˈ= (re᷵-strāntˈ), check, curb.

=resˌur-rectˈed= Italy (rĕzˌŭ-rĕktˈĕd), reborn Italy, Italy with a new life.

=re-tractˈ= (re᷵-trăktˈ), to withdraw.

=retˌri-buˈtion= (rĕtˌrĭ-būˈshŭn), punishment.

=re-trieveˈ= (re᷵-trēvˈ), regain, to bring back.

=revˈe-nue= (rĕvˈe᷵-nu᷵), rent, income.

=re-verˌber-aˈtion= (re᷵-vûrˌbẽr-āˈshŭn), reëchoing sound.

=revˈer-ie= (rĕvˈẽr-ĭ), state of deep thought.

=re-verseˈ= (re᷵-vûrsˈ), opposite.

=re-vertˈed= (re᷵-vûrˈtĕd), returned.

=re-viledˈ= (re᷵-vīldˈ), abused, upbraided.

=re-vivˈing= (re᷵-vīvˈĭng), returning to life.

=re-voltˈ= (re᷵-vōltˈ), rebel.

=re-volvedˈ= (re᷵-vŏlvdˈ), thought over.

=re-vulˈsion= (re᷵-vŭlˈshŭn), strong reaction, change.

=rheuˈma-tism= (ro̅o̅ˈmȧ-tĭz’m), a disease which attacks the muscles, joints, etc.

=rhythˈmic= (rĭthˈmĭk), movement in musical time.

=ribˈbing the ho-riˈzon= (rĭbˈĭng the hō-rīˈzŭn), streaking the horizon with bars.

=ridge= (rĭj), a range of mountains or hills.

=riˈfled= (rīˈfl’d), robbed.

=rift= (rĭft), an opening.

=rigˈgers= (rĭgˈẽrz), workmen who fit the rigging of ships.

=rightˈful in-habˈi-tants=, real owners.

=rigˈid= (rĭjˈĭd), strict, severe.

=ringˈbolt= (rĭngˈbōlt), a bolt with an opening through which a ring is passed.

=ringˈdove= (rĭngˈdŭv), a small pigeon.

=Riˈo= (rēˈō), for Rio Janeiro (rēˈō zhä-nāˈrō).

=rites= (rīts), ceremonies.

=rites of primˈi-tive hosˌpi-talˈi-ty= (rīts of prĭmˈĭ-tĭv hŏsˌpĭ-tălˈĭ-tĭ), ceremonies according to old time customs, such as smoking the peace-pipe.

=rivers stemming=, damming up the rivers.

=rivˈet= (rĭvˈĕt), to fasten firmly.

=roach-back= (rōch), a bear having an arched back.

=ro-busˈtious= (rō-bŭsˈchŭs), large.

=roll= (rōl), prolonged sound produced by rapid beating.

=rolˈlers= (rōlˈlẽrz), long, heavy waves.

=roll the deep melodious drum= (me᷵-lōˈdĭ-ŭs), beat the deep-voiced, musical drum.

=ro-manceˈ= (rō-mănsˈ), story.

=Roosevelt, Theodore= (rōˈzĕ-vĕlt, almost rōzˈvĕlt, thēˈō-dōr), twenty-sixth president of the United States.

=Rosˈa-lind= (rŏzˈȧ-lĭnd).

=rounˈde-lay= (rounˈde᷵-lā), a style of poem or song in which a word or phrase constantly recurs, a round.

=route= (ro̅o̅t), course or way.

=rowˈel= (rouˈĕl), the sharp part of a spur.

=Rowˈland de Boys= (rōˈlănd dē boiz).

=Royˈal Ex-changeˈ= (roiˈăl ĕks-chānjˈ), a place in London where merchants, brokers, and bankers, or other business men meet to do business.

=roystˈer-ing= (roīsˈtẽr-ĭng), swaggering.

=rudˈder= (rŭdˈẽr), steering gear, a flat piece of wood or metal attached to a boat to be used in steering.

=rueˈing= (ro̅o̅ˈĭng), sorrowing.

=rufˈfi-an-like= (rŭfˈĭ-ăn-līk), like a cruel, brutal fellow.

=rum= (rŭm), an intoxicating liquor.

=ruˈmi-nate= (ro̅o̅ˈmĭ-nāt), muse.

=run a buffalo=, to pursue a buffalo until it is exhausted.

=ruse= (ro̅o̅z), trick.

=rusˈtic= (rŭsˈtĭk), an inhabitant of the country naturally simple in character or manners.

=Ruth and Boaz= (ro̅o̅th, bōˈăz), Ruth IV.

=saˈber= (sāˈbẽr), a curved sword.

=saˈchem= (sāˈchĕm), chief.

=sacked= (săkt), plundered after capturing.

=sacˈri-lege= (săkˈrĭ-lĕj), the sin or crime of violating sacred things.

=sadˈdle-bagsˌ= (sădˈ’l-băgzˌ), large bags, generally of leather, used by horsemen to carry small articles. One hangs on each side of the saddle.

=sadˈdling= (sădˈlĭng), burdening.

=Sa-fereˈ= (să-fērˈ).

=saˈga= (säˈgȧ), a Scandinavian legend.

=sa-gaˈcious= (să-gāˈshŭs), wise, intelligent.

=sagˈa-more= (săgˈȧ-mōr), an Indian chief next lower in rank to sachem.

=sage= (sāj), a wise man.

=sage-bush= (sāj-bo͡osh), a plant.

=Saint Anˈdrew=, patron saint of Scotland.

=Saint George=, patron saint of England.

=Saint Gregˈo-ry= (grĕgˈŏ-rĭ), a member of an illustrious Roman family, who became a monk and later was elected pope (540-604).

=Saint Viˈtus= (vīˈtŭs), a martyr of Rome.

=sa-laamˈ= (sȧ-lȧmˈ), salutation performed by bowing very low and placing the right palm on the forehead.

=salˈa-ble= (sālˈȧ-b’l), capable of being sold.

=salˈlied= (sălˈĭd), rushed out.

=salˈlows= (sălˈōz), willows.

=salmˈon= (sămˈŭn), a kind of large fish.

=sal-vaˈtion= (săl-vāˈshŭn), deliverance from destruction.

=saˈmite= (sāˈmīt), a kind of heavy silk cloth, usually interwoven with gold.

=Samˈo-set= (sămˈō-sĕt), an Indian chief.

=sancˈti-ty= (sănkˈtĭ-tĭ), holiness.

=Sand-fleˈsen= (sănd-flāˈsĕn).

=sandˈpipˈer= (săndˈpīpˈẽr), a small bird frequenting sandy and muddy shores.

=sanˈgui-na-ry= (sănˈgwĭ-na᷵-rĭ), blood-thirsty, murderous.

=sanˌi-taˈri-um= (sănˌĭ-tāˈrĭ-ŭm), health station or retreat.

=Santee= (săn-tēˈ), a river in South Carolina.

=sapˈphire= (săfˈīr), a blue transparent stone, prized as a gem.

=Sarˈa-cens= (sărˈȧ-sĕnz), the Mohammedans who held the Holy Land.

=satˈu-ratˌed= (sătˈū-rātˌĕd), soaked.

=Sauger Point= (sä-gōrˈ), at the mouth of the Ganges River.

=sauˈri-an= (sôˈrĭ-ăn), a reptile.

=savˈage ca-resˈses= (săvˈa᷵j kȧ-rĕsˈĕz), rude acts of affection.

=saw=, talking, preaching.

=Saxˈon= (săkˈsŭn), English.

=scabˈbard= (skăbˈȧrd), a sheath, a cover for a sword when not in use.

=scafˈfold= (skăfˈōld), a platform upon which a criminal is executed.

=scalˈpel= (skălˈpĕl), a small knife with a thin blade, used by surgeons.

=scan= (skăn), examine with care.

=scepˈter= (sĕpˈtẽr), a staff borne by a sovereign as an emblem of authority.

=schoonˈer= (sko̅o̅nˈẽr), a two-masted vessel.

=schoonˈer-rigged smack= (sko̅o̅nˈẽr rĭgd smăk), a two-masted fishing vessel.

=sciˈence= (sīˈĕns), knowledge.

=sciˈen-tist= (sīˈĕn-tĭst), one who has wide knowledge of principles and facts.

=scoff= (skŏf), scorn.

=score= (skōr), twenty.

=scot-free= (skŏt-frē), entirely free, without punishment.

=scourge= (skûrj), to strike.

=scourˈing= (skourˈĭng), passing over quickly.

=scribe= (skrīb), writer.

=Scripˈtures= (skrĭpˈtu᷵rz), the Bible.

=scruˈples= (skro̅o̅ˈp’lz), delicate feelings, hesitation.

=scruˈpu-lous-ly= (skro̅o̅ˈpu᷵-lŭs-lĭ), carefully, conscientiously.

=scruˈti-nized= (skro̅o̅ˈtĭ-nĭzd), examined.

=scruˈti-ny= (skro̅o̅ˈtĭ-nĭ), close examination.

=scudˈ= (skŭdˈ), move swiftly.

=sculpˈture= (skŭlpˈtu᷵r), carve.

=scutˈtling= (skŭtˈlĭng), running swiftly.

=seal and hand=, order, king’s own pledge.

=seaˈmew= (sēˈmū), sea-gull.

=se-cesˈsion= (se᷵-sĕshˈŭn), withdrawal of the eleven states from the Union in 1860.

=se-cluˈsion= (se᷵-klo̅o̅ˈshŭn), solitude.

=se-dateˈ= (se᷵-dātˈ), quiet.

=sedˈen-ta-ry= (sĕdˈĕn-ta᷵-rĭ), characterized by much sitting.

=seer= (sēr; sēˈẽr), a prophet.

=segˈment= (sĕgˈmĕnt), a part cut off.

=self-conˈfi-dence= (sĕlf-kŏnˈfĭ-dĕns), self-reliance.

=self-evˈi-dent= (sĕlf-ĕvˈĭ-dĕnt), plain or clear without proof.

=self-pos-sesˈion=, presence of mind.

=self-stayed= (sĕlf-stād), self-reliant, trusting to one’s own power.

=semˈblance= (sĕmˈblăns), likeness.

=sen-saˈtions= (sĕn-sāˈshŭnz), feelings.

=senˈsi-ble= (sĕnˈsĭ-b’l), aware, having sense or reason.

=senˈtence= (sĕnˈtĕns), punishment.

=senˈti-ment= (sĕnˈtĭ-mĕnt), feeling, opinion.

=senˈtries= (sĕnˈtrĭz), guards.

=seˈpoy= (sēˈpoi), a native of India, employed as a soldier in the service of a European power.

=sepˈul-cher= (sĕpˈŭl-kẽr), grave, tomb.

=seˈquence= (sēˈkwĕns), arrangement by regular succession or degrees.

=se-quesˈtered= (se᷵-kwĕsˈtẽrd), secluded.

=serˈried= (sĕrˈĭd), crowded, one after another, in rapid succession.

=serˈvile= (sûrˈvĭl), as slaves, slavish.

=set him a severe task=, gave him a hard piece of work to do.

=setˈter= (sĕtˈẽr), a hunting dog.

=se-verˈi-ty= (se᷵-vĕrˈĭ-tĭ), harshness.

=Se-ville= (se᷵-vĭlˈ), a province of Spain.

=Sexˈa-gesˈi-ma= (sĕkˈsă-jĕsˈĭ-mȧ), second Sunday before Lent.

=shaft= (shȧft), a narrow, deep pit in the earth communicating with a mine.

=shamˈble= (shămˈb’l), to walk awkwardly.

=Shamˈrock of Ireˈland= (shămˈrŏk of īrˈ-lănd), a plant, with clover-like leaf, used as the national emblem of Ireland.

=sheathed= (shēthd), put into a case.

=sheathˈing= (shēthˈĭng), the casing or covering of a ship’s bottom and sides.

=sheer unobstructed precipice= (shēr ŭn-ŏb-strŭktˈĕd prĕsˈĭ-pĭs), an extremely high cliff without vegetation.

=Sheffield= (shĕfˈēld), a manufacturing city in Yorkshire, England, noted for its excellent cutlery.

=shift= (shĭft), a turning from one thing to another; change.

=shillˈing= (shĭlˈĭng), a silver British coin, value about twenty-four cents.

=shipˈshapeˌ= (shĭpˈshāpˌ), tidy, orderly.

=shrouded= (shroudˈĕd), concealed.

=shucked= (shŭkt), colloquial, laid aside.

=shufˈfled= (shŭfˈ’ld), shifted.

=shutˈtle= (shŭtˈ’l), an instrument used in weaving; the sliding thread holder in a sewing machine.

=siˈdled= (sīˈd’ld), moved sidewise.

=si-erˈra= (se᷵-ĕrˈrȧ), a ridge of mountains, with an irregular outline.

=sigˌni-fi-caˈtion= (sĭgˌnĭ-fĭ-kāˈshŭn), meaning, import.

=silent ghosts in misty shrouds=, like noiseless ghosts dressed in garments of mist.

=silˈver-tip= (sĭlˈvẽr-tĭp), a grizzly bear having the hairs whitish at the ends.

=si-milˈi-tude= (sĭ-miĭlˈĭ-tūd), likeness.

=siˈmulˈtaˈne-ous= (sīˈmŭlˈtāˈne᷵-ŭs), existing, happening, or done, at the same time.

=sinˈew= (sĭnˈū), cord, tendon.

=sinˌgu-larˈi-ty= (sĭnˌgu᷵-lărˈĭ-tĭ), peculiarity.

=sinˈis-ter= (sĭnˈĭs-tẽr), evil.

=sinˈu-ous= (sĭnˈu᷵-ŭs), winding.

=sire= (sīr), an older person, elder.

=siˈren= (sīˈrĕn), one of a group of sea nymphs who lured sailors to destruction by their singing.

=sixpence= (sĭksˈpĕns), a small British coin, six pennies, or twelve cents.

=Skald= (skôld), a Scandinavian poet who sings of the heroic deeds of his people.

=Skarˈholm= (skärˈhōm).

=Skaw= (skô), the name of a cape at the extremity of Jutland, Denmark.

=skids= (skĭds), a pair of rails on which to roll something.

=skiff=, any small, light sailing vessel.

=skim=, pass over quickly or lightly.

=skirtˈing=, running along the edge.

=Skoal= (skōl), Scandinavian for Hail.

=slack= (slăk), of tidal waters, the period when there is no horizontal motion of water at the surface, inactive.

=sledge-hamˈmers= (slĕj-hămˈẽrz), large, heavy hammers.

=sleepˈing-bag= (slēpˈĭng-băg), a long bag, usually made of skin with the fur on the inside, used by hunters to sleep in.

=sloop= (slo̅o̅p), sailing vessel.

=slug-gish= (slŭgˈĭsh), dull, drowsy.

=small-bore= (smôl-bōr), small opening.

=small clothes= (klōthz), knee breeches.

=smartˈness= (smärtˈnĕs), liveliness, quickness.

=Smiˈley, Le-onˈi-das W.= (smīˈlĭ, lē-ŏnˈĭ-dăs).

=smith= (smĭth), one who forges with a hammer.

=Smith-soˈni-an Mu-seˈum= (smĭth-sōˈnĭ-ăn mu᷵-zēˈŭm), a large government museum in Washington, D. C.

=smut-face=, a black-faced bear.

=snafˈfle= (snăfˈ’l), a bridle bit.

=snake= (snāk), slang for jerk.

=snare= (snâr), trap.

=So-fronˈie= (sō-frōnˈē).

=soˈjourned= (sōˈjûrnd), dwelt.

=solˈace= (sŏlˈa᷵s), comfort, console.

=soldiers without strife=, soldiers that do not have to fight.

=so-licˈit-ous= (sō-lĭsˈĭ-tŭs), anxious.

=so-licˈi-tude= (sō-lĭsˈĭ-tūd), concern.

=sonˈnet= (sŏnˈĕt), a poem consisting of fourteen lines.

=sootˈy= (so͡otˈĭ; so̅o̅tˈĭ), soiled by soot.

=sorˈcer-ess= (sôrˈsẽr-ĕs), a woman magician.

=sorˈdid= (sôrˈdĭd), base, mean.

=sore vexed= (sōr vĕxd), sad at heart.

=sorˈrel= (sŏrˈrĕl), one of various plants having a sour juice.

=souls that sped=, those who were killed.

=source= (sōrs), beginning, starting place.

=sovˈer-eign= (sŏvˈẽr-ĭn), ruler.

=sovˈer-eign digˈni-ty= (sovˈẽr-ĭn dĭgˈnĭ-tĭ), dignity or honorable station as a ruler.

=spaˈcious= (spāˈshŭs), of great space.

=Spanˈish Ar-maˈda= (är-māˈdȧ).

=spanked= (spănkt), moved quickly.

=spar= (spär), a round solid piece of timber, mast.

=Sparks, Jared= (spärks, jărˈĕd), an American historian (1789-1866).

=spas-modˈic= (spăz-mŏdˈĭk), fitful.

=spawn= (spôn), bring forth.

=speˈcie= (spēˈshĭ), money.

=speˈcies= (spēˈshēz), kind, variety.

=spe-cifˈic i-denˈti-ty= (spe᷵-sĭfˈĭk ī-dĕnˈtĭ-tĭ), exact points of sameness.

=specˈta-cle= (spĕkˈtȧ-k’l), sight, exhibition.

=specˈter= (spĕkˈtẽr), ghost.

=spec-trolˈo-gy= (spĕk-trŏlˈō-jĭ), the study of specters, or ghosts.

=specˈu-latˌing= (spĕkˈū-lātˌĭng), thinking, guessing.

=specˌu-laˈtion= (spĕkˌu᷵-lāˈshŭn), scheme.

=spherˈi-cal= (sfĕrˈĭ-kăl), round.

=spiˈral-ly= (spīˈrăl-ĭ), winding like a coil.

=spirtˈing= (spûrtˈĭng), shooting up.

=spit= (spĭt), a rod for holding meat while roasting over a fire.

=spoil=, booty, plunder.

=spon-taˈne-ous= (spŏn-tāˈne᷵-ŭs), free, voluntary.

=sportsˈman-like= (spōrtsˈmăn-līk), like a sportsman, one who is fair in sports.

=sprat= (sprăt), little fish.

=sprite= (sprīt), elf; fairy.

=spurˈring= (spûrˈĭng), pricking with spurs.

=squalˈid= (skwŏlˈĭd), dirty, foul, filthy.

=squal= (skwôl), a sudden gust of wind.

=squire= (skwīr), the title of dignity next below that of knight.

=Stadtˈholdˌer= (stătˈhōldˌẽr), formerly the chief ruler of the United Provinces of Holland.

=staggered at the suggestion= (stăgˈẽrd at the sŭg-jĕsˈchŭn), became less confident at the idea.

=stagnant fen=, foul marshland.

=stalkˈing= (stôkˈĭng), walking or stealing along cautiously.

=stalˈwart= (stôlˈwẽrt), strong.

=stanch= (stȧnch), firm, unwavering.

=stanched= (stȧncht), stopped the flowing.

=standˈard= (stăndˈẽrd), flag, banner.

=standing puzˈzle= (stăndˈĭng pŭz’l), a problem which has not been solved.

=starboard quarter= (stärˈbōrd;—bẽrd), off the right-hand forward quarter of the ship.

=stark= (stärk), entirely, quite.

=starveˈling= (stärvˈlĭng), lean.

=statˈure= (stătˈu᷵r), figure.

=statˈute= (stătˈu᷵t), law.

=stave= (stāv), note.

=St. Bar-tholˈo-mew= (bär-thŏlˈō-mū), an organized slaughter of French Huguenots in Paris, Aug. 24, 1572.

=steeˈple-chase= (stēˈp’l-chās), a race across country between horsemen.

=sterˈling coinˈage= (stûrˈlĭng koinˈa᷵j), genuine manufacture, true make.

=stern-sheets=, a place in the stern of an open boat not occupied by seats.

=stewˈard= (stūˈẽrd), a person employed to provide for, and wait upon, the table.

=stiˈfle= (stīˈf’l), to stop, deaden.

=stimˈu-latˌed= (stĭmˈu᷵-lātˌĕd), aroused.

=stint= (stĭnt), task.

=stipˈu-latˌed=, made an agreement.

=St. Nichˈo-las= (nĭkˈō-lăs), the patron saint of seafaring men.

=St. Ninˈi-an= (nĭnˈĭ-ȧn), a British missionary.

=stock= (stŏk), cattle, sheep, etc.

=stock sadˈdle= (stŏk sȧdˈ’l), a saddle having a high knobbed pommel, used by cowboys.

=stoˈi-cism= (stōˈĭ-sĭz’m), practice of showing indifference to pleasure or pain.

=stomˈach-er= (stŭmˈŭk-ẽr), an ornamental covering for the front of the upper body.

=stoutˈly mainˈtains= (stoutˈlĭ mānˈtānz) strongly asserts or says.

=stradˈdle-bugˈ=, a long-legged beetle.

=stratˈa-gem= (strătˈȧ-jĕm), a trick in war for deceiving the enemy.

=strike= (strīk), act of quitting work, not to resume unless certain conditions are fulfilled.

=stripˈling= (strĭpˈlĭng), youthful.

=Stuart= (stūˈẽrt), the ruling family to which James II of England belonged.

=stuntˈed= (stŭntˈĕd), undeveloped.

=stuˈpe-fied= (stūˈpe᷵-fīd), made stupid.

=stu-penˈdous di-menˈsions= (stū-pĕnˈdŭs dĭ-mĕnˈshŭnz), great size.

=sturˈgeon= (stûrˈjŭn), a large fish covered with tough skin.

=style= (stīl), to name, term, call.

=Suarˈven= (swärˈvĕn).

=suaˈsion= (swāˈzhŭn), persuasion.

=subˌju-gaˈtion= (sŭbˌjū-gāˈshŭn), conquest.

=sub-limeˈ= (sŭb-līmˈ), majestic.

=sub-limˈi-ty= (sŭb-lĭmˈĭ-tĭ), grandeur, stateliness.

=sub-misˈsion= (sŭb-mĭshˈŭn), patience.

=sub-orˈdi-nate= (sŭb-ôrˈdĭ-na᷵t), inferior.

=sub-ornedˈ= (sŭb-ôrndˈ), procured unlawfully.

=subˈse-quent= (sŭbˈse᷵-kwĕnt), later.

=sub-sideˈ= (sŭb-sīdˈ), to quiet.

=sub-sistˈed= (sŭb-sĭstˈĕd), existed.

=subˈstance= (sŭbˈstăns), contents.

=subˈsti-tute= (sŭbˈstĭ-tūt), exchange.

=subˌter-raˈne-an= (sŭbˌtĕr-āˈne᷵-ăn), underground.

=subˈtle= (sŭtˈ’l), clever.

=suc-ceedsˈ= (sŭk-sēdsˈ), follows.

=suc-cesˈsion= (sŭk-sĕshˈŭn), following one after another in a series.

=sucˈcor= (sŭkˈẽr), help.

=such-like vex-aˈtious tricks= (vĕks-āˈ-shŭs), teasing tricks of such a kind.

=sucˈtion= (sŭkˈshŭn), a sucking in.

=sufˈfer= (sŭfˈfẽr), permit, allow; feel.

=suf-ficeˈ= (sŭ-fīsˈ), be enough, satisfy.

=Sufˈfolk= (sŭfˈŭk), county of England.

=suite= (swēt), company of attendants.

=sulˈlen= (sŭlˈĕn), gloomy, dismal, sad.

=sulˈphur-ous= (sŭlˈfŭr-ŭs), containing sulphur.

=sulphur smoke= (sŭlˈfŭr), smoke of battle.

=sulˈtry= (sŭlˈtrĭ), hot and moist.

=suˈmac= (sūˈmăk), a shrub.

=sumˈma-ry= (sŭmˈȧ-rĭ), a short account of a long story; done without delay or formality.

=sumˈmoned= (sŭmˈŭnd), invited, called forth.

=sumˈmons= (sŭmˈŭnz), calls; an order to appear in court.

=sumpˈtu-ous= (sŭmpˈtu᷵-ŭs), large.

=sunˈdry= (sŭnˈdrĭ), several, special.

=suˌper-fiˈcial= (sūˌpẽr-fĭshˈăl), shallow.

=su-peˌri-orˈi-ty= (su᷵-pēˌrĭ-ôrˈĭ-tĭ), odds, advantage.

=su-peˈri-or prowˈess= (su᷵-pēˈrĭ-ẽr prouˈĕs), greater worth or bravery.

=suˌper-nuˈmer-a-ry= (sūˌpẽr-nūˈmẽr-a᷵-rĭ), more than necessary.

=su-per-stiˈtion= (sū-pẽr-stĭˈshŭn), a fear of the unknown or mysterious.

=su-pineˈly; suˈpine-ly= (su᷵-pīnˈlĭ; sūˈpīn-lĭ), inactively, carelessly.

=sup-plantˈed= (sŭ-plăntˈĕd), taken the place of.

=supˈple-jackˌ= (sŭpˈ’l-jăkˌ), a woody climbing shrub.

=supˈpli-catˈing= (sŭpˈlĭ-kātˈĭng), beseeching, entreating, petitioning.

=supˌpo-siˈtions= (sŭpˌō-zĭshˈŭnz), surmises, thoughts.

=sureˈty= (sho̅o̅rˈtĭ), one who stands in place of another; security.

=surf= (sûrf), the swell of the sea breaking upon the shore.

=surge= (sûrj), a rolling swell of water.

=surˈly= (sûrˈlĭ), sullen.

=surˈplice= (sûrˈplĭs), the white outer garment worn in church services.

=sur-veyˈ= (sûr-vāˈ), to examine; to measure the land with instruments.

=sur-viveˈ= (sŭr-vīvˈ), to live.

=sus-tainˈ= (sŭs-tānˈ), to keep from falling; to bear.

=susˈte-nance= (sŭsˈte᷵-năns), provisions.

=swain= (swān), country lover.

=swampˈing= (swŏmpˈĭng), sinking by filling with water.

=swank= (swănk), dialect for swagger.

=swarthˈy= (swôrˈthĭ), of dark complexion.

=sweep= (swēp), a long oar used in small vessels, either to propel or steer.

=swell= (swĕl), gradual rising of land.

=swelˈter= (swĕlˈtẽr), heat; rolls.

=swerved= (swûrvd), turned aside.

=Sybˈa-ris= (sĭbˈȧ-rĭs), in ancient geography, a city in northern Italy famous for its great wealth and luxury.

=sycˈa-more= (sĭkˈȧ-mōr), a tree with large leaves, and trunk with mottled bark, growing near streams.

=Sycˈo-rax= (sĭkˈō-răks).

=sylˈvan= (sĭlˈvăn), forestlike, rustic.

=symˈbol= (sĭmˈbŏl), sign, emblem.

=sympˈtom= (sĭmˈtŭm), sign.

=sysˈtem-atˈic= (sĭsˈtĕm-ătˈĭk), in regular order, according to a definite plan.

=tacˈi-turn= (tăsˈĭ-tûrn), not talkative.

=tackˈle= (tăkˈ’l), rigging of a ship.

=tankˈard= (tănkˈȧrd), a drinking vessel with a lid.

=taˈper= (tāˈpẽr), growing smaller towards the end.

=tapˈes-try= (tăpˈĕs-trĭ), hangings of wool or silk with gold or silver threads producing a pattern or picture.

=Tappan Zee= (tăpˈăn), a wide expansion of the Hudson River.

=tarˈtan= (tärˈtăn), Scotch soldiers; woolen cloth, cross barred with narrow bands of various colors, much worn in the Scottish Highlands, where each clan has a different tartan.

=Tarˈtar= (tärˈtȧr), in the middle ages, the host of Mongol, Turk, and Chinese warriors who swept over Asia and threatened Europe.

=tasˈsel= (tăsˈ’l), a kind of ornament.

=tatˈtered= (tătˈẽrd), torn in shreds.

=taunt= (tänt), mockery, reproach.

=taxˈi-derˌmist= (tăksˈsĭ-dûrˌmĭst), one who mounts the skins of animals.

=tchick= (chĭk), click.

=teˈdi-ous= (tēˈdĭ-ŭs), tiresome.

=teemed= (tēmd), was full of.

=teeth of the wind=, grasp of the wind.

=telˈe-scope= (tĕlˈe᷵-skōp), an instrument used to view far-off objects.

=temˈper-ate= (tĕmˈpẽr-a᷵t), that part which lies between the torrid zone and the polar circle.

=tempest trumpings=, thunder.

=tem-pesˈtu-ous= (tĕm-pĕsˈtû-ŭs), stormy.

=temˈpo-ral= (tĕmˈpō-răl), of this life.

=te-naˈcious= (te᷵-nāˈshŭs), holding fast.

=te-nacˈi-ty= (te᷵-năsˈĭ-tĭ), state of being tenacious or sticking to a thing.

=tendˈer= (tĕnˈdẽr), offer.

=tenˈdril= (tĕnˈdrĭl), a small shoot.

=tenˈor= (tĕnˈẽr), nature, character; general course, conduct.

=tent-peg= (tĕnt-pĕg), a piece of wood used to hold the ropes of a tent.

=tenˈure= (tĕnˈu᷵r), a holding.

=terˈmi-natˌed= (tûrˈmĭ-nātˌĕd), ended, bounded.

=terˌrifˈic funˈnel=, gigantic whirlpool.

=terˌrifˈic grandˈeur=, magnificence which could only frighten.

=tesˈti-mo-ny= (tĕsˈtĭ-mō-nĭ), declaration of facts.

=teteˈa-teteˈ= (tātˈȧ-tāt; tĕˈtȧ-tât), private conversation.

=texˈture= (tĕksˈtūr), fine structure.

=Thames= (tĕmz), a river in England.

=Thanˌa-topˈsis= (thănˌȧ-tŏpˈsĭs).

=theme= (thēm), a subject or topic on which a person writes or speaks.

=theˈo-ry= (thēˈō-rĭ), a general principle; plan; speculation.

=there-withˈ= (thâr-wĭthˈ), at the same time; besides.

=ther-momˈe-ter= fell (thẽr-mŏmˈe᷵-tẽr), temperature became colder.

=thickˈet= (thĭkˈĕt), a dense growth of shrubbery.

=thine arms with-stoodˈ= (wĭth-sto̅o̅dˈ), resisted your army.

=Thorˈeau, Henˈry Daˈvid= (thōˈrō; thō-rōˈ).

=thread= (thrĕd), make one’s way over.

=thrice= (thrīs), three times, most.

=throsˈtle= (thrŏsˈ’l), a thrush.

=throw up the sponge=, to give up.

=thwart= (thwôrt), a rower’s seat.

=thymˈy= (tīmˈĭ), fragrant, or filled with thyme, a sweet-scented herb.

=Ti-betˈ= (tĭ-bĕtˈ), a country in the southwestern part of the Chinese empire.

=tiˈdings= (tīˈdĭngz), news, intelligence.

=tier= (tēr), row, one row above another.

=tilˈler= (tĭlˈẽr), a lever of wood or metal fitted to the rudder and used for turning it from side to side to steer.

=timˈbered= (tĭmˈbẽrd), wooded.

=time dried the maiden’s tears=, gradually she became happy in her new surroundings.

=timˈmer-man= (tĭmˈmẽr-măn), carpenter.

=tipˈpling= (tĭpˈlĭng), drinking.

=tisˈsue= (tĭshˈu᷵), a thinly woven fabric.

=Tiˈtan= (tīˈtăn), one of the primeval gods, older than the Greek gods; of majestic form.

=ti-tanˈic= (tī-tănˈĭk), gigantic, enormous.

=toast= (tōst), a sentiment expressed formally at the table.

=toils of the chase=, the labors of hunting.

=Tokˌa-ma-haˈmon= (tŏkˌȧ-mä-häˈmŏn), an Indian chief.

=toˈken= (tōˈk’n), sign.

=told off=, counted or picked out.

=tolˈer-a-ble= (tŏlˈẽr-ȧ-b’l), moderately good, agreeable.

=tolerably correct Cutter= (tŏl-ẽrˈȧ-blĭ), a very good imitation of a deep-keeled vessel.

=toll= (tōl), tax.

=tongue= (tŭng), bell clapper.

=took my degree=, was graduated.

=toˈpaz= (tōˈpăz), a kind of yellow quartz.

=topped= (tŏpt), reached the top of.

=torˈpid= (tôrˈpĭd), dull, inactive, sluggish.

=torˈtoise= (tôrˈtĭs; tŭs), kind of turtle.

=to run the gauntlet= (gäntˈlĕt; gôntˈlĕt), to go through the extreme dangers.

=Toˈry= (tōˈrĭ), the name of one of the historic political parties in England.

=tossˈing a-breastˈ=, riding the waves opposite.

=tour= (to̅o̅r), a short journey from place to place.

=tourˈna-ment= (to̅o̅rˈnȧ-mĕnt; tu᷵rˈ-), knightly combat.

=tow-cloth= (tō-klŏth), coarse, hand-woven cloth.

=to wear ship=, to cause to go about in a different direction.

=towˈrope= (tōˈrōp), a rope or chain by which anything is pulled.

=track the street=, walk the street leaving the tracks or imprints of his feet.

=tracˈta-ble= (trăkˈtȧ-b’l), easily controlled, manageable.

=trafˈfic= (trăfˈĭk), the passing to and fro of persons and vehicles along a street.

=tragˈe-dy= (trăjˈe᷵-dĭ), a fatal and mournful event; a play having a sad ending.

=trail= (trāl), track.

=trail-rope= (trāl-rōp), a rope used to fasten a horse by.

=trait= (trāt), peculiarity.

=trance= (trȧns), insensible condition.

=tran-quilˈli-ty= (trăn-kwĭlˈĭ-tĭ), calmness.

=transˈat-lanˈtic= (trănsˈăt-lănˈtĭk), beyond the Atlantic Ocean.

=tran-scendˈent= (trăn-sĕnˈdĕnt), surpassing, supreme.

=trans-figˈure= (trăns-fĭgˈu᷵r), to change to something exalted and glorious.

=trans-gresˈsion= (trăns-grĕshˈŭn), sin.

=tranˈsient= (trănˈshĕnt), not lasting.

=transˌmu-taˈtion= (trănsˌmu᷵-tāˈshŭn), the changing from one form to another.

=trans-parˈent= (trăns-pârˈĕnt), clear.

=transˈport= (trănsˈpōrt), carrying; excessive joy.

=trans-portˈ= (trăns-pōrtˈ), to carry.

=trapˈpers=, hunters who trap their prey.

=trapˈpings= (trăpˈĭngz), ornamental coverings, housings.

=travˈersed= (trăvˈẽrst), crossed.

=trawlˈer= (trôlˈẽr), a vessel that fishes by dragging the nets.

=treachˈer-y= (trĕchˈẽr-ĭ), falseness.

=treaˈcle= (trēˈk’l), molasses.

=treaˈtise= (trēˈtĭs), essay.

=tree-nailˈ= (trē-nālˈ), a wooden pin for fastening the planks of a vessel.

=treˈmor= (trēˈmŏr; trĕmˈŏr), quivering; affected with fear or timidity.

=tremˈu-lous= (trĕmˈu᷵-lŭs), trembling.

=trenchˈant= (trĕnˈchănt), sharp.

=tri-buˈnal= (trī-būˈnăl), court of justice.

=tribˈu-ta-ry= (trĭbˈu᷵-ta᷵-rĭ), a stream flowing into a larger stream; a country that pays tribute to another.

=tribˈute= (trĭbˈūt), a personal contribution of any kind, as of praise or service, in token of services rendered.

=triˈcolor= (trīˈkŭl-ẽr), the French flag, blue, white, red.

=triˈfling jest= (trīˈflĭng jĕst), a little joke.

=trim= (trĭm), condition.

=troopˈer= (tro̅o̅pˈẽr), a cavalryman.

=troˈphy= (trōˈfĭ), anything kept as a memento of something gained, spoil.

=trucˈu-lent= (trŭkˈu᷵-lĕnt), terrible, fierce.

=trumpˈer-y= (trŭmˈpẽr-ĭ), goods.

=trunˈcheon= (trŭnˈshŭn), a baton.

=trussed= (trŭst), with wings fastened to the body.

=trystˈing-place= (trĭstˈĭng-plās), place of meeting.

=tucked= (tŭkt), made snug.

=tu-mulˈtu-ous= (tū-mŭlˈtu᷵-ŭs), boisterous.

=turˈban= (tûrˈbăn), Mohammedan soldiers; a headdress worn by Mohammedans.

=turˈmoil= (tûrˈmoil), worrying confusion.

=turˈret= (tŭrˈĕt), tower.

=Tus-ca-roˈra= (tŭs-kȧ-rōˈră).

=twoˈfold shout= (to̅o̅ˈfōld), double shout, shout and its echo.

=ty-ranˈni-cal= (tī-rănˈĭ-kăl), despotic.

=tyˈran-ny= (tĭˈrăn-ĭ), despotism.

=u-biqˈui-ty= (u᷵-bĭkˈwĭ-tĭ), presence in more than one place at the same time.

=umˈpire= (ŭmˈpīr), judge.

=unˌac-countˈa-ble= com-muˌni-caˈtion, strange intercourse or act of talking to one another.

=unˌac-countˈa-bly= (ŭnˌă-kounˈtȧ-blĭ), strangely, without reason.

=unˌas-sumˈing= (ŭnˌă-sūmˈĭng), modest.

=un-a-vailˈing= (ŭn-ȧ-vālˈĭng), unsuccessful.

=unˌa-waresˈ= (ŭnˌȧ-wârzˈ), unexpectedly.

=un-boundˈed= (ŭn-boundˈĕd), unlimited.

=un-ceasˈing= (ŭn-sēsˈĭng), not stopping.

=un-chidˈden= (ŭn-chĭdˈ’n), not blamed.

=un-conˈquer-a-ble=, not to be overcome.

=un-conˈscious= (ŭn-kŏnˈshŭs), unaware.

=un-couthˈ= (un-ko̅o̅thˈ), strange, ugly.

=un-dauntˈed= (ŭn-dänˈtĕd), bold, fearless.

=unˌder-minedˈ= (ŭnˌdẽr-mīndˈ), weakened.

=unˈder-takeˈ= (ŭnˈdẽr-tākˈ), promise.

=unˌdis-turbedˈ=, without annoyance.

=un-doubtˈed-ly= (ŭn-doutˈĕd-lĭ), without question.

=unˌdu-laˈtion= (ŭnˌdu᷵-la᷵ˈshŭn), land or water with a wavy appearance.

=un-feignedˈ= (ŭn-fāndˈ), sincere.

=un-fetˈtered= (ŭn-fĕtˈẽrd), unchained.

=un-foughtˈ vicˈto-ries won=, victories over poverty, lack of education, etc.

=un-furlˈ= (ŭn-fûrlˈ), to unfold, loosen.

=un-geˈni-al= (ŭn-jēˈnĭ-ăl), not pleasant.

=un-govˈern-a-ble= (ŭn-gŭvˈẽr-nȧ-b’l), wild.

=un-harˈried= (ŭn-hărˈĭd), not annoyed.

=uˈni-form= (ūˈnĭ-fôrm), unchanging.

=un-in-telˈli-gi-ble= (ŭn-ĭn-tĕlˈĭ-jĭ-b’l), not capable of being understood.

=uˈni-son= (ūˈnĭ-sŭn), harmony.

=uˌni-verˈsal curˈren-cy= (ūˌnĭ-vûrˈsăl kŭrˈĕn-sĭ), general acceptance.

=uˌni-verˈsal-ly= (ūˌnĭ-vûrˈsăl-ĭ), entirely.

=uˈni-verse= (ūˈnĭ-vûrs), world.

=un-nervedˈ= (ŭn-nûrvedˈ), deprived of strength, or nerve.

=un-ob-structˈed= (ŭn-ŏb-strŭkˈtĕd), clear.

=unˌob-truˈsive= (ŭnˌŏb-tro̅o̅ˈsĭv), modest.

=un-pleasˈing in-telˈli-gence=, bad news.

=un-prinˈci-pled= (ŭn-prĭnˈsĭ-p’ld), without principles or morals.

=unˌre-mitˈting= (ŭnˌre᷵-mĭtˈĭng), incessant, continual.

=unˌre-servedˈ= (ŭnˌre᷵-zûrvdˈ), frank, open.

=un-saˈvor-y= (ŭn-sāˈvẽr-ĭ), unpleasant to smell.

=un-scathedˈ= (ŭn-skāthdˈ), unharmed.

=un-staˈble= (ŭn-stāˈb’l), not fixed.

=unˌsub-stanˈtial= (ŭnˌsŭb-stănˈshăl), flimsy.

=un-sus-pectˈing= (ŭn-sŭs-pĕktˈĭng), trusting.

=un-taintˈed= (ŭn-tāntˈĕd), pure.

=un-waˈry= (ŭn-wāˈrĭ), careless.

=un-weaˈry-ing= (ŭn-wēˈrĭ-ĭng), untiring.

=un-wontˈed= (ŭn-wŭnˈtĕd), unusual, rare.

=up-holˈster-er= (ŭp-hōlˈstẽr-ẽr), one who provides curtains, also coverings for chairs.

=upˈland= (ŭpˈlănd), high land.

=urˈchin= (ûrˈchĭn), boy.

=urˈgent= (ûrˈjĕnt), pressing.

=Uˈri-ens= (ūˈrĭ-ĕnz).

=uˌsur-paˈtion= (ūˌsûr-pāˈshŭn), the illegal seizure of power.

=u-tenˈsil= (u᷵-tĕnˈsĭl), tool.

=Uˈther Pen-dragˈon= (ūˈthẽr pĕn-drăgˈŭn).

=u-tilˈi-ty= (u᷵-tĭlˈĭ-tĭ), usefulness.

=utˈmost= (ŭtˈmōst), greatest.

=utˈter-ance= (ŭtˈẽr-ăns), speech.

=utˈter-ly= (utˈẽr-lĭ), totally.

=vagˈa-bond= (văgˈȧ-bŏnd), a wanderer.

=valˈor= (vălˈẽr), courage, bravery.

=van= (văn), advance guard.

=Van Dieˈmenˈs Land= (văn dēˈmĕn), the former name of Tasmania, an island south of Australia.

=Van Twilˈler, Wouˈter= (wo̅o̅ˈtẽr).

=vaˈpor-ing= (vāˈpẽr-ĭng), idly talking.

=vaˌri-aˈtion= (vāˌrĭ-āˈshŭn), differences.

=vaˈried= (vāˈrĭd), diverse, different.

=vaˈri-e-gatˌed= (vāˈrĭ-e᷵-gātˌĕd), having marks of different colors.

=varˈlet= (värˈlĕt), a cowardly fellow.

=vaˈry= (vāˈrĭ), to differ, to be unlike.

=vasˈsal= (văsˈăl), a subject, servant.

=vast con-gre-gaˈtion= (vȧst kŏn-grē-gāˈshŭn), a large gathering or group.

=vauntˈing= (väntˈĭng), boasting.

=Vavˈi-sour= (văvˈĭ-sōr).

=veer= (vēr), to change direction, to turn.

=vegˈe-tatˌing= (vĕjˈe᷵-tātˌĭng), living quietly and simply, like plants.

=veˈhe-ment-ly= (vēˈhe᷵-mĕnt-lĭ), furiously.

=veˈhi-cle= (vēˈhĭ-k’l), wagon, cart, car.

=ve-locˈi-ty= (ve᷵-lŏsˈĭ-tĭ), speed.

=venˈer-a-ble= (venˈẽr-ȧ-b’l), old, worthy of reverence.

=vengeˈance= (vĕnˈjăns), punishment inflicted in return for an injury or offense; violence, force.

=venˈi-son= (vĕnˈĭ-z’n), flesh of deer.

=venˈom-ous= (vĕnˈŭm-ŭs), poisonous.

=venˈture= (vĕnˈtu᷵r), an undertaking of chance or danger; to dare.

=ve-ranˈda= (ve᷵-rănˈdȧ), piazza, porch.

=verˈdant= (vûrˈdănt), green.

=ver-milˈion= (vẽr-mĭlˈyŭn), bright red paint.

=verˈsion= (vûrˈshŭn), translation; change of form.

=vesˈtige= (vĕsˈtĭj), trace.

=vestˈments= (vĕstˈmĕnts), robes.

=vi-cisˈsi-tude= (vĭ-sĭsˈĭ-tŭd), irregular change, comedown.

=victˈual= (vĭtˈ’l), food.

=victˈual-er= (vĭtˈ’l-ẽr), a provision ship.

=vigˈil= (vĭjˈĭl), watch.

=vigˈi-lance= (vĭjˈĭ-lăns), wakefulness.

=vigˈi-lant= (vĭgˈĭ-lănt), watchful.

=Viˈking= (vīˈkĭng), one belonging to the pirate crews of the Northmen who plundered the coasts of Europe.

=vinˈdi-cate= (vĭnˈdĭ-kāt), to defend.

=viˈo-late= (vīˈō-lāt), to abuse, disturb.

=virˈgin soil= (vûrˈjĭn), soil which has never been cultivated.

=visˈage= (vĭzˈa᷵j), the face.

=viˈsion-a-ry hours= (vĭzhˈŭn-a᷵-rĭ), fanciful hours, dreamy or unreal hours.

=viˈsion-a-ry projˈects= (vĭzhˈŭn-a᷵-rĭ prŏjˈĕktz), fanciful or dreamy plans.

=visˈta= (vĭsˈtȧ), a view.

=vi-vaˈciou=s (vī-vāˈshŭs), lively, vigorous.

=vo-caˈtion= (vō-kāˈshŭn), occupation.

=vo-cifˈer-ous= (vō-sĭfˈẽr-ŭs), noisy.

=volˈleys= (vŏlˈĭz), discharge.

=volˈun-ta-ry= (vŏlˈŭn-ta᷵-rĭ), done of one’s own free will.

=volˌun-teeredˈ= (vŏlˌŭn-tērdˈ), offered.

=vo-lupˈtu-ous= (vō-lŭpˈtu᷵-ŭs), luxurious, given to pleasure.

=von Humˈboldt Alexander= (1769-1859), a German naturalist and statesman.

=vo-raˈcious= (vō-rāˈshŭs), greedy.

=vorˈti-ces= (vôrˈtĭ-sēz), whirlpools.

=vouch-safeˈ= (vouch-sāfˈ), to guarantee as safe, assure.

=vows were plightˈed= (plītˈĕd), pledges of love were given.

=vulˈner-a-ble= (vŭlˈnẽr-ȧ-b’l), weak.

=vulˈture= (vŭlˈtu᷵r), a flesh-eating bird. Here, applied to the danger of icebergs.

=Vurrgh= (vu᷵rg).

=waft= (wȧft), to carry.

=wake= (wāk), track.

=wanes= (wānz), draws to a close.

=Wamˌpa-noˈag= (wŏmˌpȧ-nōˈăg), an important Algonquian tribe.

=wamˈpum= (wŏmˈpŭm), beads made of shells and used as Indian money.

=wan’t=, dialect for was not.

=wantˈing= (wôntˈĭng), lacking.

=wanˈton= (wŏnˈtŭn), luxuriant.

=wapˈi-ti= (wŏpˈĭ-tĭ), American stag or elk.

=warˈder= (wôrˈdẽr), the keeper of the portcullis.

=waˈri-ness born of fear= (wāˈrĭ-nĕs), caution due to fear.

=warn’t=, dialect for were not.

=warp= (wôrp), to turn; to freeze.

=warˈrant= (wŏrˈănt), a commission or document giving authority to do something; surety; to declare.

=waˈry to a degree= (wāˈrĭ), very cautious.

=wasˈsail-bout= (wŏsˈĭl-bout), drinking bout.

=waˈter-wraith= (rāth), spirit of the water.

=Wat-ta-waˈmat= (wät-tȧ-wäˈmȧt).

=watˈtled= (wŏtˈ’ld), having wattles or fleshy growths like a turkey.

=waxˈing= (wăksˈĭng), growing.

=ways be fowl=, roads are bad.

=ways of naˈtive-dom= (nāˈtĭv-dŏm), manners of the natives.

=weal or woe= (wēl or wō), good or ill.

=Wear= (wēr).

=wear ship= (wâr), to turn the ship.

=weary heart upfold=, depart with tired heart, or spirit.

=weather-break= (wĕthˈẽr-brāk), an obstruction (rocks, trees, etc.) which keeps out rain, snow, etc.

=weigh their anˈchors=, raise the anchors.

=welˈkin dome= (wĕlˈkĭn), dome of the sky.

=well breathed=, well spoken.

=well-con-diˈtioned= (kŏn-dĭshˈŭnd), in good health.

= well ruled=, well controlled.

=wereˈwolfˌ= (wērˈwo͡olfˌ), in old superstition, a human being turned into a wolf.

=Wetˈa-moe= (wĕtˈȧ-mō).

=wheeled= (hwēld), turned.

=whiˈlom= (hwīˈlŭm), once, formerly.

=whimˈsi-cal= (hwĭmˈzĭ-kăl), fanciful.

=whit= (hwĭt), bit.

=whole= (hōl), well.

=wholeˈsome law of the praiˈrie=, sound or practical rule or custom used by travelers on the prairie.

=wideˈly sepˈa-ratˈed in-di-vidˈu-als=, greatly different people.

=wide waste of liquid ebony= (lĭkˈwĭd ĕbˈŭn-ĭ), wild black water.

=widˈowˈs son.= Luke VII, 11-17.

=wight= (wīt), person.

=wild little Poet=, untamed little songbird.

=wince= (wĭns), to shrink, as from a blow.

=windˈlass= (wĭndˈlȧs), a machine for hoisting.

=wind the mellow horn=, blow the full-toned horn.

=windˈward= (wĭndˈwẽrd), the side from which the wind blows.

=witchˈer-y= (wĭchˈẽr-ĭ), witchcraft.

=with an inˈspi-raˌtion= (ĭnˈspĭ-rāˌshŭn), with a new idea.

=withe= (wĭth), a flexible, slender twig.

=with unwilling feet=, unwillingly.

=witˈting-ly= (wĭtˈĭng-lĭ), knowingly.

=wont= (wŭnt; wōnt), habit.

=woodˈcraftˌ= (wo͡odˈkrȧftˌ), skill and practice in anything pertaining to the woods.

=woof= (wo̅o̅f), the threads that cross the warp in a woven fabric.

=Worcesˈter= (wo͡osˈtẽr), a city in England.

=world throngs on beneath=, people crowd or press on below.

=worming his way= (wûrmˈĭng), working his way slowly.

=wormˈwood= (wûrmˈwo͡od), common weed.

=worˈsted= (wo͡osˈtĕd; wo͡orˈstĕd), fine and soft woollen yarn.

=wound= (wo̅o̅nd), injury.

=wrestˈling= (rĕsˈlĭng), a hand-to-hand combat between two persons.

=wroth= (rôth), angry.

=Wyˈan-dot= (wīˈăn-dŏt), Indian pony.

=yacht= (yŏt), small pleasure boat.

=yard= (yärd), mast or spar of wood or steel to hold the sail.

=yeoˈman-ry= (yōˈmăn-rĭ), the common people.

=Ypres= (ēpr).

=zeal= (zēl), eagerness.

=zealˈous= (zĕlˈŭs), enthusiastic, ardent.