Junior High School Literature, Book 1
PART I
STORIES AND POEMS OF NATURE
_“Go forth, under the open sky, and list_ _To Nature’s teachings.”_
—William Cullen Bryant.
ANIMALS
THE BUFFALO
FRANCIS PARKMAN
BRINGING HOME THE MEAT
Four days on the Platte, and yet no buffalo! The wagons one morning had left the camp; Shaw and I were already on horseback, but Henry Chatillon still sat cross-legged by the dead embers of the fire, playing pensively with the lock of his rifle, while his sturdy Wyandot pony stood quietly behind him, looking over his head. At last he got up, patted the neck of the pony (whom, from an exaggerated appreciation of his merits, he had christened “Five Hundred Dollar”), and then mounted with a melancholy air.
“What is it, Henry?”
“Ah, I feel lonesome; I never been here before; but I see away yonder over the buttes, and down there on the prairie, black—all black with buffalo!”
In the afternoon he and I left the party in search of an antelope; until, at the distance of a mile or two on the right, the tall white wagons and the little black specks of horsemen were just visible, so slowly advancing that they seemed motionless; and far on the left rose the broken line of scorched, desolate sand-hills. The vast plain waved with tall rank grass that swept our horses’ bellies; it swayed to and fro in billows with the light breeze, and far and near, antelope and wolves were moving through it, the hairy backs of the latter alternately appearing and disappearing as they bounded awkwardly along; while the antelope, with the simple curiosity peculiar to them, would often approach us closely, their little horns and white throats just visible above the grass tops as they gazed eagerly at us with their round, black eyes.
I dismounted, and amused myself with firing at the wolves. Henry attentively scrutinized the surrounding landscape; at length he gave a shout, and called on me to mount again, pointing in the direction of the sand-hills. A mile and a half from us, two minute black specks slowly traversed the face of one of the bare, glaring declivities, and disappeared behind the summit. “Let us go!” cried Henry, belaboring the sides of Five Hundred Dollar; and I following in his wake, we galloped rapidly through the rank grass toward the base of the hills.
From one of their openings descended a deep ravine, widening as it issued on the prairie. We entered it, and galloping up, in a moment were surrounded by the bleak sand-hills. Half of their steep sides were bare; the rest were scantily clothed with clumps of grass and various uncouth plants, conspicuous among which appeared the reptile-like prickly-pear. They were gashed with numberless ravines; and as the sky had suddenly darkened and a cold gusty wind arisen, the strange shrubs and the dreary hills looked doubly wild and desolate. But Henry’s face was all eagerness. He tore off a little hair from the piece of buffalo robe under his saddle, and threw it up, to show the course of the wind. It blew directly before us. The game were therefore to windward, and it was necessary to make our best speed to get round them.
We scrambled from this ravine, and galloping away through the hollows, soon found another, winding like a snake among the hills, and so deep that it completely concealed us. We rode up the bottom of it, glancing through the shrubbery at its edge, till Henry abruptly jerked his rein and slid out of his saddle. Full a quarter of a mile distant, on the outline of the farthest hill, a long procession of buffalo were walking, in Indian file, with the utmost gravity and deliberation; then more appeared, clambering from a hollow not far off, and ascending, one behind the other, the grassy slope of another hill; then a shaggy head and a pair of short, broken horns appeared, issuing out of a ravine close at hand, and with a slow, stately step, one by one, the enormous brutes came into view, taking their way across the valley, wholly unconscious of an enemy. In a moment Henry was worming his way, lying flat on the ground, through grass and prickly-pears, toward his unsuspecting victims. He had with him both my rifle and his own. He was soon out of sight, and still the buffalo kept issuing into the valley. For a long time all was silent; I sat holding his horse, and wondering what he was about, when suddenly, in rapid succession, came the sharp reports of the two rifles, and the whole line of buffalo, quickening their pace into a clumsy trot, gradually disappeared over the ridge of the hill. Henry rose to his feet, and stood looking after them.
“You have missed them,” said I.
“Yes,” said Henry; “let us go.” He descended into the ravine, loaded the rifles, and mounted his horse.
We rode up the hill after the buffalo. The herd was out of sight when we reached the top, but lying on the grass not far off was one quite lifeless, and another violently struggling in the death agony.
“You see I miss him!” remarked Henry. He had fired from a distance of more than a hundred and fifty yards, and both balls had passed through the lungs—the true mark in shooting buffalo.
The darkness increased, and a driving storm came on. Tying our horses to the horns of the victims, Henry began the bloody work of dissection, slashing away with the science of a connoisseur, while I vainly endeavored to imitate him. Old Hendrick recoiled with horror and indignation when I endeavored to tie the meat to the strings of rawhide, always carried for this purpose, dangling at the back of the saddle. After some difficulty we overcame his scruples; and heavily burdened with the more eligible portions of the buffalo, we set out on our return. Scarcely had we emerged from the labyrinth of gorges and ravines, and issued upon the open prairie, when the pricking sleet came driving, gust upon gust, directly in our faces. It was strangely dark, though wanting still an hour of sunset. The freezing storm soon penetrated to the skin, but the uneasy trot of our heavy-gaited horses kept us warm enough, as we forced them unwillingly in the teeth of the sleet and rain by the powerful suasion of our Indian whips. The prairie in this place was hard and level. A flourishing colony of prairie dogs had burrowed into it in every direction, and the little mounds of fresh earth around their holes were about as numerous as the hills in a cornfield; but not a yelp was to be heard; not the nose of a single citizen was visible; all had retired to the depths of their burrows, and we envied them their dry and comfortable habitations. An hour’s hard riding showed us our tent dimly looming through the storm, one side puffed out by the force of the wind, and the other collapsed in proportion, while the disconsolate horses stood shivering close around, and the wind kept up a dismal whistling in the boughs of three old, half-dead trees above. Shaw, like a patriarch, sat on his saddle in the entrance, with a pipe in his mouth and his arms folded, contemplating with cool satisfaction the piles of meat that we flung on the ground before him. A dark and dreary night succeeded; but the sun rose with a heat so sultry and languid that the captain excused himself on that account from waylaying an old buffalo bull, who with stupid gravity was walking over the prairie to drink at the river. So much for the climate of the Platte!
AN UNSUCCESSFUL HUNT
But it was not the weather alone that had produced this sudden abatement of the sportsmanlike zeal which the captain had always professed. He had been out on the afternoon before, together with several members of his party; but their hunting was attended with no other result than the loss of one of their best horses, severely injured by Sorel in vainly chasing a wounded bull. The captain, whose ideas of hard riding were all derived from transatlantic sources, expressed the utmost amazement at the feats of Sorel, who went leaping ravines and dashing at full speed up and down the sides of precipitous hills, lashing his horse with the recklessness of a Rocky Mountain rider. Unfortunately for the poor animal, he was the property of R., against whom Sorel entertained an unbounded aversion. The captain himself, it seemed, had also attempted to “run” a buffalo, but though a good and practiced horseman, he had soon given over the attempt, being astonished and utterly disgusted at the nature of the ground he was required to ride over.
Nothing unusual occurred on that day; but on the following morning Henry Chatillon, looking over the ocean-like expanse, saw near the foot of the distant hills something that looked like a band of buffalo. He was not sure, he said, but at all events, if they were buffalo there was a fine chance for a race. Shaw and I at once determined to try the speed of our horses.
“Come, captain; we’ll see which can ride hardest, a Yankee or an Irishman.”
But the captain maintained a grave and austere countenance. He mounted his led horse, however, though very slowly, and we set out at a trot. The game appeared about three miles distant. As we proceeded, the captain made various remarks of doubt and indecision, and at length declared he would have nothing to do with such a breakneck business; protesting that he had ridden plenty of steeple-chases in his day, but he never knew what riding was till he found himself behind a band of buffalo the day before yesterday. “I am convinced,” said the captain, “that ‘running’ is out of the question. Take my advice now and don’t attempt it. It’s dangerous, and of no use at all.”
“Then why did you come out with us? What do you mean to do?”
“I shall ‘approach,’” replied the captain.
“You don’t mean to ‘approach’ with your pistols, do you? We have all of us left our rifles in the wagons.”
The captain seemed staggered at the suggestion. In his characteristic indecision, at setting out, pistols, rifles, “running,” and “approaching” were mingled in an inextricable medley in his brain. He trotted on in silence between us for a while; but at length he dropped behind, and slowly walked his horse back to rejoin the party. Shaw and I kept on; when lo! as we advanced, the band of buffalo were transformed into certain clumps of tall bushes, dotting the prairie for a considerable distance. At this ludicrous termination of our chase, we followed the example of our late ally and turned back toward the party. We were skirting the brink of a deep ravine, when we saw Henry and the broad-chested pony coming toward us at a gallop.
“Here’s old Papin and Frederic, down from Fort Laramie!” shouted Henry, long before he came up. We had for some days expected this encounter. Papin was the _bourgeois_ of Fort Laramie. He had come down the river with the buffalo robes and the beaver, the produce of the last winter’s trading. I had among our baggage a letter which I wished to commit to their hands; so, requesting Henry to detain the boats if he could until my return, I set out after the wagons. They were about four miles in advance. In half an hour I overtook them, got the letter, trotted back upon the trail, and looking carefully as I rode, saw a patch of broken, storm-blasted trees, and moving near them some little black specks like men and horses. Arriving at the place, I found a strange assembly. The boats, eleven in number, deep-laden with the skins, hugged close to the shore to escape being borne down by the swift current. The rowers, swarthy, ignoble Mexicans, turned their brutish faces upward to look as I reached the bank. Papin sat in the middle of one of the boats upon the canvas covering that protected the robes. He was a stout, robust fellow, with a little gray eye that had a peculiarly sly twinkle. “Frederic” also stretched his tall, rawboned proportions close by the _bourgeois_, and “mountain-men” completed the group; some lounging in the boats, some strolling on shore; some attired in gayly painted buffalo robes like Indian dandies; some with hair saturated with red paint, and beplastered with glue to their temples; and one bedaubed with vermilion upon his forehead and each cheek. They were a mongrel race, yet the French blood seemed to predominate; in a few, indeed, might be seen the black, snaky eye of the Indian half-breed; and one and all, they seemed to aim at assimilating themselves to their savage associates.
I shook hands with the _bourgeois_ and delivered the letter; then the boats swung around into the stream and floated away. They had reason for haste, for already the voyage from Fort Laramie had occupied a full month, and the river was growing daily more shallow. Fifty times a day the boats had been aground; indeed, those who navigate the Platte invariably spend half their time upon sand-bars. Two of these boats, the property of private traders, afterward separating from the rest, got hopelessly involved in the shallows, not very far from the Pawnee villages, and were soon surrounded by a swarm of the inhabitants. They carried off everything that they considered valuable, including most of the robes; and amused themselves by tying up the men left on guard, and soundly whipping them with sticks.
We encamped that night upon the bank of the river. Among the emigrants there was an overgrown boy, some eighteen years old, with a head as round and about as large as a pumpkin, and fever-and-ague fits had dyed his face of a corresponding color. He wore an old white hat, tied under his chin with a handkerchief; his body was short and stout, but his legs of disproportioned and appalling length. I observed him at sunset breasting the hill with gigantic strides, and standing against the sky on the summit like a colossal pair of tongs. In a moment after, we heard him screaming frantically behind the ridge, and nothing doubting that he was in the clutches of Indians or grizzly bears, some of the party caught up their rifles and ran to the rescue. His outcries, however, proved but an ebullition of joyous excitement; he had chased two little wolf pups to their burrow, and he was on his knees, grubbing away like a dog at the mouth of the hole, to get at them.
Before morning he caused more serious disquiet in the camp. It was his turn to hold the middle guard; but no sooner was he called up than he coolly arranged a pair of saddle-bags under a wagon, laid his head upon them, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and fell asleep. The guard on our side of the camp, thinking it no part of his duty to look after the cattle of the emigrants, contented himself with watching our own horses and mules; the wolves, he said, were unusually noisy; but still no mischief was anticipated, until the sun rose, and not a hoof or horn was in sight! The cattle were gone! While Tom was quietly slumbering, the wolves had driven them away.
Then we reaped the fruits of R.’s precious plan of traveling in company with emigrants. To leave them in their distress was not to be thought of, and we felt bound to wait until the cattle could be searched for, and, if possible, recovered. But the reader may be curious to know what punishment awaited the faithless Tom. By the wholesome law of the prairie, he who falls asleep on guard is condemned to walk all day, leading his horse by the bridle, and we found much fault with our companions for not enforcing such a sentence on the offender. Nevertheless, had he been of our own party, I have no doubt he would in like manner have escaped scot-free. But the emigrants went further than mere forbearance; they decreed that since Tom couldn’t stand guard without falling asleep, he shouldn’t stand guard at all, and henceforward his slumbers were unbroken. Establishing such a premium on drowsiness could have no very beneficial effect upon the vigilance of our sentinels; for it is far from agreeable, after riding from sunrise to sunset, to feel your slumbers interrupted by the butt of a rifle nudging your side, and a sleepy voice growling in your ear that you must get up, to shiver and freeze for three weary hours at midnight.
LOST ON THE GREAT PLAINS
“Buffalo! buffalo!” It was but a grim old bull, roaming the prairie by himself in misanthropic seclusion; but there might be more behind the hills. Dreading the monotony and languor of the camp, Shaw and I saddled our horses, buckled our holsters in their places, and set out with Henry Chatillon in search of the game. Henry, not intending to take part in the chase, but merely conducting us, carried his rifle with him, while we left ours behind as incumbrances. We rode for some five or six miles, and saw no living thing but wolves, snakes, and prairie dogs.
“This won’t do at all,” said Shaw.
“What won’t do?”
“There’s no wood about here to make a litter for the wounded man; I have an idea that one of us will need something of the sort before the day is over.”
There was some foundation for such an apprehension, for the ground was none of the best for a race, and grew worse continually as we proceeded; indeed it soon became desperately bad, consisting of abrupt hills and deep hollows, cut by frequent ravines not easy to pass. At length, a mile in advance, we saw a band of bulls. Some were scattered grazing over a green declivity, while the rest were crowded more densely together in the wide hollow below. Making a circuit to keep out of sight, we rode toward them until we ascended a hill within a furlong of them, beyond which nothing intervened that could possibly screen us from their view. We dismounted behind the ridge just out of sight, drew our saddle-girths, examined our pistols, and mounting again rode over the hill and descended at a canter toward them, bending close to our horses’ necks. Instantly they took the alarm; those on the hill descended; those below gathered into a mass, and the whole got in motion, shouldering each other along at a clumsy gallop. We followed, spurring our horses to full speed; and as the herd rushed, crowding and trampling in terror through an opening in the hills, we were close at their heels, half suffocated by the clouds of dust. But as we drew near, their alarm and speed increased; our horses showed signs of the utmost fear, bounding violently aside as we approached, and refusing to enter among the herd. The buffalo now broke into several small bodies, scampering over the hills in different directions, and I lost sight of Shaw; neither of us knew where the other had gone. Old Pontiac ran like a frantic elephant up hill and down hill, his ponderous hoofs striking the prairie like sledge-hammers. He showed a curious mixture of eagerness and terror, straining to overtake the panic-stricken herd, but constantly recoiling in dismay as we drew near. The fugitives, indeed, offered no very attractive spectacle, with their enormous size and weight, their shaggy manes and the tattered remnants of their last winter’s hair covering their backs in irregular shreds and patches, and flying off in the wind as they ran. At length I urged my horse close behind a bull, and after trying in vain, by blows and spurring, to bring him alongside, I shot a bullet into the buffalo from this disadvantageous position. At the report, Pontiac swerved so much that I was again thrown a little behind the game. The bullet, entering too much in the rear, failed to disable the bull, for a buffalo requires to be shot at particular points or he will certainly escape. The herd ran up a hill, and I followed in pursuit. As Pontiac rushed headlong down on the other side, I saw Shaw and Henry descending the hollow on the right at a leisurely gallop; and in front, the buffalo were just disappearing behind the crest of the next hill, their short tails erect and their hoofs twinkling through a cloud of dust.
At that moment I heard Shaw and Henry shouting to me; but the muscles of a stronger arm than mine could not have checked at once the furious course of Pontiac, whose mouth was as insensible as leather. Added to this, I rode him that morning with a common snaffle, having the day before, for the benefit of my other horse, unbuckled from my bridle the curb which I ordinarily used. A stronger and hardier brute never trod the prairie; but the novel sight of the buffalo filled him with terror, and when at full speed he was almost incontrollable. Gaining the top of the ridge, I saw nothing of the buffalo; they had all vanished amid the intricacies of the hills and hollows. Reloading my pistols in the best way I could, I galloped on until I saw them again scuttling along at the base of the hill, their panic somewhat abated. Down went old Pontiac among them, scattering them to the right and left, and then we had another long chase. About a dozen bulls were before us, scouring over the hills, rushing down the declivities with tremendous weight and impetuosity, and then laboring with a weary gallop upward. Still Pontiac, in spite of spurring and beating, would not close with them. One bull at length fell a little behind the rest, and by dint of much effort I urged my horse within six or eight yards of his side. His back was darkened with sweat, and he was panting heavily, while his tongue lolled out a foot from his jaws. Gradually I came up abreast of him, urging Pontiac with leg and rein nearer to his side, when suddenly he did what buffalo in such circumstances will always do: he slackened his gallop, and turning toward us with an aspect of mingled rage and distress, lowered his huge shaggy head for a charge. Pontiac, with a snort, leaped aside in terror, nearly throwing me to the ground, as I was wholly unprepared for such an evolution. I raised my pistol in a passion to strike him on the head, but thinking better of it, fired the bullet after the bull, who had resumed his flight; then drew rein, and determined to rejoin my companions. It was high time. The breath blew hard from Pontiac’s nostrils, and the sweat rolled in big drops down his sides; I myself felt as if drenched in warm water. Pledging myself (and I redeemed the pledge) to take my revenge at a future opportunity, I looked round for some indications to show me where I was, and what course I ought to pursue. I might as well have looked for landmarks in the midst of the ocean. How many miles I had run or in what direction, I had no idea; and around me the prairie was rolling in steep swells and pitches, without a single distinctive feature to guide me. I had a little compass hung at my neck; and ignorant that the Platte at this point diverged considerably from its easterly course, I thought that by keeping to the northward I should certainly reach it. So I turned and rode about two hours in that direction. The prairie changed as I advanced, softening away into easier undulations, but nothing like the Platte appeared, nor any sign of a human being; the same wild endless expanse lay around me still; and to all appearance I was as far from my object as ever. I began now to consider myself in danger of being lost; and therefore, reining in my horse, summoned the scanty share of woodcraft that I possessed (if that term be applicable upon the prairie) to extricate me. Looking round, it occurred to me that the buffalo might prove my best guides. I soon found one of the paths made by them in their passage to the river; it ran nearly at right angles to my course; but turning my horse’s head in the direction it indicated, his freer gait and erected ears assured me that I was right.
But in the meantime my ride had been by no means a solitary one. The whole face of the country was dotted far and wide with countless hundreds of buffalo. They trooped along in files and columns, bulls, cows, and calves, on the green faces of the declivities in front. They scrambled away over the hills to the right and left; and far off, the pale blue swells in the extreme distance were dotted with innumerable specks. Sometimes I surprised shaggy old bulls grazing alone, or sleeping behind the ridges I ascended. They would leap up at my approach, stare stupidly at me through their tangled manes, and then gallop heavily away. The antelope were very numerous; and as they are always bold when in the neighborhood of buffalo, they would approach quite near to look at me, gazing intently with their great round eyes, then suddenly leap aside and stretch lightly away over the prairie as swiftly as a racehorse. Squalid, ruffian-like wolves sneaked through the hollows and sandy ravines. Several times I passed through villages of prairie dogs, who sat, each at the mouth of his burrow, holding his paws before him in a supplicating attitude and yelping away most vehemently, energetically whisking his little tail with every squeaking cry he uttered. Prairie dogs are not fastidious in their choice of companions; various long, checkered snakes were sunning themselves in the midst of the village, and demure little gray owls, with a large white ring around each eye, were perched side by side with the rightful inhabitants. The prairie teemed with life. Again and again I looked toward the crowded hillsides, and was sure I saw horsemen; and riding near, with a mixture of hope and dread, for Indians were abroad, I found them transformed into a group of buffalo. There was nothing in human shape amid all this vast congregation of brute forms.
When I turned down the buffalo path, the prairie seemed changed; only a wolf or two glided past at intervals, like conscious felons, never looking to the right or left. Being now free from anxiety, I was at leisure to observe minutely the objects around me; and here, for the first time, I noticed insects wholly different from any of the varieties found farther to the eastward. Gaudy butterflies fluttered about my horse’s head; strangely formed beetles, glittering with metallic luster, were crawling upon plants that I had never seen before; multitudes of lizards, too, were darting like lightning over the sand.
I had run to a great distance from the river. It cost me a long ride on the buffalo path before I saw from the ridge of a sand-hill the pale surface of the Platte glistening in the midst of its desert valleys, and the faint outline of the hills beyond waving along the sky. From where I stood, not a tree nor a bush nor a living thing was visible throughout the whole extent of the sun-scorched landscape. In half an hour I came upon the trail, not far from the river; and seeing that the party had not yet passed, I turned eastward to meet them, old Pontiac’s long, swinging trot again assuring me that I was right in doing so. Having been slightly ill on leaving camp in the morning, six or seven hours of rough riding had fatigued me extremely. I soon stopped, therefore; flung my saddle on the ground, and with my head resting on it, and my horse’s trail-rope tied loosely to my arm, lay waiting the arrival of the party, speculating meanwhile on the extent of the injuries Pontiac had received. At length the white wagon coverings rose from the verge of the plain. By a singular coincidence, almost at the same moment two horsemen appeared coming down from the hills. They were Shaw and Henry, who had searched for me a while in the morning, but well knowing the futility of the attempt in such a broken country, had placed themselves on the top of the highest hill they could find, and picketing their horses near them, as a signal to me, had lain down and fallen asleep.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biographical and Historical Note.= Francis Parkman (1823-1893) was an American writer, born in Boston, where his father was a well-known clergyman. At the age of eight years he went to live with his grandfather on a wild tract of land near Boston, and there developed the fondness for outdoor life which is shown in all his writings. Parkman was graduated from Harvard College in 1844, and from the Harvard Law School two years later, but he never practiced law. The journey related in his book, _The Oregon Trail_, from which “The Buffalo” is taken, was made immediately after Parkman completed his law studies. His purpose was to gain an intimate knowledge of Indian life. From the Missouri River two great overland routes led across the country to the Pacific. One, the Santa Fe trail, carried a large overland trade with northern Mexico and southern California; the other, the Oregon trail, was commonly used by emigrants on their way to the northwest coast. Parkman’s journey occupied about five months. He left Boston in April, 1846, accompanied by Quincy Adams Shaw, a relative, and went first to St. Louis, the trip by railroad, steamboat, and stage requiring about two weeks. Here they engaged two guides and procured an outfit, including a supply of presents for the Indians. After eight days on a river steamboat they arrived at Independence, Missouri, where the land journey began.
In a newspaper item of March tenth, 1919, the following appeared: “For the first time in half a century bisons are on sale in Omaha. A herd of thirty-three, raised on a Colorado ranch, arrived at the stock yards yesterday. The meat will sell for around $1.00 a pound.”
=Discussion.= 1. Locate on a map the Platte River and the region mentioned in the story. 2. What picture do you see as you read the fourth paragraph? 3. Briefly relate the incident of the first afternoon’s hunting trip. 4. What objections to traveling with emigrants did the party find? 5. What do you learn of prairie animals from this story? 6. Read the description of the prairie dog found on page 12; why is this description a good one? 7. What insects that differ from those found farther east does the author mention? 8. Point out lines that show Parkman to be excellent in description. 9. Compare travel at the time the author made this trip with travel at the present time. 10. Pronounce the following: alternately; minute; reptile; patriarch; inextricably; ally; robust; squalid; pumpkin; lolled; applicable; vehemently; buttes; gorges; circuit.
=Phrases=
(_The numbers in heavy type refer to pages; numbers in light type to lines._)
Transcriber’s Note: This notation has not been reproduced in this e-text. The first number refers to the page, the second to the line. However, as the original pages and lines have not been preserved in this text version, you will need to search for words or phrases (or use the HTML version, in which links are provided to each phrase).
exaggerated appreciation, 1, 7 attentively scrutinized, 2, 11 in his wake, 2, 17 issued on the prairie, 2, 20 gashed with numberless ravines, 2, 24 doubly wild, 2, 27 to windward, 2, 30 Indian file, 3, 1 worming his way, 3, 8 science of a connoisseur, 3, 30 overcame his scruples, 3, 35 more eligible portions, 3, 35 in the teeth of the sleet, 4, 5 collapsed in proportion, 4, 15 transatlantic sources, 4, 34 an unbounded aversion, 5, 3 to “run” a buffalo, 5, 4 I shall “approach,” 5, 29 staggered at the suggestion, 5, 32 characteristic indecision, 5, 32 _bourgeois_ of Fort Laramie, 6, 9 rawboned proportions, 6, 26 assimilating themselves, 6, 35 involved in the shallows, 7, 8 disproportioned and appalling, 7, 19 breasting the hill, 7, 20 hold the middle guard, 7, 31 reaped the fruits, 8, 4 precious plan, 8, 4 wholesome law of the prairie, 8, 9 such an apprehension, 9, 3 drew our saddle-girths, 9, 14 laboring with a weary gallop, 10, 28 dint of much effort, 10, 31 high time, 11, 7 supplicating attitude, 12, 15 rightful inhabitants, 12, 21 vast congregation, 12, 26
OLD EPHRAIM, THE GRIZZLY BEAR
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
VARIETIES OF BEAR
The king of the game beasts of temperate North America, because the most dangerous to the hunter, is the grizzly bear; known to the few remaining old-time trappers of the Rockies and the Great Plains, sometimes as “Old Ephraim” and sometimes as “Moccasin Joe”—the last in allusion to his queer, half-human footprints, which look as if made by some misshapen giant, walking in moccasins.
Bear vary greatly in size and color, no less than in temper and habits. Old hunters speak much of them in their endless talks over the camp-fires and in the snow-bound winter huts. They insist on many species; not merely the black and the grizzly, but the brown, the cinnamon, the gray, the silver-tip, and others with names known only in certain localities, such as the range bear, the roach-back, and the smut-face. But, in spite of popular opinion to the contrary, most old hunters are very untrustworthy in dealing with points of natural history. They usually know only so much about any given game animal as will enable them to kill it. They study its habits solely with this end in view; and once slain they only examine it to see about its condition and fur. With rare exceptions they are quite incapable of passing judgment upon questions of specific identity or difference. When questioned, they not only advance perfectly impossible theories and facts in support of their views, but they rarely even agree as to the views themselves. One hunter will assert that the true grizzly is only found in California, heedless of the fact that the name was first used by Lewis and Clark as one of the titles they applied to the large bears of the plains country round the Upper Missouri, a quarter of a century before the California grizzly was known to fame. Another hunter will call any big brindled bear a grizzly no matter where it is found; and he and his companions will dispute by the hour as to whether a bear of large, but not extreme, size is a grizzly or a silver-tip. In Oregon the cinnamon bear is a phase of the small black bear; in Montana it is the plains variety of the large mountain silver-tip. I have myself seen the skins of two bears killed on the upper waters of Tongue River; one was that of a male, one of a female, and they had evidently just mated; yet one was distinctly a “silver-tip” and the other a “cinnamon.” The skin of one very big bear which I killed in the Bighorn has proved a standing puzzle to almost all the old hunters to whom I have shown it; rarely do any two of them agree as to whether it is a grizzly, a silver-tip, a cinnamon, or a “smut-face.” Any bear with unusually long hair on the spine and shoulders, especially if killed in the spring, when the fur is shaggy, is forthwith dubbed a “roach-back.” The average sporting writer, moreover, joins with the more imaginative members of the “old hunter” variety in ascribing wildly various traits to these different bears. One comments on the superior prowess of the roach-back; the explanation being that a bear in early spring is apt to be ravenous from hunger. The next insists that the California grizzly is the only really dangerous bear; while another stoutly maintains that it does not compare in ferocity with what he calls the “smaller” silver-tip or cinnamon. And so on, and so on, without end. All of which is mere nonsense.
Nevertheless, it is no easy task to determine how many species or varieties of bear actually do exist in the United States, and I cannot even say without doubt that a very large set of skins and skulls would not show a nearly complete intergradation between the most widely separated individuals. However, there are certainly two very distinct types, which differ almost as widely from each other as a wapiti does from a mule deer, and which exist in the same localities in most heavily timbered portions of the Rockies. One is the small black bear, a bear which will average about two hundred pounds weight, with fine, glossy, black fur, and the foreclaws but little longer than the hinder ones; in fact, the hairs of the forepaw often reach to their tips. This bear is a tree climber. It is the only kind found east of the great plains, and it is also plentiful in the forest-clad portions of the Rockies, being common in most heavily timbered tracts throughout the United States. The other is the grizzly, which weighs three or four times as much as the black, and has a pelt of coarse hair, which is in color gray, grizzled, or brown of various shades. It is not a tree climber, and the foreclaws are very long, much longer than the hinder ones. It is found from the great plains west of the Mississippi to the Pacific coast. This bear inhabits indifferently lowland and mountain; the deep woods and the barren plains where the only cover is the stunted growth fringing the streams. These two types are very distinct in every way, and their differences are not at all dependent upon mere geographical considerations; for they are often found in the same district. Thus I found them both in the Bighorn Mountains, each type being in extreme form, while the specimens I shot showed no trace of intergradation. The huge, grizzled, long-clawed beast, and its little, glossy-coated, short-clawed, tree-climbing brother roamed over exactly the same country in those mountains; but they were as distinct in habits, and mixed as little together as moose and caribou.
On the other hand, when a sufficient number of bears from widely separated regions are examined, the various distinguishing marks are found to be inconstant and to show a tendency—exactly how strong I cannot say—to fade into one another. The differentiation of the two species seems to be as yet scarcely completed; there are more or less imperfect connecting links, and as regards the grizzly it almost seems as if the specific characters were still unstable. In the far Northwest, in the basin of the Columbia, the “black” bear is as often brown as any other color; and I have seen the skins of two cubs, one black and one brown, which were shot when following the same dam. When these brown bears have coarser hair than usual their skins are with difficulty to be distinguished from those of certain varieties of the grizzly. Moreover, all bears vary greatly in size; and I have seen the bodies of very large black or brown bears with short foreclaws which were fully as heavy as, or perhaps heavier than, some small but full-grown grizzlies with long foreclaws. These very large bears with short claws are very reluctant to climb a tree; and are almost as clumsy about it as is a young grizzly. Among the grizzlies the fur varies much in color and texture even among bears of the same locality; it is of course richest in the deep forest, while the bears of the dry plains and mountains are of a lighter, more washed-out hue.
A full-grown grizzly will usually weigh from five to seven hundred pounds; but exceptional individuals undoubtedly reach more than twelve hundredweight. The California bears are said to be much the largest. This I think is so, but I cannot say it with certainty—at any rate, I have examined several skins of full-grown Californian bears which were no larger than those of many I have seen from the northern Rockies. The Alaskan bears, particularly those of the peninsula, are even bigger beasts; the skin of one which I saw in the possession of Mr. Webster, the taxidermist, was a good deal larger than the average polar bear skin; and the animal when alive, if in good condition, could hardly have weighed less than 1400 pounds. Bears vary wonderfully in weight, even to the extent of becoming half as heavy again, according as they are fat or lean; in this respect they are more like hogs than like any other animals.
HABITS OF BEAR
The grizzly is now chiefly a beast of the high hills and heavy timber; but this is merely because he has learned that he must rely on cover to guard him from man, and has forsaken the open ground accordingly. In old days, and in one or two very out-of-the-way places almost to the present time, he wandered at will over the plains. It is only the wariness born of fear which nowadays causes him to cling to the thick brush of the large river bottoms throughout the plains country. When there were no rifle-bearing hunters in the land, to harass him and make him afraid, he roved hither and thither at will, in burly self-confidence. Then he cared little for cover, unless as a weather-break, or because it happened to contain food he liked. If the humor seized him he would roam for days over the rolling or broken prairie, searching for roots, digging up gophers, or perhaps following the great buffalo herds either to prey on some unwary straggler which he was able to catch at a disadvantage in a washout, or else to feast on the carcasses of those which died by accident. Old hunters, survivors of the long-vanished ages when the vast herds thronged the high plains and were followed by the wild red tribes, and by bands of whites who were scarcely less savage, have told me that they often met bears under such circumstances; and these bears were accustomed to sleep in a patch of rank sage bush, in the niche of a washout, or under the lee of a bowlder, seeking their food abroad even in full daylight. The bears of the Upper Missouri basin—which were so light in color that the early explorers often alluded to them as gray or even as “white”—were particularly given to this life in the open. To this day that close kinsman of the grizzly known as the bear of the barren grounds continues to lead this same kind of life, in the far north. My friend, Mr. Rockhill, of Maryland, who was the first white man to explore eastern Tibet, describes the large grizzly-like bear of those desolate uplands as having similar habits.
However, the grizzly is a shrewd beast and shows the usual bear-like capacity for adapting himself to changed conditions. He has in most places become a cover-haunting animal, sly in his ways, wary to a degree, and clinging to the shelter of the deepest forests in the mountains and of the most tangled thickets in the plains. Hence he has held his own far better than such game as the bison and elk. He is much less common than formerly, but he is still to be found throughout most of his former range; save, of course, in the immediate neighborhood of the large towns.
In most places the grizzly hibernates, or, as old hunters say, “holes up,” during the cold season, precisely as does the black bear; but, as with the latter species, those animals which live farthest south spend the whole year abroad in mild seasons. The grizzly rarely chooses that favorite den of his little black brother, a hollow tree or log, for his winter sleep, seeking or making some cavernous hole in the ground instead. The hole is sometimes in a slight hillock in a river bottom, but more often on a hill-side, and may be either shallow or deep. In the mountains it is generally a natural cave in the rock, but among the foot-hills and on the plains the bear usually has to take some hollow or opening, and then fashion it into a burrow to his liking with his big digging claws.
Before the cold weather sets in, the bear begins to grow restless, and to roam about seeking for a good place in which to hole up. One will often try and abandon several caves or partially dug-out burrows in succession before finding a place to its taste. It always endeavors to choose a spot where there is little chance of discovery or molestation, taking great care to avoid leaving too evident trace of its work. Hence it is not often that the dens are found.
Once in its den the bear passes the cold months in lethargic sleep; yet, in all but the coldest weather, and sometimes even then, its slumber is but light, and if disturbed it will promptly leave its den, prepared for fight or flight as the occasion may require. Many times when a hunter has stumbled on the winter resting-place of a bear and has left it, as he thought, without his presence being discovered, he has returned only to find that the crafty old fellow was aware of the danger all the time, and sneaked off as soon as the coast was clear. But in very cold weather hibernating bears can hardly be wakened from their torpid lethargy.
The length of time a bear stays in its den depends of course upon the severity of the season and the latitude and altitude of the country.
When the bear first leaves its den the fur is in very fine order, but it speedily becomes thin and poor, and does not recover its condition until the fall. Sometimes the bear does not betray any great hunger for a few days after its appearance; but in a short while it becomes ravenous. During the early spring, when the woods are still entirely barren and lifeless, while the snow yet lies in deep drifts, the lean, hungry brute, both maddened and weakened by long fasting, is more of a flesh eater than at any other time. It is at this period that it is most apt to turn true beast of prey, and show its prowess either at the expense of the wild game, or of the flocks of the settler and the herds of the ranchman. Bears are very capricious in this respect, however. Some are confirmed game and cattle killers; others are not; while yet others either are or are not, accordingly as the freak seizes them, and their ravages vary almost unaccountably, both with the season and the locality.
AN EXCITING BEAR HUNT
I spent much of the fall of 1889 hunting on the head-waters of the Salmon and Snake in Idaho, and along the Montana boundary line from the Big Hole Basin and the head of the Wisdom River to the neighborhood of Red Rock Pass and to the north and west of Henry’s Lake. During the last fortnight my companion was the old mountain man named Griffeth or Griffin—I cannot tell which, as he was always called either “Hank” or “Griff.” He was a crabbedly honest old fellow, and a very skillful hunter; but he was worn out with age and rheumatism, and his temper had failed even faster than his bodily strength. He showed me a greater variety of game than I had ever seen before in so short a time; nor did I ever before or after make so successful a hunt. But he was an exceedingly disagreeable companion on account of his surly, moody ways. I generally had to get up first, to kindle the fire and make ready breakfast, and he was very quarrelsome. Finally, during my absence from camp one day, while not very far from Red Rock Pass, he found my whiskey-flask, which I kept purely for emergencies, and drank all the contents. When I came back he was quite drunk. This was unbearable, and after some high words I left him, and struck off homeward through the woods on my own account. We had with us four pack and saddle horses; and of these I took a very intelligent and gentle little bronco mare, which possessed the invaluable trait of always staying near camp, even when not hobbled. I was not hampered with much of an outfit, having only my buffalo sleeping-bag, a fur coat, and my washing-kit, with a couple of spare pairs of socks and some handkerchiefs. A frying-pan, some salt, flour, baking-powder, a small chunk of salt pork, and a hatchet made up a light pack, which, with the bedding, I fastened across the stock saddle by means of a rope and a spare packing cinch. My cartridges and knife were in my belt; my compass and matches, as always, in my pocket. I walked, while the little mare followed almost like a dog, often without my having to hold the lariat which served as halter.
The country was for the most part fairly open, as I kept near the foot-hills where glades and little prairies broke the pine forest. The trees were of small size. There was no regular trail, but the course was easy to keep, and I had no trouble of any kind save on the second day. That afternoon I was following a stream which at last “canyoned up”—that is, sank to the bottom of a canyon-like ravine impassable for a horse. I started up a side valley, intending to cross from its head coulies to those of another valley which would lead in below the canyon.
However, I got enmeshed in the tangle of winding valleys at the foot of the steep mountains, and as dusk was coming on I halted and camped in a little open spot by the side of a small, noisy brook, with crystal water. The place was carpeted with soft, wet, green moss, dotted red with the kinnikinnic berries, and at its edge, under the trees where the ground was dry, I threw down the buffalo bed on the mat of sweet-smelling pine needles. Making camp took but a moment. I opened the pack, tossed the bedding on a smooth spot, knee-haltered the little mare, dragged up a few dry logs, and then strolled off, rifle on shoulder, through the frosty gloaming, to see if I could pick up a grouse for supper.
For half a mile I walked quickly and silently over the pine needles, across a succession of slight ridges separated by narrow, shallow valleys. The forest here was composed of lodge-pole pines, which on the ridges grew close together, with tall slender trunks, while in the valleys the growth was more open. Though the sun was behind the mountains there was yet plenty of light by which to shoot, but it was fading rapidly.
At last, as I was thinking of turning toward camp, I stole up to the crest of one of the ridges, and looked over into the valley some sixty yards off. Immediately I caught the loom of some large, dark object; and another glance showed me a big grizzly walking slowly off with his head down. He was quartering to me, and I fired into his flank, the bullet, as I afterward found, ranging forward and piercing one lung. At the shot he uttered a loud, moaning grunt and plunged forward at a heavy gallop, while I raced obliquely down the hill to cut him off. After going a few hundred feet he reached a laurel thicket, some thirty yards broad, and two or three times as long, which he did not leave. I ran up to the edge and there halted, not liking to venture into the mass of twisted, close-growing stems and glossy foliage. Moreover, as I halted, I heard him utter a peculiar, savage kind of whine from the heart of the brush. Accordingly, I began to skirt the edge, standing on tiptoe and gazing earnestly to see if I could not catch a glimpse of his hide. When I was at the narrowest part of the thicket, he suddenly left it directly opposite, and then wheeled and stood broadside to me on the hill-side, a little above. He turned his head stiffly toward me; scarlet strings of froth hung from his lips; his eyes burned like embers in the gloom.
I held true, aiming behind the shoulder, and my bullet shattered the point or lower end of his heart, taking out a big nick. Instantly the great bear turned with a harsh roar of fury and challenge, blowing the bloody foam from his mouth, so that I saw the gleam of his white fangs; and then he charged straight at me, crashing and bounding through the laurel bushes, so that it was hard to aim. I waited until he came to a fallen tree, raking him as he topped it with a ball which entered his chest and went through the cavity of his body, but he neither swerved nor flinched, and at the moment I did not know that I had struck him. He came steadily on, and in another second was almost upon me. I fired for his forehead, but my bullet went low, entering his open mouth, smashing his lower jaw and going into the neck. I leaped to one side almost as I pulled trigger; and through the hanging smoke the first thing I saw was his paw as he made a vicious side blow at me. The rush of his charge carried him past. As he struck he lurched forward, leaving a pool of bright blood where his muzzle hit the ground; but he recovered himself and made two or three jumps onward, while I hurriedly jammed a couple of cartridges into the magazine, my rifle holding only four, all of which I had fired. Then he tried to pull up, but as he did so his muscles seemed suddenly to give way, his head drooped, and he rolled over and over like a shot rabbit. Each of my first three bullets had inflicted a mortal wound.
It was already twilight, and I merely opened the carcass, and then trotted back to camp. Next morning I returned and with much labor took off the skin. The fur was very fine, the animal being in excellent trim, and unusually bright-colored. Unfortunately, in packing it out I lost the skull, and had to supply its place with one of plaster. The beauty of the trophy, and the memory of the circumstances under which I procured it, make me value it perhaps more highly than any other in my house.
This is the only instance in which I have been regularly charged by a grizzly. On the whole, the danger of hunting these great bears has been much exaggerated. At the beginning of the present century, when white hunters first encountered the grizzly, he was doubtless an exceedingly savage beast, prone to attack without provocation, and a redoubtable foe to persons armed with the clumsy, small-bore, muzzle-loading rifles of the day. But at present, bitter experience has taught him caution. He has been hunted for sport, and hunted for his pelt, and hunted for the bounty, and hunted as a dangerous enemy to stock, until, save in the very wildest districts, he has learned to be more wary than a deer, and to avoid man’s presence almost as carefully as the most timid kind of game. Except in rare cases he will not attack of his own accord, and, as a rule, even when wounded his object is escape rather than battle.
Still, when fairly brought to bay, or when moved by a sudden fit of ungovernable anger, the grizzly is beyond peradventure a very dangerous antagonist. The first shot, if taken at a bear a good distance off and previously unwounded and unharried, is not usually fraught with much danger, the startled animal being at the outset bent merely on flight. It is always hazardous, however, to track a wounded and worried grizzly into thick cover, and the man who habitually follows and kills this chief of American game in dense timber, never abandoning the bloody trail whithersoever it leads, must show no small degree of skill and hardihood, and must not too closely count the risk to life or limb. Bears differ widely in temper, and occasionally one may be found who will not show fight, no matter how much he is bullied; but, as a rule, a hunter must be cautious in meddling with a wounded animal which has retreated into a dense thicket, and has been once or twice roused; and such a beast, when it does turn, will usually charge again and again, and fight to the last with unconquerable ferocity. The short distance at which the bear can be seen through the underbrush, the fury of its charge, and its tenacity of life make it necessary for the hunter on such occasions to have steady nerves and a fairly quick and accurate aim. It is always well to have two men in following a wounded bear under such conditions. This is not necessary, however, and a good hunter, rather than lose his quarry, will, under ordinary circumstances, follow and attack it, no matter how tangled the fastness in which it has sought refuge; but he must act warily and with the utmost caution and resolution, if he wishes to escape a terrible and probably fatal mauling. An experienced hunter is rarely rash, and never heedless; he will not, when alone, follow a wounded bear into a thicket, if by the exercise of patience, skill, and knowledge of the game’s habits he can avoid the necessity; but it is idle to talk of the feat as something which ought in no case to be attempted. While danger ought never to be needlessly incurred, it is yet true that the keenest zest in sport comes from its presence, and from the consequent exercise of the qualities necessary to overcome it. The most thrilling moments of an American hunter’s life are those in which, with every sense on the alert, and with nerves strung to the highest point, he is following alone into the heart of its forest fastness the fresh and bloody footprints of an angered grizzly; and no other triumph of American hunting can compare with the victory to be thus gained.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919), twenty-sixth President of the United States, was born in New York City. As a boy he was of frail physique, but overcame this handicap by systematic exercise and outdoor life. He was always interested in natural history, and at the age of fourteen, when he accompanied his father on a tour up the Nile, he made a collection of the Egyptian birds to be found in the Nile valley. This collection is now in the Smithsonian Museum, Washington, D. C. In 1884, Roosevelt bought two cattle ranches near Medora, in North Dakota, where for two years he lived and entered actively into western life and spirit.
In 1909, at the close of his presidency, he conducted an expedition to Africa, to make a collection of tropical animals and plants. Expert naturalists accompanied the party, which remained in the wilderness for a year, and returned with a collection which scientists pronounce of unusual value for students of natural history. Most of the specimens are now in the Smithsonian Museum. Some of the books in which he has recorded his hunting experiences are: _African Game Trails_, _The Deer Family_, and _The Wilderness Hunter_, from which “Old Ephraim, the Grizzly Bear” is taken.
Mr. Roosevelt’s last work as an explorer was his journey to South America. On this journey he penetrated wildernesses rarely explored by white men, and made many discoveries in the field of South American animal and vegetable life and in geography.
The vigorous personality of this great American found expression not only in the life of men and their political and social relations, but also in his love of the great outdoors and the unbeaten tracks where life is an adventure, primitive in surroundings, such a life as was lived by Sir Walter Raleigh and other great seamen and explorers who were not content with the tameness of the commonplace.
=Discussion.= 1. By what characteristics may the grizzly generally be distinguished from the black bear? 2. Which of these characteristics is most fixed? 3. What change has taken place in the habits of the North American grizzly? 4. Account for this change. 5. Locate the region in which the author was hunting at the time of the adventure he narrates. 6. Describe his outfit and tell what must be considered in providing such a hunting outfit. 7. What moments in the encounter with the grizzly were most exciting and dangerous? 8. What qualities must a hunter of such game possess? 9. What conclusions does the author give as a result of his experience in hunting “this chief of American game”? 10. What impression of the author do you gain from this story? 11. Pronounce: species; wariness; harass; lethargic; capricious; canyon; obliquely; severity; misshapen.
=Phrases=
popular opinion, 15, 14 natural history, 15, 16 specific identity, 15, 21 standing puzzle, 16, 9 superior prowess, 16, 17 stoutly maintains, 16, 21 widely separated individuals, 16, 28 inhabits indifferently, 17, 7 in extreme form, 17, 14 imperfect connecting links, 17, 25 rely on cover, 18, 23 wariness born of fear, 18, 26 lee of a bowlder, 19, 9 wary to a degree, 19, 21 held his own, 19, 23 crabbedly honest, 21, 11 quartering to me, 22, 34 hunted for the bounty, 24, 17 brought to bay, 24, 24 beyond peradventure, 24, 25
MOTI GUJ—MUTINEER
RUDYARD KIPLING
DEESA’S PLAN FOR A VACATION
Once upon a time there was a coffee-planter in India who wished to clear some forest land for coffee-planting. When he had cut down all the trees and burned the underwood, the stumps still remained. Dynamite is expensive and slow fire slow. The happy medium for stump-clearing is the lord of all beasts, who is the elephant. He will either push the stump out of the ground with his tusks, if he has any, or drag it out with ropes. The planter, therefore, hired elephants by ones and twos and threes, and fell to work. The very best of all the elephants belonged to the very worst of all the drivers or mahouts; and this superior beast’s name was Moti Guj. He was the absolute property of his mahout, which would never have been the case under native rule: for Moti Guj was a creature to be desired by kings, and his name, being translated, meant the Pearl Elephant. Because the British government was in the land, Deesa, the mahout, enjoyed his property undisturbed. He was dissipated. When he had made much money through the strength of his elephant, he would get extremely drunk and give Moti Guj a beating with a tent-peg over the tender nails of the forefeet. Moti Guj never trampled the life out of Deesa on these occasions, for he knew that after the beating was over, Deesa would embrace his trunk and weep and call him his love and his life and the liver of his soul, and give him some liquor. Moti Guj was very fond of liquor—arrack for choice, though he would drink palm-tree toddy if nothing better offered. Then Deesa would go to sleep between Moti Guj’s forefeet, and as Deesa generally chose the middle of the public road, and as Moti Guj mounted guard over him, and would not permit horse, foot, or cart to pass by, traffic was congested till Deesa saw fit to wake up.
There was no sleeping in the daytime on the planter’s clearing: the wages were too high to risk. Deesa sat on Moti Guj’s neck and gave him orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the stumps—for he owned a magnificent pair of tusks; or pulled at the end of a rope—for he had a magnificent pair of shoulders—while Deesa kicked him behind the ears and said he was the king of elephants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash down his three hundred pounds’ weight of green food with a quart of arrack, and Deesa would take a share, and sing songs between Moti Guj’s legs till it was time to go to bed. Once a week Deesa led Moti Guj down to the river, and Moti Guj lay on his side luxuriously in the shallows, while Deesa went over him with a coir-swab and a brick. Moti Guj never mistook the pounding blow of the latter for the smack of the former that warned him to get up and turn over on the other side. Then Deesa would look at his feet and examine his eyes, and turn up the fringes of his mighty ears in case of sores or budding ophthalmia. After inspection the two would “come up with a song from the sea,” Moti Guj, all black and shining, weaving a torn tree branch twelve feet long in his trunk, and Deesa knotting up his own long wet hair.
It was a peaceful, well-paid life till Deesa felt the return of the desire to drink deep. He wished for an orgy. The little draughts that led nowhere were taking the manhood out of him.
He went to the planter, and “My mother’s dead,” said he, weeping.
“She died on the last plantation two months ago, and she died once before that when you were working for me last year,” said the planter, who knew something of the ways of nativedom.
“Then it’s my aunt, and she was just the same as a mother to me,” said Deesa, weeping more than ever. “She has left eighteen small children entirely without bread, and it is I who must fill their little stomachs,” said Deesa, beating his head on the floor.
“Who brought you the news?” said the planter.
“The post,” said Deesa.
“There hasn’t been a post here for the past week. Get back to your lines!”
“A devastating sickness has fallen on my village, and all my wives are dying,” yelled Deesa, really in tears this time.
“Call Chihun, who comes from Deesa’s village,” said the planter. “Chihun, has this man got a wife?”
“He?” said Chihun. “No. Not a woman of our village would look at him. They’d sooner marry the elephant.”
Chihun snorted. Deesa wept and bellowed.
“You will get into a difficulty in a minute,” said the planter. “Go back to your work!”
“Now I will speak Heaven’s truth,” gulped Deesa, with an inspiration. “I haven’t been drunk for two months. I desire to depart in order to get properly drunk afar off and distant from this heavenly plantation. Thus I shall cause no trouble.”
A flickering smile crossed the planter’s face. “Deesa,” said he, “you’ve spoken the truth, and I’d give you leave on the spot if anything could be done with Moti Guj while you’re away. You know that he will only obey your orders.”
“May the light of the heavens live forty thousand years. I shall be absent but ten little days. After that, upon my faith and honor and soul, I return. As to the inconsiderable interval, have I the gracious permission of the heaven-born to call up Moti Guj?”
Permission was granted, and in answer to Deesa’s shrill yell, the mighty tusker swung out of the shade of a clump of trees where he had been squirting dust over himself till his master should return.
“Light of my heart, protector of the drunken, mountain of might, give ear!” said Deesa, standing in front of him.
Moti Guj gave ear, and saluted with his trunk. “I am going away,” said Deesa.
Moti Guj’s eyes twinkled. He liked jaunts as well as his master. One could snatch all manner of nice things from the road-side then.
“But you, you fussy old pig, must stay behind and work.”
The twinkle died out as Moti Guj tried to look delighted. He hated stump-hauling on the plantation. It hurt his teeth.
“I shall be gone for ten days, oh, delectable one! Hold up your near forefoot and I’ll impress the fact upon it, warty toad of a dried mud-puddle.” Deesa took a tent-peg and banged Moti Guj ten times on the nails. Moti Guj grunted and shuffled from foot to foot.
“Ten days,” said Deesa, “you will work and haul and root the trees as Chihun here shall order you. Take up Chihun and set him on your neck!” Moti Guj curled the tip of his trunk, Chihun put his foot there, and was swung on to the neck. Deesa handed Chihun the heavy _ankus_—the iron elephant goad.
Chihun thumped Moti Guj’s bald head as a paver thumps a curbstone.
Moti Guj trumpeted.
“Be still, hog of the backwoods! Chihun’s your mahout for ten days. And now bid me good-by, beast after mine own heart. Oh, my lord, my king! Jewel of all created elephants, lily of the herd, preserve your honored health; be virtuous. Adieu!”
Moti Guj lapped his trunk round Deesa and swung him into the air twice. That was his way of bidding him good-by.
“He’ll work now,” said Deesa to the planter. “Have I leave to go?”
The planter nodded, and Deesa dived into the woods. Moti Guj went back to haul stumps.
THE MUTINY
Chihun was very kind to him, but he felt unhappy and forlorn for all that. Chihun gave him a ball of spices, and tickled him under the chin, and Chihun’s little baby cooed to him after work was over, and Chihun’s wife called him a darling; but Moti Guj was a bachelor by instinct, as Deesa was. He did not understand the domestic emotions. He wanted the light of his universe back again—the drink and the drunken slumber, the savage beatings and the savage caresses.
None the less he worked well, and the planter wondered. Deesa had wandered along the roads till he met a marriage procession of his own caste, and, drinking, dancing, and tippling, had drifted with it past all knowledge of the lapse of time.
The morning of the eleventh day dawned, and there returned no Deesa. Moti Guj was loosed from his ropes for the daily stint. He swung clear, looked round, shrugged his shoulders, and began to walk away, as one having business elsewhere.
“Hi! ho! Come back, you!” shouted Chihun. “Come back and put me on your neck, misborn mountain! Return, splendor of the hill-sides! Adornment of all India, heave to, or I’ll bang every toe off your fat forefoot!”
Moti Guj gurgled gently, but did not obey. Chihun ran after him with a rope and caught him up. Moti Guj put his ears forward, and Chihun knew what that meant, though he tried to carry it off with high words.
“None of your nonsense with me,” said he. “To your pickets, devil-son!”
“Hrrump!” said Moti Guj, and that was all—that and the forebent ears.
Moti Guj put his hands in his pockets, chewed a branch for a toothpick, and strolled about the clearing, making fun of the other elephants who had just set to work.
Chihun reported the state of affairs to the planter, who came out with a dog-whip and cracked it furiously. Moti Guj paid the white man the compliment of charging him nearly a quarter of a mile across the clearing and “Hrrumphing” him into his veranda. Then he stood outside the house, chuckling to himself and shaking all over with the fun of it as an elephant will.
“We’ll thrash him,” said the planter. “He shall have the finest thrashing ever elephant received. Give Kala Nag and Nazim twelve foot of chain apiece, and tell them to lay on twenty.”
Kala Nag—which means Black Snake—and Nazim were two of the biggest elephants in the lines, and one of their duties was to administer the graver punishment, since no man can beat an elephant properly.
They took the whipping-chains and rattled them in their trunks as they sidled up to Moti Guj, meaning to hustle him between them. Moti Guj had never, in all his life of thirty-nine years, been whipped, and he did not intend to begin a new experience. So he waited, waving his head from right to left, and measuring the precise spot in Kala Nag’s fat side where a blunt tusk could sink deepest. Kala Nag had no tusks; the chain was the badge of his authority; but for all that, he swung wide of Moti Guj at the last minute, and tried to appear as if he had brought the chain out for amusement. Nazim turned round and went home early. He did not feel fighting fit that morning and so Moti Guj was left standing alone with his ears cocked.
That decided the planter to argue no more, and Moti Guj rolled back to his amateur inspection of the clearing. An elephant who will not work and is not tied up is about as manageable as an eighty-one-ton gun loose in a heavy seaway. He slapped old friends on the back and asked them if the stumps were coming away easily; he talked nonsense concerning labor and the inalienable rights of elephants to a long “nooning”; and, wandering to and fro, he thoroughly demoralized the garden till sundown, when he returned to his-picket for food.
“If you won’t work, you shan’t eat,” said Chihun, angrily. “You’re a wild elephant, and no educated animal at all. Go back to your jungle.”
Chihun’s little brown baby was rolling on the floor of the hut, and stretching out its fat arms to the huge shadow in the doorway. Moti Guj knew well that it was the dearest thing on earth to Chihun. He swung out his trunk with a fascinating crook at the end, and the brown baby threw itself, shouting, upon it. Moti Guj made fast and pulled up till the brown baby was crowing in the air twelve feet above his father’s head.
“Great Lord!” said Chihun. “Flour cakes of the best, twelve in number, two feet across and soaked in rum, shall be yours on the instant, and two hundred pounds weight of fresh-cut young sugar-cane therewith. Deign only to put down safely that insignificant brat who is my heart and my life to me!”
Moti Guj tucked the brown baby comfortably between his forefeet, that could have knocked into toothpicks all Chihun’s hut, and waited for his food. He ate it, and the brown baby crawled away. Moti Guj dozed and thought of Deesa. One of many mysteries connected with the elephant is that his huge body needs less sleep than anything else that lives. Four or five hours in the night suffice—two just before midnight, lying down on one side; two just after one o’clock, lying down on the other. The rest of the silent hours are filled with eating and fidgeting, and long grumbling soliloquies.
At midnight, therefore, Moti Guj strode out of his pickets, for a thought had come to him that Deesa might be lying drunk somewhere in the dark forest with none to look after him. So all that night he chased through the undergrowth, blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears. He went down to the river and blared across the shallows where Deesa used to wash him, but there was no answer. He could not find Deesa, but he disturbed all the other elephants in the lines, and nearly frightened to death some gypsies in the woods.
At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation. He had been very drunk indeed, and he expected to get into trouble for outstaying his leave. He drew a long breath when he saw that the bungalow and the plantation were still uninjured, for he knew something of Moti Guj’s temper, and reported himself with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj had gone to his pickets for breakfast. The night exercise had made him hungry.
“Call up your beast,” said the planter; and Deesa shouted in the mysterious elephant language that some mahouts believe came from China at the birth of the world, when elephants and not men were masters. Moti Guj heard and came. Elephants do not gallop. They move from places at varying rates of speed. If an elephant wished to catch an express train he could not gallop, but he could catch the train. So Moti Guj was at the planter’s door almost before Chihun noticed that he had left his pickets. He fell into Deesa’s arms, trumpeting with joy, and the man and beast wept and slobbered over each other, and handled each other from head to heel to see that no harm had befallen.
“Now we will get to work,” said Deesa. “Lift me up, my son and my joy!”
Moti Guj swung him up, and the two went to the coffee-clearing to look for difficult stumps.
The planter was too astonished to be very angry.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Rudyard Kipling (1865—) was born in Bombay, India, of British parents. He was sent to England for most of his education, but at the age of seventeen he returned to India to work as a journalist. Very soon he began to write tales of the life about him, as well as poems dealing with British civil officials and soldiers in India. By the time he was twenty-four he had won fame with his _Plain Tales from the Hills_ and other short stories; and when he published _Barrack Room Ballads_, in 1892, he was widely recognized as a great poet. From 1892 to 1896 he lived in the United States. Perhaps he is best known to boys and girls as the author of the _Jungle Books_. He is a master of the art of telling stories, either in prose or verse. His ballads about the British soldier, “Tommy Atkins,” and his experiences on the frontiers of civilization, have a ring and a movement that suggests the old days when the ballad-maker was a man of action, living the adventures that he celebrated in song.
=Discussion.= 1. Read all that tells you of the time and place in which this mutiny occurred. 2. Read all that gives you a picture of life on the clearing. 3. Who is the principal character in the story? 4. What caused the mutiny? 5. What ended it? 6. What is the most interesting point in the story? 7. Read parts that convince you that Kipling knows the characteristics of the elephant. 8. Find instances where he exaggerates the intelligence of the elephant, giving it human characteristics. 9. Does this add to or take from the interest of the story? 10. Read parts in which humor is shown in dialogue or incident. 11. Tell in your own words the main incident. 12. What do you like about this story? 13. Tell what you know of the author. 14. Pronounce the following: orgy; draughts; devastating; amateur; deign.
=Phrases=
happy medium, 27, 5 absolute property, 27, 11 the case under native rule, 27, 12 liver of his soul, 27, 22 draughts that led nowhere, 28, 22 ways of nativedom, 28, 27 with an inspiration, 29, 8 inconsiderable interval, 29, 18 mighty tusker, 29, 22 domestic emotions, 30, 26 savage caresses, 30, 28 of his own caste, 30, 31 adornment of all India, 31, 5 forebent ears, 31, 14 badge of his authority, 32, 2 amateur inspection, 32, 8 inalienable rights, 32, 13 fascinating crook, 32, 22 grumbling soliloquies, 33, 3 blared across the shallows, 33, 9
THE ELEPHANTS THAT STRUCK
SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
I remember an occasion many years ago when in Ceylon I, in connection with my brother, had organized a scheme for the development of a mountain sanitarium at Newera Ellia. We had a couple of tame elephants employed in various works; but it was necessary to obtain the assistance of the government stables for the transport of very heavy machinery, which could not be conveyed in the ordinary native carts. There were accordingly a large number of elephant wagons drawn by their colossal teams, some of which required four elephants.
It was the wet season upon the mountains. Our settlement was 6200 feet above the sea, and the zigzag pass from Ramboddé, at the base of the steep ascent, was fifteen miles in length. The crest of the pass was 7000 feet in altitude, from which we descended 800 feet to the Newera Ellia plain.
The elephant wagons having arrived at Ramboddé from Colombo, about 100 miles distant, commenced the heavy uphill journey. The rain was unceasing, the roads were soft, and the heavily laden wagons sank deeply in the ruts; but the elephants were mighty beasts, and, laying their weight against the work, they slowly dragged the vehicles up the yielding and narrow way.
The abrupt zigzags bothered the long wagons and their still longer teams. The bridges over dangerous chasms entailed the necessity of unloading the heavier carts, and caused great delay. Day after day passed away; but although the ascent was slow, the wagons still moved upwards, and the region of everlasting mist (at that season) was reached. Dense forests clothed the mountain sides; the roar of waterfalls resounded in the depths of black ravines; tangled bamboo grass crept upwards from the wet soil into the lower branches of the moss-covered trees, and formed a green curtain impenetrable to sight.
The thermometer fell daily as the altitude increased. The elephants began to sicken; two fine animals died. There was plenty of food, as the bamboo grass was the natural provender, and in the carts was a good supply of paddy; but the elephants’ intelligence was acting against them—they had reasoned, and had become despondent.
For nine or ten days they had been exposed to ceaseless wet and cold, dragging their unmanageable wagons up a road that even in dry weather was insufficient to sustain the weight. The wheels sank deep below the metal foundation, and became hopelessly imbedded. Again and again the wagons had to be emptied of their contents, and extra elephants were taken from other carts and harnessed to the empty wagons, which were by sheer weight of animals dragged from the deep mire.
Thus the time had passed, and the elephants had evidently reasoned upon the situation, and had concluded that there was no summit to the mountain, and no end to the steep and horrible ascent; it would be, therefore, useless to persevere in unavailing efforts. They determined, under these heart-breaking circumstances, to strike work; and they did strike.
One morning a couple of the elephant drivers appeared at my house in Newera Ellia, and described the situation. They declared that it was absolutely impossible to induce the elephants to work; they had given it up as a bad job!
I immediately mounted my horse and rode up the pass, and then descended the road upon the other side, timing the distance by my watch. Rather under two miles from the summit I found the road completely blocked with elephant carts and wagons; the animals were grazing upon bamboo grass in the thick forest; the rain was drizzling, and a thick mist increased the misery of the scene. I ordered four elephants to be harnessed to a cart intended for only one animal. This was quickly effected, and the drivers were soon astride the animals’ necks, and prodded them with the persuasive iron hooks. Not an elephant would exert itself to draw. In vain the drivers, with relentless cruelty, drove the iron points deep into the poor brutes’ necks and heads, and used every threat of their vocabulary; the only response was a kind of “marking time” on the part of the elephants, which simply moved their legs mechanically up and down, and swung their trunks to and fro; but none would pull or exert the slightest power, neither did they move forward a single inch!
I never saw such an instance of passive and determined obstinacy; the case was hopeless.
An idea struck me. I ordered the drivers to detach the four elephants from the harness, and to ride them thus unfettered up the pass, following behind my horse. It appeared to me that if the elephants were heart-broken, and in despair at the apparently interminable mountain pass, it would be advisable to let them know the actual truth, by showing them that they were hardly two miles from the summit, where they would exchange their uphill labor for a descent into Newera Ellia; they should then have an extra feed, with plenty of jaggery (a coarse brown sugar). If they passed an agreeable night, with the best of food and warm quarters, they would possibly return on the following day to their work, and with lighter hearts would put their shoulders to the wheel, instead of yielding to a dogged attitude of despair.
The success of this ruse was perfect. The elephants accompanied me to Newera Ellia, and were well fed and cared for. On the following day we returned to the heavy work, and I myself witnessed their start with the hitherto unyielding wagon. Not only did they exert their full powers, and drag the lumbering load straight up the fatiguing hill without the slightest hesitation, but their example, or some unaccountable communication between them, appeared to give general encouragement. I employed the most willing elephants as extras to each wagon, which they drew to the summit of the pass, and then returned to assist the others—thus completing what had been pronounced by the drivers as utterly impossible. There can be no doubt that the elephants had at once perceived the situation, and in consequence recovered their lost courage.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Samuel White Baker (1821-1893) was an English engineer. At the age of twenty-four he went to Ceylon, where he founded an agricultural settlement. He soon became known as an explorer and a hunter of big game. With his wife he explored the region of the Nile, and later discovered the lake now called Albert Nyanza. His explorations in this part of central Africa were a part of the thrilling story of the discovery of the sources of the Nile, and of the opening of this region to civilization. To know the complete story of these explorations you should read something about Henry M. Stanley and David Livingstone. An interesting book covering explorations in Africa is Bayard Taylor’s _Central Africa_.
Upon his return to England, Baker was greatly honored. He was knighted and sent to Egypt, where he was commissioned by the Khedive to suppress the slave traffic and establish regular trade. Later he explored and hunted in Cyprus, Syria, India, Japan, and the United States. He is the author of _Wild Beasts and Their Ways_, _The Rifle and the Hound in Ceylon_, and _True Tales for My Grandsons_, from which this selection was taken.
=Discussion.= 1. Locate Ceylon on a map. 2. In what work were the elephants engaged when they became discouraged? 3. Why was the climb particularly difficult at this season? 4. What ruse was employed? 5. What success attended the plan? 6. Pronounce: vehicles; chasm; ruse; fatiguing.
=Phrases=
colossal teams, 35, 8 entailed the necessity, 35, 23 natural provender, 36, 3 intelligence was acting against, 36, 5 by sheer weight, 36, 13 reasoned upon the situation, 36, 16 persuasive iron hooks, 36, 34 marking time, 37, 1 passive obstinacy, 37, 5 unaccountable communication, 37, 27
BIRDS
ROBERT OF LINCOLN
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: “Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers, Chee, chee, chee!”
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright, black wedding coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note: “Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look what a nice new coat is mine; Sure, there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee!”
Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: “Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee!”
Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note; Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: “Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man, Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee!”
Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight, There, as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: “Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee!”
Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. “Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee!”
Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care, Off his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: “Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I, Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee!”
Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows, Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: “Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee!”
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) was the first great American poet. He was reared among the rugged Berkshire Hills of western Massachusetts. Outside the district school, he had little teaching except that given by his mother and what he gave himself through the excellent library of his father, who was a country physician. He grew up in close touch with nature and the simple farm surroundings, and this lonely life may have tended to make him rather more serious and thoughtful than most boys of his age. By the time he was nine years old he was putting his thoughts into verse in the stately fashion of the English poets of that time. In 1811, when yet scarcely eighteen, he wrote “Thanatopsis,” now one of the world’s classics.
By this time he had studied two years at a private school and seven months at Williams College. He was ambitious to continue his studies at Yale, but his father’s circumstances compelled him to give up that hope and to face the immediate problem of earning his own living. He studied law and was admitted to practice in 1815. After a few years he went to New York, where in 1825 he became editor of the _Evening Post_—a position which he continued to fill with distinction for more than half a century, until his death in 1878.
And yet this busy editor of a great city newspaper found leisure from time to time to cultivate his love for verse and to continue to write poetry. His poems were popular with Americans because he chose for the most part American subjects taken from his own immediate surroundings and experience—the scenes and impressions of his boyhood, the flowers, the birds, the hills, the climate of his own New England.
America’s first men of letters whose writings proved that the new republic could produce a literature worthy to be compared with that of the mother country were James Fenimore Cooper, writer of Indian tales; Washington Irving, writer of legends about America and the sketches about our old English home; and William Cullen Bryant. Cooper showed the strangeness and romance of frontier life. Irving tried to give to America the romantic background that the new country lacked. Bryant opened men’s eyes to the beauty of nature.
Though Bryant was eleven years younger than Irving, his “Thanatopsis” was written only two years after Irving’s “Knickerbocker.”
=Note.= The bobolink is an American song bird. In the spring the male is mostly black and white, while the female is streaked with yellowish brown. In midsummer the male bobolink molts, taking on “plain brown” plumage like that of his “Quaker wife.” In the spring he regains his black and buff colors without molting any feathers. He sings only in the spring. The bobolink makes long migrations extending from Canada to Paraguay, and in the late autumn collects in large flocks which feed in the rice fields of the South, where he is known as the _ricebird_, or _reedbird_.
=Discussion.= 1. Read the lines that imitate the song of the bobolink. 2. Describe the dress of Robert of Lincoln and that of his “Quaker wife.” 3. How does her song differ from his? 4. What are the work and the care that make him silent? 5. How does the poet account for the change in his appearance as the season advances? 6. Where does he go for winter? When will he come again?
=Phrases=
prince of braggarts, 40, 12 chip the shell, 40, 28 bestirs him well, 40, 30 summer wanes, 41, 15 humdrum crone, 41, 17 pipe that merry old strain, 41, 21
THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT
HENRY VAN DYKE
From _Poems of Henry van Dyke_; copyright 1897, 1911, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. By permission of the publishers.
While May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There’s magic in that small bird’s note— See, there he flits—the Yellow-Throat; A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary’s lovely garden grows; Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try to call her down this way, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
Tell her to leave her cockle-shells, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she. She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run— One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here today, I would believe your charming lay, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
Along the shady road I look— Who’s coming now across the brook? A woodland maid, all robed in white— The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet—, Sing, merry bird, the charm’s complete, “_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Henry van Dyke (1852-⸺) was born in Germantown, which is now a part of the city of Philadelphia. When a small boy, his parents moved to Brooklyn. He was graduated from Princeton College in 1873 and from the Princeton Theological Seminary in 1877. For several years he was pastor of the Brick Presbyterian Church in New York City. Later he was made professor of English Literature at Princeton University, which position he still holds. In 1913 Dr. van Dyke was appointed United States Minister to Holland, where he lived during the early years of the World War. He has written many stories and poems of great literary charm.
=Discussion.= 1. What bird does the poet celebrate in this poem? 2. What pictures does the first stanza give you? 3. What does the Yellow-Throat seem to say? 4. Make a list of all the names by which the poet speaks of the bird. 5. What fancy does the poet express in the third and fourth stanzas? 6. What does the poet say is wanting to make the day’s charm complete? 7. Which stanza do you like best? 8. What is the name of the “woodland maid”?
=Phrases=
May bedecks the naked trees, 43, 1 incantation so serene, 43, 8 befits the scene, 43, 9 living sunbeam, 43, 12 you prophet, 43, 15 blossom into melody, 43, 24 the woods are greening, 44, 1 charming lay, 44, 6
THE BELFRY PIGEON
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
On the cross-beam under the Old South bell, The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter, that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air.
I love to see him track the street With his wary eye and active feet; And I often watch him, as he springs, Circling the steeple with easy wings, Till across the dial his shade has passed, And the belfry edge is gained at last.
’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; There’s a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; And I often stop with the fear I feel, He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, Chime of the hour, or funeral knell, The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerily rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light, When the child is waked with “nine at night,” When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet unstirred, Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast; Then drops again, with filméd eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
Sweet bird! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd, like thee! With wings to fly to wood and glen, Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men; And, daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street; But, unlike me, when day is o’er, Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar; Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.
I would that, on such wings of gold, I could my weary heart upfold; I would I could look down unmoved (Unloving as I am unloved), And while the world throngs on beneath, Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe; And, never sad with others’ sadness, And never glad with others’ gladness, Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biographical and Historical Note.= Nathaniel Parker Willis (1806-1867) was a native of Portland, Maine, and a graduate of Yale College. He was born one year earlier than Longfellow, and lived most of his life in New York City, being one of a small group of writers known as “The Knickerbockers,” who for many years made New York the literary center of the country. His father, the Rev. Nathaniel Willis, established in Boston _The Youth’s Companion._
“Old South” is the name of a church in Boston, in which public meetings were held at the time of the Revolutionary War. It is now used as a museum of historic collections.
=Discussion.= 1. What do the first two stanzas tell you about the bird? 2. Name the various sounds of the bell that the poet mentions. 3. What comparison is found in the fifth stanza? 4. Compare the last stanza of “The Sandpiper” with the last stanza of this poem and tell which you like the better. 5. Can you give a reason why the pigeon is made the hero of this poem?
=Phrases=
track the street, 45, 5 wary eye, 45, 6 easy wings, 45, 8 nine at night, 45, 23 filméd eyes, 46, 3 hermit in the crowd, 46, 6 thy lot is cast with men, 46, 8 with unwilling feet, 46, 9 dismiss the world, 46, 12 half-felt wish for rest, 46, 13 weary heart upfold, 46, 17 throngs on beneath, 46, 20 lapped in quiet, 46, 25 bide my time, 46, 25
THE SANDPIPER
CELIA THAXTER
Across the lonely beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud, black and swift, across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry: He starts not at my fitful song, Nor flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be tonight, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not God’s children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Celia Thaxter (1835-1894), whose father was a lighthouse keeper on White Island, one of the rocky isles known as the “Isles of Shoals,” off the coast of New Hampshire, had the ocean for her companion in her early years. She studied the sunrise and the sunset, the wild flowers, the birds, the rocks, and all sea life. This selection shows how intimate was her friendship with the bird life of the ocean.
=Discussion.= 1. The poet and the sandpiper were comrades; in the first stanza, what tells you this? 2. Which lines give you a picture that might be used to illustrate this poem? 3. What common experiences did the poet and the bird have? 4. Give a quotation from the poem that describes the sandpiper and his habits. 5. What effect have the repetitions of the second line of the poem at the end of the first and second stanzas and the variations of it at the end of the third and fourth stanzas? 6. Which lines express confidence in God’s care for His children? 7. What classes of “God’s children” do “little sandpiper” and “I,” respectively, represent? 8. Pronounce the following: stanch; loosed; wroth.
=Phrases=
silent ghosts in misty shrouds, 47, 11 close-reefed vessels, 47, 14 my fitful song, 48. 3 flash of fluttering drapery, 48, 4 loosed storm breaks furiously, 48, 10 wroth the tempest rushes, 48, 13
THE THROSTLE
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
“Summer is coming, summer is coming, I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again!” Yes, my wild little Poet.
Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. “New, new, new, new!” Is it then so new That you should carol so madly?
“Love again, song again, nest again, young again!” Never a prophet so crazy! And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy.
“Here again, here, here, here, happy year!” O warble unchidden, unbidden! Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, And all the winters are hidden.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) was poet laureate of England, succeeding Wordsworth. This means that he was appointed to write poems about matters of national interest, such as his ode on the death of the Duke of Wellington; and that he also expressed something of the national spirit of England, as in his poems about King Arthur (_The Idylls of the King_) and in many poems about his native land. He was born in Lincolnshire and studied at Trinity College, Cambridge. He lived a quiet life and devoted himself to poetry, in which he excelled in beauty of expression and choice of words. You will learn to know him as a teller of tales in verse, these tales being both modern ballads and romances about King Arthur; as a writer of many lovely song-poems or lyrics; and as a poet of religious faith.
=Note.= The song-thrush, or throstle, is found in most parts of England, and is one of the finest songsters in Europe. Its note is rich and mellow. This is the bird of which Browning wrote,
“He sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!”
=Discussion.= 1. Which lines in the first stanza represent the song of the bird? 2. Which line gives Tennyson’s answer to the throstle? 3. Point out the words in the poem that represent the bird’s song. 4. Which lines tell you that Tennyson did not share the little bird’s hope? 5, What do the last two lines show that the bird did for the poet?
=Phrases=
wild little Poet, 49, 4 carol so madly, 49, 8 never a prophet so crazy, 49, 10 winters are hidden, 49, 16
TO THE CUCKOO
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
O blithe newcomer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice; O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass, Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near.
Though babbling only to the vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my schoolboy days I listened to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways, In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still long’d for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blesséd bird! the earth we pace, Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place, That is fit home for thee!
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= William Wordsworth (1770-1850) was born in the beautiful Cumberland Highlands of northern England, which furnished the inspiration for most of his poetry. While still a young man, he retired to the beautiful Lake Country of northern England, where he lived a simple life. He was devoted to the cause of liberty; he was a believer in the beauty and charm of the humble life; he often wrote about peasants rather than about lords and ladies and knights of romance. His flower poems and bird poems show the simplicity and sincerity of his nature.
=Note.= The cuckoo is a European bird noted for its two-syllable whistle, in imitation of which it is named; also for its habit of laying eggs in the nests of other birds for them to hatch, instead of building a nest of its own.
=Discussion.= 1. Why does the poet call the cuckoo “a wandering voice”? 2. What other names does the poet call the cuckoo? 3. To what habit of the cuckoo does this poem call attention? 4. Why does the poet say a “fairy place” is a fit home for the cuckoo? 5. What “golden time” is mentioned?
=Phrases=
thy twofold shout, 50, 6 at once far off and near, 50, 8 tale of visionary hours, 50, 11 beget that golden time again, 51, 11
THE BIRDS’ ORCHESTRA
CELIA THAXTER
Bobolink shall play the violin, Great applause to win; Lonely, sweet, and sad, the meadow-lark Plays the oboe. Hark! Yellow-bird the clarionet shall play, Blithe, and clear, and gay. Purple-finch what instrument will suit? He can play the flute. Fire-winged blackbirds sound the merry fife, Soldiers without strife; And the robins wind the mellow horn Loudly, eve and morn. Who shall clash the cymbals? Jay and crow, That is all they know; And, to roll the deep melodious drum, Lo! the bull-frogs come. Then the splendid chorus! Who shall sing Of so fine a thing? Who the names of the performers call Truly, one and all?
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 48.
=Discussion.= 1. What instruments compose the birds’ orchestra? 2. Why does the poet say the jay and crow are assigned to the cymbals? 3. Explain: “fire-winged” blackbirds. 4. What leads you to think that the author knew those birds intimately? 5. Do you think the chorus would be pleasing? 6. What assignments do you think are particularly apt?
=Phrases=
soldiers without strife, 52, 10 wind the mellow horn, 52, 11 clash the cymbals, 52, 13 roll the deep melodious drum, 52, 15
FLOWERS AND TREES
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven’s own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night;
Thou comest not when violets lean O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o’er the ground bird’s hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 41.
=Discussion.= 1. To whom is this poem addressed? 2. What words tell you the time of year that the fringed gentian blooms? 3. What words does the poet use to tell the color of the gentian? 4. When does it open? 5. What words does Bryant use to mean early morning? 6. When do violets come and in what kind of soil do they grow? 7. What words in the poem tell you this? 8. What does the poet tell you about the violets when he says they “lean,” and about the columbine when he says it “nods”? 9. What signs of approaching winter does the poet mention? 10. Why does the poet repeat “blue” in the third line of stanza 4? 11. Of what is this color a symbol? 12. To what in his life does Bryant compare the end of the year? 13. In this comparison what does the little flower represent?
=Phrases=
heaven’s own blue, 53, 2 quiet light succeeds, 53, 3 shortening days portend, 53, 11 cerulean wall, 53, 16
VIOLET! SWEET VIOLET!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Violet! sweet violet! Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years? Or with gladness are they full, For the night so beautiful, And longing for those far-off spheres?
Loved-one of my youth thou wast, Of my merry youth, And I see, Tearfully, All the fair and sunny past, All its openness and truth, Ever fresh and green in thee As the moss is in the sea.
Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown colored like the sky above, On which thou lookest ever, Can it know All the woe Of hope for what returneth never, All the sorrow and the longing To these hearts of ours belonging?
Out on it! no foolish pining For the sky Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining; Like thee let this soul of mine Take hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping—but divine. Violet! dear violet! Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience Which made thee all that nature meant thee!
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) came of one of the oldest and most influential New England families. Born in an atmosphere of learning, in the old family home in historic Cambridge, at the very doors of Harvard College, he enjoyed every advantage for culture that inherited tastes, ample means, and convenient opportunity could offer. Besides the facilities of the college near by, his father’s library, in which he roamed at will from his very infancy, was one of the richest in the whole country. It is not strange, then, that he grew to be one of the most scholarly Americans of his time.
After leaving college he studied law and opened an office in Boston. He became deeply interested in the political issues of the times and was thus stirred to his first serious efforts in literature. In 1848 appeared his “Vision of Sir Launfal,” founded upon the legend of the Holy Grail, and one of the most spiritually beautiful poems in any literature. Few patriotic poems surpass his “Commemoration Ode.” Besides his poetical works he wrote many essays and books of travel and of criticism. He succeeded Longfellow in his professorship at Harvard, and was the first editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_. He served successively as Minister to Spain and to England.
=Discussion.= 1. In the first stanza, how does the poet account for the violet’s eyes being “full of tears”? 2. To the poet what does the violet represent? 3. What vision does the violet bring to the poet? 4. How does the poet account for the color of the violet? 5. What change in the poet’s feeling is noted in the fourth stanza? 6. From what does the poet say his soul must “take hue”? 7. How does the poet in the last lines of the poem account for the violet’s eyes being “full of tears”?
=Phrases=
far-off spheres, 54, 8 fair and sunny past, 55, 1 fulfilling sense, 55, 24 glad obedience, 55, 25
TO THE DANDELION
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth’s ample round May match in wealth—thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.
Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease; ’Tis the spring’s largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God’s value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.
Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily’s breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.
Then think I of deep shadows on the grass— Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways— Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind—of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap—and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.
My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.
How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God’s book.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 55.
=Discussion.= 1. In which stanzas does the poet express his love for the dandelion? 2. Which stanzas tell why the dandelion is so dear to the poet? 3. Where must the poet have lived to learn what he tells us in these stanzas? 4. Use your own words for “rich earth’s ample round.” 5. Name some “prouder summer-blooms.” 6. What gold “drew the Spanish prow,” and through what “Indian seas”? 7. What gold wrinkles “the lean brow of age” and robs “the lover’s heart of ease”? How does the dandelion’s gold differ from it? 8. Explain the last three lines of stanza 2, and name any other common things we do not value enough. 9. How can the poet _look_ at the dandelion, but _see_ the tropics and Italy? 10. What “eyes are in the heart, and heed not space or time”? 11. Has a poet more vivid imagination than other people? Why? 12. Compare the expression “eyes are in the heart, and heed not space or time” with that of Wordsworth in “The Daffodils,” page 59, lines 21 and 22, “that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude,” and with that of Trowbridge in “Midwinter,” page 83, lines 15 and 16, “in my inmost ear is heard the music of a holier bird.” 13. Is there a similar idea in these expressions? 14. Which do you like best, “inward eye,” “inmost ear,” or “eyes in the heart”? 15. The dandelion is compared to gold and to sunshine; which comparison had the poet in mind in the first two lines of the last stanza? In the next four lines? 16. The flower reflects its “scanty gleam of heaven” in glowing color; how can human hearts reflect it?
=Phrases=
pledge of blithesome May, 58, 3 high-hearted buccaneers, 56, 5 primeval hush, 56, 11 spring’s largess, 57, 1 lavish hand, 57, 2 unrewarded eye, 57, 5 golden-cuirassed bee, 57, 10 childish piety, 57, 28 untainted ears, 57, 31 living pages, 58, 9
THE DAFFODILS
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;
For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 51.
=Discussion.= 1. What picture do the first two stanzas give you? 2. To whom does “I” refer? 3. Point out the comparison and the things compared in stanza 1; in stanza 2. 4. Why does the poet use the word “host” when he has already spoken of a “crowd”? 5. Explain the peculiar fitness of the word “sprightly.” 6. What lines particularly express life and gayety?
THE TRAILING ARBUTUS
JOHN G. WHITTIER
I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made Against the bitter East their barricade, And, guided by its sweet Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell, The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.
From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines Lifted their glad surprise, While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.
As, pausing o’er the lonely flower I bent, I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged, and pent, Which yet find room, Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day, And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) was born near the little town of Haverhill, Massachusetts, in the same county as Salem, the birthplace of Hawthorne. The old farmhouse in which Whittier was born was built by the poet’s great-great-grandfather. It still stands to mark the site of the old home. His family were Quakers, sturdy of stature as of character. Whittier’s boyhood was in complete contrast to that of Lowell or Longfellow. He led the life of a typical New England farm boy, used to hard work, no luxuries, and few pleasures. His library consisted of practically one book, the family Bible, which was later supplemented by a copy of Burns’s poems, loaned him by the district schoolmaster. Whittier is often compared with Burns in the simple homeliness of his style, his patriotism, his fiery indignation at wrong, and his sympathy with the humble and the oppressed.
=Discussion.= 1. Where did the poet find “the trailing spring flower”? 2. Have you found it? Where? When? 3. What beautiful thought came to the poet while he bent over the arbutus? 4. Have you known lowly lives that made the earth happier by their presence? 5. The poet _found_ the lowly flower that lends “sweetness to the ungenial day”; can we find the lowly person who “makes the earth happier”? 6. What does Nature teach through the lowly trailing arbutus? 7. What other selections by this author have you read?
=Phrases=
bitter East, 60, 2 glad surprise, 60, 9 clogged, and pent, 60, 14 ungenial day, 60, 17
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY
ROBERT BURNS
Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow’r, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun[1] I crush amang the stoure[2] Thy slender stem. To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonnie[3] gem.
Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet, Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet,[4] Wi’ speckl’d breast! When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield, High shelt’ring woods and wa’s[5] maun shield. But thou, beneath the random bield[6] O’ clod or stane, Adorns the histie[7] stibble[8]-field, Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! Unskillful he to note the card[9] Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, By human pride or cunning driv’n To mis’ry’s brink, Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n, He, ruin’d, sink!
Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern Ruin’s plowshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight Shall be thy doom!
[1] _maun_, must.
[2] _stoure_, dust.
[3] _bonnie_, pretty.
[4] _weet_, wet.
[5] _wa’s_, walls.
[6] _bield_, shelter.
[7] _histie_, barren.
[8] _stibble_, stubble.
[9] _card_, compass-face.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Robert Burns (1759-1796) was a Scottish poet, whose home was near Ayr, in Scotland. His life was short and filled with poverty and hardship, but he saw beauty in the common things of life and had a heart full of sympathy. He wrote this poem at a time when he was in great trouble. His farm was turning out badly, the soil was sour and wet, his crops were failures, and he saw nothing but ruin before him. Burns’s tenderness and sympathy are shown in the feeling expressed in this poem at crushing the flower.
=Discussion.= 1. How does the English daisy, which Burns describes in the first line of the poem, differ from the daisy that you know, the American daisy? 2. Select and give the meaning of words that illustrate Burns’s use of the Scotch dialect. 3. Picture the incident related in the first stanza. 4. What do you know about the lark that helps you to understand why it is called the daisy’s “companion” and “neebor”? 5. What comparison is made between the daisy and the garden flowers? 6. What “share” is mentioned in stanza 5? 7. What characteristic of the flower does Burns seem to like best?
=Phrases=
companion meet, 61, 8 purpling east, 61, 12 glinted forth, 61, 15 parent-earth, 61, 17 unassuming head, 62, 9 humble guise, 62, 10 luckless starr’d, 62, 14 prudent lore, 62, 16
SWEET PEAS
JOHN KEATS
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight, With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. Linger a while upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks, And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings; They will be found softer than ringdove’s cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend! Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o’erhanging sallows; blades of grass Slowly across the checkered shadows pass.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= John Keats (1795-1821) was of humble birth, being the son of a London stablekeeper. He lived at the time of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, and Leigh Hunt, from all of whom he gathered inspiration. His years were few, and his fame did not come while he was living. He had a passion for beauty, which found expression in all his poetry. On account of failing health he went to Rome in 1820, where he died the year following.
=Discussion.= 1. Why does the poet say sweet peas are “on tiptoe for a flight”? 2. What are the wings of the sweet pea? 3. The poet tells of the perfect stillness of the moving water in the stream; what words does he use in lines immediately preceding to prepare you for this stillness? 4. What picture does the last sentence of the poem give you?
=Phrases=
rushy banks, 63, 6 ringdove’s cooings, 63, 8 o’erhanging sallows, 63, 11 checkered shadows, 63, 12
CHORUS OF FLOWERS
LEIGH HUNT
We are the sweet flowers, Born of sunny showers; Think, whene’er you see us, what our beauty saith; Utterance, mute and bright, Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath. All who see us love us. We befit all places. Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, graces.
Mark our ways, how noiseless All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear; Not a whisper tells Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear. We thread the earth in silence; In silence build our bowers; And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop sweet flowers.
See and scorn all duller! Taste how Heaven loves color! How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green! What sweet thoughts she thinks Of violets and pinks, And a thousand flashing hues made solely to be seen; See her whitest lilies Chill the silver showers; And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of her flowers!
Uselessness divinest, Of a use the finest, Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use. Travelers, weary-eyed, Bless us far and wide; Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudden truce. Not a poor town window Loves its sickliest planting, But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.
Sagest yet the uses Mixed with our sweet juices, Whether man or may-fly profits of the balm. As fairy fingers healed Knights of the olden field, We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. E’en the terror, poison, Hath its plea for blooming; Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.
And oh! our sweet soul-taker, That thief, the honey-maker, What a house hath he by the thymy glen! In his talking rooms How the feasting fumes, Till his gold-cups overflow to the mouths of men! The butterflies come aping Those fine thieves of ours, And flutter round our rifled tops like tickled flowers with flowers.
See those tops, how beauteous! What fair service duteous Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine? Elfin court ’twould seem, And taught, perchance, that dream Which the old Greek mountain dreamt upon nights divine; To expound such wonder, Human speech avails not, Yet there dies no poorest weed that such a glory exhales not.
Think of all these treasures, Matchless works and pleasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can say; Then think in what bright showers We thicken fields and bowers, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May. Think of the mossy forests By the bee-birds haunted, And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying, as enchanted.
Trees themselves are ours; Fruits are born of flowers; Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the spring. The lusty bee knows well The news, and comes pell-mell And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming. Beneath the very burden Of planet-pressing ocean We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for meek devotion.
Who shall say that flowers Dress not heaven’s own bowers? Who its love without them can fancy—or sweet floor? Who shall even dare To say we sprang not there, And came not down, that Love might bring one piece of heaven the more? Oh! pray believe that angels From those blue dominions Brought us in their white laps down, ’twixt their golden pinions.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biographical and Historical Note.= Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) was an English poet, journalist, and essayist. He was a personal friend of Shelley and Byron, and an intimate friend of Keats. His poems and essays are marked by a delightful style.
The “Nine” (stanza 7) refers to the Muses, patronesses of poetry and music, whose lord is Apollo, and who assembled on Mount Parnassus or Mount Helicon, to hold learned discussions on poetry, science, or music.
=Discussion.= 1. What is a chorus? 2. Who are the singers? 3. What is the purpose of their song? 4. When you look at a flower, what things are you apt to notice about it? 5. Name a poem you have read that tells of the uses of a flower. 6. What poem that you have read in this book celebrates the color of the flower? 7. What familiar custom grows out of the belief that “unto sorrow we give smiles”? That “unto graces [we give] graces”? 8. For what purpose are flowers in “a thousand flashing hues”? 9. What things are compared in the last line of stanza 4? 10. What uses of flowers are pointed out in stanza 5? 11. In stanza 7 what is compared with the “Nine” muses? 12. Read the lines that tell what lesson the sea-weeds teach. 13. What does the last stanza suggest as a possible source and use of flowers? 14. Which stanza do you like best?
=Phrases=
born of sunny showers, 64, 2 sweetly voiceless, 64, 11 thread the earth, 64, 16 flashing hues, 65, 6 sickliest planting, 65, 17 Babylonian vaunting, 65, 18 reverent lips, 65, 27 death to the presuming, 65, 27 thymy glen, 65, 30 our rifled tops, 66, 4 Amazonian plains, 66, 22 comes pell-mell, 66, 27 darksome antheming, 66, 28 planet-pressing ocean, 66, 30 blue dominions, 67, 9 ’twixt their golden pinions, 67, 9
TREES
JOYCE KILMER
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree;
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918) was born in New Brunswick, N. J. He was one of the first Americans to be deeply moved by Germany’s challenge to humanity. He gave up his journalistic career in New York, and enlisted seventeen days after the United States declared war. He was attached to the Intelligence Department of the army, one of his duties being to precede the troops before an attack and find out the positions of the enemy guns. He served during almost the whole of the battle of the Marne until August first, 1918, when he received a mortal wound. Kilmer was the first American man of letters to be killed in the war. At the time of his enlistment he was the editor of poetry for the _Literary Digest_.
=Discussion.= 1. Do you agree with the poet’s conclusion given in the first stanza? 2. What is the most beautiful poem you have read? 3. What fact relating to the tree does the second couplet tell? The third couplet? The fourth? The fifth? 4. What does the last couplet tell you?
=Phrases=
hungry mouth, 68, 3 earth’s sweet flowing breast, 68, 4 looks at God all day, 68, 5 nest of robins in her hair, 68, 8
WINTER
THE GREAT BLIZZARD
HAMLIN GARLAND
A blizzard on the prairie corresponds to a storm at sea; it never affects the traveler twice alike. Each norther seems to have a manner of attack all its own. One storm may be short, sharp, high-keyed, and malevolent, while another approaches slowly, relentlessly, wearing out the souls of its victims by its inexorable and long-continued cold and gloom. One threatens for hours before it comes, the other leaps like a tiger upon the defenseless settlement, catching the children unhoused, the men unprepared; of this character was the first blizzard Lincoln ever saw.
The day was warm and sunny. The eaves dripped musically, and the icicles dropping from the roof fell occasionally with pleasant crash. The snow grew slushy, and the bells of wood teams jingled merrily all the forenoon, as the farmers drove to their timber-lands five or six miles away. The room was uncomfortably warm at times, and the master opened the outside door. It was the eighth day of January. One afternoon recess, as the boys were playing in their shirt-sleeves, Lincoln called Milton’s attention to a great cloud rising in the west and north. A vast, slaty-blue, seamless dome, silent, portentous, with edges of silvery frosty light.
“It’s going to storm,” said Milton. “It always does when we have a south wind and a cloud like that in the west.”
When Lincoln set out for home, the sun was still shining, but the edge of the cloud had crept, or more properly slid, across the sun’s disk, and its light was growing cold and pale. In fifteen minutes more the wind from the south ceased—there was a moment of breathless pause, and then, borne on the wings of the north wind, the streaming clouds of soft, large flakes of snow drove in a level line over the homeward-bound scholars, sticking to their clothing and faces and melting rapidly. It was not yet cold enough to freeze, though the wind was colder. The growing darkness troubled Lincoln most.
By the time he reached home, the wind was a gale, the snow a vast blinding cloud, filling the air and hiding the road. Darkness came on instantly, and the wind increased in power, as though with the momentum of the snow. Mr. Stewart came home early, yet the breasts of his horses were already sheathed in snow. Other teamsters passed, breasting the storm, and calling cheerily to their horses. One team, containing a woman and two men, neighbors living seven miles north, gave up the contest, and turned in at the gate for shelter, confident that they would be able to go on in the morning. In the barn, while rubbing the ice from the horses, the men joked and told stories in a jovial spirit, with the feeling generally that all would be well by daylight. The boys made merry also, singing songs, popping corn, playing games, in defiance of the storm.
But when they went to bed, at ten o’clock, Lincoln felt some vague premonition of a dread disturbance of nature, far beyond any other experience in his short life. The wind howled like ten thousand tigers, and the cold grew more and more intense. The wind seemed to drive in and through the frail tenement; water and food began to freeze within ten feet of the fire.
Lincoln thought the wind at that hour had attained its utmost fury, but when he awoke in the morning, he saw how mistaken he had been. He crept to the fire, appalled by the steady, solemn, implacable clamor of the storm. It was like the roarings of all the lions of Africa, the hissing of a wilderness of serpents, the lashing of great trees. It benumbed his thinking, it appalled his heart, beyond any other force he had ever known.
The house shook and snapped, the snow beat in muffled, rhythmic pulsations against the walls, or swirled and lashed upon the roof, giving rise to strange, multitudinous sounds; now dim and far, now near and all-surrounding; producing an effect of mystery and infinite reach, as though the cabin were a helpless boat, tossing on an angry, limitless sea.
Looking out, there was nothing to be seen but the lashing of the wind and snow. When the men attempted to face it, to go to the rescue of the cattle, they found the air impenetrably filled with fine, powdery snow, mixed with the dirt caught up from the plowed fields by a terrific blast, moving ninety miles an hour. It was impossible to see twenty feet, except at long intervals. Lincoln could not see at all when facing the storm. When he stepped into the wind, his face was coated with ice and dirt, as by a dash of mud—a mask which blinded the eyes, and instantly froze to his cheeks. Such was the power of the wind that he could not breathe an instant unprotected. His mouth being once open, it was impossible to draw breath again without turning from the wind.
The day was spent in keeping warm and in feeding the stock at the barn, which Mr. Stewart reached by desperate dashes, during the momentary clearing of the air following some more than usually strong gust. Lincoln attempted to water the horses from the pump, but the wind blew the water out of the pail. So cold had the wind become that a dipperful, thrown into the air, fell as ice. In the house it became more and more difficult to remain cheerful, notwithstanding the family had fuel and food in abundance.
Oh, that terrible day! Hour after hour they listened to that prodigious, appalling, ferocious uproar. All day Lincoln and Owen moved restlessly to and fro, asking each other, “Won’t it ever stop?” To them the storm now seemed too vast; too ungovernable, to ever again be spoken to a calm, even by God Himself.
It seemed to Lincoln that no power whatever could control such fury; his imagination was unable to conceive of a force greater than this war of wind or snow.
On the third day the family rose with weariness, and looked into each other’s faces with a sort of horrified surprise. Not even the invincible heart of Duncan Stewart, nor the cheery good nature of his wife, could keep a gloomy silence from settling down upon the house. Conversation was scanty; nobody laughed that day, but all listened anxiously to the invisible tearing at the shingles, beating against the door, and shrieking around the eaves. The frost upon the windows, nearly half an inch thick in the morning, kept thickening into ice, and the light was dim at mid-day. The fire melted the snow on the window-panes and upon the door, while around the key-hole and along every crack, frost formed. The men’s faces began to wear a grim, set look, and the women sat with awed faces and downcast eyes full of unshed tears, their sympathies going out to the poor travelers, lost and freezing.
The men got to the poor dumb animals that day to feed them; to water them was impossible. Mr. Stewart went down through the roof of the shed, the door being completely sealed up with solid banks of snow and dirt. One of the guests had a wife and two children left alone in a small cottage six miles farther on, and physical force was necessary to keep him from setting out in face of the deadly tempest. To him the nights seemed weeks, and the days interminable, as they did to the rest, but it would have been death to venture out.
That night, so disturbed had all become, they lay awake listening, waiting, hoping for a change. About midnight Lincoln noticed that the roar was no longer so steady, so relentless, and so high-keyed as before. It began to lull at times, and though it came back to the attack with all its former ferocity, still there was a perceptible weakening. Its fury was becoming spasmodic. One of the men shouted down to Mr. Stewart, “The storm is over,” and when the host called back a ringing word of cheer, Lincoln sank into deep sleep in sheer relief.
Oh, the joy with which the children melted the ice on the window-panes, and peered out on the familiar landscape, dazzling, peaceful, under the brilliant sun and wide blue sky. Lincoln looked out over the wide plain, ridged with vast drifts; on the far blue line of timber, on the near-by cottages sending up cheerful columns of smoke (as if to tell him the neighbors were alive), and his heart seemed to fill his throat. But the wind was with him still, for so long and continuous had its voice sounded in his ears, that even in the perfect calm his imagination supplied its loss with fainter, fancied roarings.
Out in the barn the horses and cattle, hungry and cold, kicked and bellowed in pain, and when the men dug them out, they ran and raced like mad creatures, to start the blood circulating in their numbed and stiffened limbs. Mr. Stewart was forced to tunnel to the barn door, cutting through the hard snow as if it were clay. The drifts were solid, and the dirt mixed with the snow was disposed on the surface in beautiful wavelets, like the sands at the bottom of a lake. The drifts would bear a horse. The guests were able to go home by noon, climbing above the fences, and rattling across the plowed ground.
And then in the days which followed, came grim tales of suffering and heroism. Tales of the finding of stage-coaches with the driver frozen on his seat and all his passengers within; tales of travelers striving to reach home and families. Cattle had starved and frozen in their stalls, and sheep lay buried in heaps beside the fences where they had clustered together to keep warm. These days gave Lincoln a new conception of the prairies. It taught him that however bright and beautiful they might be in summer under skies of June, they could be terrible when the Norther was abroad in his wrath. They seemed now as pitiless and destructive as the polar ocean. It seemed as if nothing could live there unhoused. All was at the mercy of that power, the north wind, whom only the Lord Sun could tame.
This was the worst storm of the winter, though the wind seemed never to sleep. To and fro, from north to south, and south to north, the dry snow sifted till it was like fine sand that rolled under the heel with a ringing sound on cold days. After each storm the restless wind got to work to pile the new-fallen flakes into ridges behind every fence or bush, filling every ravine and forcing the teamsters into the fields and out on to the open prairie. It was a savage and gloomy time for Lincoln, with only the pleasure of his school to break the monotony of cold.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Hamlin Garland (1860-⸺) was born in Wisconsin. His father was a farmer-pioneer, who, always eager to be upon the border line of agricultural development, moved from Wisconsin to Minnesota, from Minnesota to Iowa, and from Iowa to Dakota. The hope of cheaper acres, better soil, and bigger crops lured him on.
When Hamlin Garland turned his attention to literature he was keen enough to see the literary value of his early experiences. He resolved to interpret truthfully the life of the western farmer and its great hardships and limitations, no less than its hopes, joys, and achievements. In doing this, through a succession of short stories and novels, he won fame and success. In _A Son of the Middle Border_, an autobiography, he has written an intensely interesting and valuable record of typical experiences in the development of the Middle West. This selection is taken from _Boy Life on the Prairie_.
=Discussion.= 1. What distinguishes a blizzard from other violent storms? 2. What are the dangers when it comes without ample warning? 3. What was the manner of attack of this blizzard? 4. What caused the early darkness? 5. What was it in the storm that “appalled” the boy’s heart and “benumbed his thinking”? 6. What effect had it upon other members of the household? 7. Has man any power to oppose the violence of such a storm? 8. What was the velocity of the wind? 9. How long did the blizzard last? How did it compare in this respect with the ordinary blizzard? 10. What name was given it because of its force, fury, and duration? 11. What results of the storm proved its violence? 12. What new idea of the prairie did the storm give the boy Lincoln? 13. Pronounce the following: recess; infinite; columns; calm; heroism; implacable.
=Phrases=
defenseless settlement, 69, 7 dripped musically, 69, 10 seamless dome, 70, 1 breathless pause, 70, 9 sheathed in snow, 70, 19 vague premonition, 70, 30 dread disturbance, 70, 30 implacable clamor, 71, 1 rhythmic pulsations, 71, 5 multitudinous sounds, 71, 7 invisible tearing, 72, 9 perceptible weakening, 72, 33 becoming spasmodic, 72, 33 monotony of cold, 74, 4
THE FROST
HANNAH F. GOULD
The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night, And whispered, “Now, I shall be out of sight; So, through, the valley, and over the height, In silence I’ll take my way. I will not go on like that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, That make such a bustle and noise in vain; But I’ll be as busy as they!”
So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast Of the quivering lake, he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The glittering point of many a spear Which he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the window of those who slept, And over each pane like a fairy crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, By the morning light were seen Most beautiful things!—there were flowers and trees, There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities and temples and towers; and these All pictured in silvery sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair— He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare, “Now, just to set them a-thinking, I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he, “And this costly pitcher I’ll burst in three! And the glass of water they’ve left for me, Shall ‘tchick’ to tell them I’m drinking.”
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Hannah F. Gould (1789-1865) was an American poet, born at Lancaster, Mass. At the age of eleven she removed with her parents to Newburyport, Mass., where she lived the rest of her life. A collection of her poems, entitled _Hymns and Poems for Children_, contains many beautiful selections.
=Discussion.= 1. Why does the poet personify “The Frost”? 2. What pictures do the following give you: “powdered its crest”; “their boughs he dressed”? 3. What picture of the window pane does stanza 3 give you? 4. Which line tells you on what kind of night to expect frost?
=Phrases=
blustering train, 75, 5 in vain, 75, 7 hung on its margin, 75, 15 burst in three, 76, 3
THE FROST SPIRIT
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill’s withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—from the frozen Labrador— From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o’er— Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 60.
=Discussion.= 1. Why does the poet personify “The Frost Spirit”? 2. Why is “Fiend” personified? 3. How can one “trace his footsteps” on woods and fields? 4. Locate on a map Labrador, the pine region of Norway, and the volcano of Hecla. 5. What is “the icy bridge of the northern seas”? 6. What are “the luckless forms below”? 7. Why does the poet say “In the sunless cold of the lingering night”? 8. What does the poet mean by “the shriek of the baffled Fiend”?
=Phrases=
blasted fields, 76, 2 luckless forms, 77, 1 sunless cold, 77, 2 fearful breath, 77, 4 unscorched wing, 77, 5 ancient ice, 77, 6 torpid touch, 77, 8 glazing breath, 77, 8
THE SNOW STORM
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end. The steed and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come, see the north wind’s masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall, Mauger the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) was a native of Boston, born not far from Franklin’s birthplace. He was the oldest among that brilliant group of New England scholars and writers that developed under the influence of Harvard College. Emerson was a quiet boy, but that he had high ambitions and sturdy determination is shown by the fact that he worked his own way through college. He is best known for his essays, full of noble ideas and wise philosophy, but he also wrote poetry. As a poet he was careless of his meter, making his lines often purposely rugged, but they are always charged and bristling with thoughts that shock and thrill like electric batteries. In 1836 he wrote the “Concord Hymn” containing the famous lines:
“Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world!”
His poems of nature are clear-cut and vivid as snapshots. “The Humble Bee,” as a critic puts it, “seems almost to shine with the heat and light of summer.”
=Discussion.= 1. Picture the scene described in the first five lines. 2. Compare with the picture given you in the first stanza of “Snow-Flakes,” page 80. 3. Read in a way to bring out the contrast between the wild storm and the scene within the “farmhouse at the garden’s end.” 4. What is meant by “fierce artificer”? 5. What is the “tile” with which the poet imagines the “unseen quarry” is furnished? 6. Of what are the “white bastions” made? 7. Does the use of the word “windward” add to the picture and does such detail add to the beauty of the poem or detract from it? 8. Who is described as “myriad-handed”? 9. What is the mockery in hanging “Parian wreaths” on a coop or kennel? 10. What picture do lines 20, 21, and 22 give you? 11. What does the “mad wind’s night-work” do for Art?
=Phrases=
courier’s feet delayed, 78, 6 radiant fireplace, 78, 8 tumultuous privacy, 78, 9 north wind’s masonry, 78, 10 myriad-handed, 78, 15 Parian wreaths, 78, 18 tapering turret, 78, 22 hours are numbered, 78, 23 slow structures, 79, 2 frolic architecture, 79, 4
SNOWFLAKES
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow, Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) was born in Portland, Maine. In “The Courtship of Miles Standish” he has made us acquainted with his ancestors, John Alden and Priscilla Mullens, passengers on the _Mayflower_.
Longfellow’s education was obtained in Portland and at Bowdoin College, where he had for classmates several youths who afterward became famous, notably, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Franklin Pierce. Upon Longfellow’s graduation, the trustees of the college, having decided to establish a chair of modern languages, proposed that this young graduate should fit himself for the position. Three years, therefore, he spent in delightful study and travel in France, Spain, Italy, and Germany. Here was laid the foundation for his scholarship, and, as in Irving on his first European trip, there was kindled that passion for romantic lore which followed him through life and which gave direction to much of his work. He mastered the language of each country visited, in a remarkably short time, and many of the choicer poems found in these languages he has given to us in English. After five years at Bowdoin, Longfellow was invited in 1834 to the chair of modern languages in Harvard College. Again he was given an opportunity to prepare himself by a year of study abroad. In 1836 he began his active work at Harvard and took up his residence in the historic Craigie House, overlooking the Charles River—a house in which Washington had been quartered for some months when he came to Cambridge in 1775 to take command of the Continental forces. Longfellow was thenceforth one of the most prominent members of that group of men including Sumner, Hawthorne, Agassiz, Lowell, and Holmes, who gave distinction to the Boston and Cambridge of earlier days.
For twenty years Longfellow served as a teacher, introducing hundreds of students to the literature of modern Europe. In his poetry, too, he exerted a powerful influence for bringing about a relationship between America and European civilization. He was thus a poet of culture, rendering a great service at a time when the thought of America was provincial. He was also a poet of the household, writing many poems about the joys and sorrows of home life, poems of aspiration and religious faith, poems about village characters as well as about national heroes. He excels, too, as a writer of tales in verse. “Evangeline,” a story of the Acadian exiles and their wanderings; “The Courtship of Miles Standish,” a story of early colonial life in Massachusetts; and “Hiawatha,” an Indian epic into which he put a vast amount of legendary matter belonging to the first owners of our country, are examples of his power in sustained verse narrative. His ballads, such as “The Skeleton in Armor” and “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” show his power to handle a legend in brief and stirring form. He was a writer of almost perfect sonnets, and a writer of prose of distinction. The most loved and most widely known of American poets, Longfellow helped to interpret our common life in terms of beauty.
=Discussion.= 1. What picture does the first stanza give you? 2. Compare this picture with that found in the first ten lines of “The Snow Storm,” page 78, and with that given in the third, fourth, and fifth stanzas of “Midwinter,” page 82. 3. To what does “her” refer in the second line? 4. Explain how “the troubled heart” makes “confession in the countenance.” 5. How does the poet fancy “the troubled sky” reveals its grief? 6. What is “the poem of the air”? 7. What are the “silent syllables” in which “the poem of the air” is recorded? 8. What is “whispered and revealed”?
=Phrases=
cloud-folds, 80, 2 cloudy fancies, 80, 7 secret of despair, 80, 15 cloudy bosom, 80, 16
MIDWINTER
JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE
The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hilltop, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery veil; And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains gray and thin.
But cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; The snow sails round him as he sings, White as the down on angels’ wings.
I watch the snow flakes as they fall On bank and brier and broken wall; Over the orchard, waste and brown, All noiselessly they settle down, Tipping the apple boughs and each Light quivering twig of plum and peach.
On turf and curb and bower roof The snowstorm spreads its ivory woof; It paves with pearl the garden walk; And lovingly round tattered stalk And shivering stem its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily leaves. The hooded beehive, small and low, Stands like a maiden in the snow; And an old door slab is half hid Under an alabaster lid.
All day it snows; the sheeted post Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; All day the blasted oak has stood A muffled wizard of the wood; Garland and airy cap adorn The sumac and the wayside thorn, And clustering spangles lodge and shine In the dark tresses of the pine.
The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; In surplice white the cedar stands, And blesses him with priestly hands.
Still cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; But in my inmost ear is heard The music of a holier bird; And heavenly thoughts as soft and white As snowflakes on my soul alight, Clothing with love my lonely heart, Healing with peace each bruiséd part, Till all my being seems to be Transfigured by their purity.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= John Townsend Trowbridge (1827-1916) was an American author. His home was in Cambridge, Mass., within the shadow of Harvard College. At one time he was one of the editors of _Our Young Folks’ Magazine_. “Midwinter” and “Darius Green and His Flying Machine” are two of his poems most widely known.
=Discussion.= 1. Compare the picture that the first stanza gives you with that given you in the first stanza of “Snow-Flakes” and that given you by the first ten lines of “The Snow Storm.” 2. Compare the picture that the fourth stanza gives you with that given by lines 17-22 of “The Snow Storm.” 3. In the fourth stanza, what does the poet say the snowstorm does? 4. What does the poet mean by “muffled wizard of the wood”? 5. What pictures does the sixth stanza give you? 6. Which of these descriptions seems to you most apt? 7. What does the poet mean by “inmost ear”? 8. Compare this meaning with that of “inward eye” in Wordsworth’s “The Daffodils” and with “eyes in the heart” in Lowell’s “To the Dandelion.” 9. What do the “heavenly thoughts” suggested by the scene do for the poet?
=Phrases=
flickering curtains, 82, 6 ivory woof, 82, 18 paves with pearl, 82, 19 tattered stalk, 82, 20 shivering stem, 82, 21 alabaster lid, 82, 26 clustering spangles, 83, 7 surplice white, 83, 11
BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then heigh-ho! the holly! This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then heigh-ho! the holly! This life is most jolly.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was the greatest English poet, and was one of the greatest poets the world has ever known. He wrote for all times and all peoples. He was born at Stratford-on-Avon, where fifty-two years later he died. At the age of twenty-two he removed to London, where for twenty years he wrote poems and plays, was an actor, and later a shareholder in the theater. The last six years of his life he spent quietly at Stratford.
This song is from the comedy _As You Like It_, a story of the adventures of a group of courtiers and rustics in the forest of Arden. A charming element in Shakespeare’s romantic comedies is the introduction of song-poems or lyrics. All the writers of those days, the days of Good Queen Bess, wrote songs. England was “a nest of singing birds.” They were real songs, too, filled with joy and musical language, and all the people sang them to the accompaniment of the quaint musical instruments of the time. And all the people took part in games and pageants in “Merrie England,” and listened to the strange tales of seafarers, and went to the playhouse to see Shakespeare’s _As You Like It_.
=Discussion.= 1. Why is the thought of green holly appropriate in connection with the winter wind? 2. What feeling does ingratitude arouse? 3. Why does the poet say the “tooth” of the wind is not so keen as man’s ingratitude? 4. What change of feeling do you notice after line 6? 5. What do you think caused the change? 6. In the second stanza read lines that show the poet did not really think that “life is most jolly.” 7. Which lines explain the poet’s distrust of friendship? 8. Which word in stanza I is explained by line 3 of stanza 2? 9. Find a word in stanza 1 that gives the same thought as the second line of the second stanza. 10. Give the meaning of “warp” in stanza 2 (an old Saxon proverb said, “Winter shall warp water”).
=Phrases=
benefits forgot, 84, 13 friendship is feigning, 84, 18
WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit; Tu-who—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow. And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit; Tu-who—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 85.
This is the second part of a song of four stanzas, found in the comedy _Love’s Labor’s Lost_. The first two stanzas are descriptive of spring, and introduce the song of the cuckoo. The last two stanzas are given here.
=Discussion.= 1. Do these lines describe life in the city or in the country? 2. What does the use of names, Dick, Tom, Joan, and Marian, add to the poem? 3. For what use were logs brought into the hall? 4. Can you see fitness in the use of the word “greasy”? 5. What is the song of the owl? 6. Explain the second line of stanza 2. 7. Why is the owl called “staring”?
=Phrases=
blows his nail, 85, 2 ways be foul, 85, 5 staring owl, 86, 1 keel the pot, 86, 4 parson’s saw, 86, 6 brooding in the snow, 86, 7