Chapter 5

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die; And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And to hang the old sword in its place, my father's sword and mine; For the honor of old Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another, not a sister, in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, O, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning. Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine, On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly, in mine, But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak, His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed, and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled-- The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead; And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field with bloody corses strewn; Yet calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine.

CAROLINE E.S. NORTON.

OSITO.

On the lofty mountain that faced the captain's cabin the frost had already made an insidious approach, and the slender thickets of quaking ash that marked the course of each tiny torrent, now stood out in resplendent hues and shone afar off like gay ribbons running through the dark-green pines. Gorgeously, too, with scarlet, crimson and gold, gleamed the lower spurs, where the oak-brush grew in dense masses and bore beneath a blaze of color, a goodly harvest of acorns, now ripe and loosened in their cups.

It was where one of these spurs joined the parent mountain, where the oak-brush grew thickest, and, as a consequence, the acorns were most abundant, that the captain, well versed in wood-craft mysteries, had built his bear trap. For two days he had been engaged upon it, and now, as the evening drew on, he sat contemplating it with satisfaction, as a work finished and perfected.

From his station there, on the breast of the lofty mountain, the captain could scan many an acre of sombre pine forest with pleasant little parks interspersed, and here and there long slopes brown with bunch grass. He was the lord of this wild domain. And yet his sway there was not undisputed. Behind an intervening spur to the westward ran an old Indian trail long traveled by the Southern Utes in their migrations north for trading and hunting purposes. And even now, a light smoke wafted upward on the evening air, told of a band encamped on the trail on their homeward journey to the Southwest.

The captain needed not this visual token of their proximity. He had been aware of it for several days. Their calls at his cabin in the lonely little park below had been frequent, and they had been specially solicitous of his coffee, his sugar, his biscuit and other delicacies, insomuch that once or twice during his absence these ingenuous children of Nature had with primitive simplicity, entered his cabin and helped themselves without leave or stint.

However, as he knew their stay would be short, the captain bore these neighborly attentions with mild forbearance. It was guests more graceless than these who had roused his wrath.

From their secret haunts far back towards the Snowy Range the bears had come down to feast upon the ripened acorns, and so doing, had scented the captain's bacon and sugar afar off and had prowled by night about the cabin. Nay, more, three days before, the captain, having gone hurriedly away and left the door loosely fastened, upon his return had found all in confusion. Many of his eatables had vanished, his flour sack was ripped open, and, unkindest cut of all, his beloved books lay scattered about. At the first indignant glance the captain had cried out, "Utes again!" But on looking around he saw a tell-tale trail left by floury bear paws.

Hence this bear trap.

It was but a strong log pen floored with rough-hewn slabs and fitted with a ponderous movable lid made of other slabs pinned on stout cross pieces. But, satisfied with his handiwork, the captain now arose, and, prying up one end of the lid with a lever, set the trigger and baited it with a huge piece of bacon. He then piled a great quantity of rock upon the already heavy lid to further guard against the escape of any bear so unfortunate as to enter, and shouldering his axe and rifle walked homewards.

Whatever vengeful visions of captive bears he was indulging in were, however, wholly dispelled as he drew near the cabin. Before the door stood the Ute chief accompanied by two squaws. "How!" said the chieftain, with a conciliatory smile, laying one hand on his breast of bronze and extending the other as the captain approached.

"How!" returned the captain bluffly, disdaining the hand with a recollection of sundry petty thefts.

"Has the great captain seen a pappoose about his wigwam?" asked the chief, nowise abashed, in Spanish--a language which many of the Southern Utes speak as fluently as their own.

The great captain had expected a request for a biscuit; he, therefore, was naturally surprised at being asked for a baby. With an effort he mustered together his Spanish phrases and managed to reply that he had seen no pappoose.

"Me pappoose lost," said one of the squaws brokenly. And there was so much distress in her voice that the captain, forgetting instantly all about the slight depredations of his dusky neighbors, volunteered to aid them in their search for the missing child.

All that night, for it was by this time nearly dark, the hills flared with pine torches and resounded with the shrill cries of the squaws, the whoops of the warriors, the shouts of the captain; but the search was fruitless.

This adventure drove the bear-trap from its builder's mind, and it was two days before it occurred to him to go there in quest of captive bears.

Coming in view of it he immediately saw the lid was down. Hastily he approached, bent over, and peeped in. And certainly, in the whole of his adventurous life the captain was never more taken by surprise; for there, crouched in one corner, was that precious Indian infant.

Yes, true it was, that all those massive timbers, all that ponderous mass of rock, had only availed to capture one very small Ute pappoose. At the thought of it, the builder of the trap was astounded. He laughed aloud at the absurdity. In silence he threw off the rock and lid and seated himself on the edge of the open trap. Captor and captive then gazed at each other with gravity. The errant infant's attire consisted of a calico shirt of gaudy hues, a pair of little moccasins, much frayed, and a red flannel string. This last was tied about his straggling hair, which fell over his forehead like the shaggy mane of a _bronco_ colt and veiled, but could not obscure, the brightness of his black eyes.

He did not cry; in fact, this small stoic never even whimpered, but he held the bacon, or what remained of it, clasped tightly to his breast and gazed at his captor in silence. Glancing at the bacon, the captain saw it all. Hunger had induced this wee wanderer to enter the trap, and in detaching the bait, he had sprung the trigger and was caught.

"What are you called, little one?" asked the captain at length, in a reassuring voice, speaking Spanish very slowly and distinctly.

"Osito," replied the wanderer in a small piping voice, but with the dignity of a warrior.

"Little Bear!" the captain repeated, and burst into a hearty laugh, immediately checked, however by the thought that now he had caught him, what was he to do with him? The first thing, evidently, was to feed him.

So he conducted him to the cabin and there, observing the celerity with which the lumps of sugar vanished, he saw at once that Little Bear was most aptly named. Then, sometimes leading, and sometimes carrying him, for Osito was very small, he set out for the Ute encampment.

Their approach was the signal for a mighty shout. Warriors, squaws and the younger confrères of Osito, crowded about him. A few words from the captain explained all, and Osito himself, clinging to his mother, was borne away in triumph--the hero of the hour. Yet, no--the captain was that, I believe. For as he stood in their midst with a very pleased look on his sunburnt face, the chief quieting the hubbub with a wave of his hand, advanced and stood before him. "The great captain has a good heart," he said in tones of conviction. "What can his Ute friends do to show their gratitude?"

"Nothing," said the captain, looking more pleased than ever.

"The captain has been troubled by the bears. Would it please him if they were all driven back to their dens in the great mountains towards the setting sun?"

"It would," said the captain; "can it be done?"

"It can. It shall," said the chief with emphasis. "To-morrow let the _captain_ keep his eyes open, and as the sun sinks behind the mountain tops he shall see the bears follow also."

The chief kept his word. The next day the uproar on the hills was terrific. Frightened out of their wits, the bears forsook the acorn field and fled ingloriously to their secret haunts in the mountains to the westward.

In joy thereof the captain gave a great farewell feast to his red allies. It was spread under the pines in front of his cabin, and every delicacy of the season was there, from bear steaks to beaver tails. The banquet was drawing to a close, and complimentary speeches 'twixt host and guests were in order, when a procession of the squaws was seen approaching from the encampment. They drew near and headed for the captain in solemn silence. As they passed, each laid some gift at his feet--fringed leggings; beaded moccasins, bear skins, coyote skins, beaver pelts and soft robes of the mountain lion's hide--until the pile reached to the captain's shoulders. Last of all came Osito's mother and crowned the heap with a beautiful little brown bear skin. It was fancifully adorned with blue ribbons, and in the center of the tanned side there were drawn, in red pigment, the outlines of a very stolid and stoical-looking pappoose.

F.L. STEALEY.

THE LITTLE LION-CHARMER.

Outside the little village of Katrine, Just where the country ventures into town, A circus pitched its tents, and on the green The canvas pyramids were fastened down.

The night was clear. The moon was climbing higher. The show was over; crowds were coming out, When, through the surging mass, the cry of "fire!" Rose from a murmur to a wild, hoarse shout.

"Fire! fire!" The crackling flames ran up the tent, The shrieks of frightened women filled the air, The cries of prisoned beasts weird horror lent To the wild scene of uproar and despair.

A lion's roar high over all the cries! There is a crash--out into the night The tawny creature leaps with glowing eyes, Then stands defiant in the fierce red light.

"The lion's loose! The lion! Fly for your lives!" But deathlike silence falls upon them all, So paralyzed with fear that no one strives To make escape, to move, to call!

"A weapon! Shoot him!" comes from far outside; The shout wakes men again to conscious life; But as the aim is taken, the ranks divide To make a passage for the keeper's wife.

Alone she came, a woman tall and fair, And hurried on, and near the lion stood; "Oh, do not fire!" she cried; "let no one dare To shoot my lion--he is tame and good.

"My son? my son?" she called; and to her ran A little child, that scarce had seen nine years. "Play! play!" she said. Quickly the boy began. His little flute was heard by awe-struck ears.

"Fetch me a cage," she cried. The men obeyed. "Now go, my son, and bring the lion here." Slowly the child advanced, and piped, and played, While men and women held their breaths in fear.

Sweetly he played, as though no horrid fate Could ever harm his sunny little head. He never paused, nor seemed to hesitate, But went to do the thing his mother said.

The lion hearkened to the sweet clear sound; The anger vanished from his threatening eyes; All motionless he crouched upon the ground And listened to the silver melodies.

The boy thus reached his side. The beast stirred not. The child then backward walked, and played again, Till, moving softly, slowly from the spot, The lion followed the familiar strain.

The cage is waiting--wide its opened door-- And toward it, cautiously, the child retreats. But see! The lion, restless grown once more, Is lashing with his tail in angry beats.

The boy, advancing, plays again the lay. Again the beast, remembering the refrain, Follows him on, until in this dread way The cage is reached, and in it go the twain.

At once the boy springs out, the door makes fast, Then leaps with joy to reach his mother's side; Her praise alone, of all that crowd so vast, Has power to thrill his little heart with pride.

HARRIET S. FLEMING.

THE BOY TO THE SCHOOLMASTER.

You've quizzed me often and puzzled me long, You've asked me to cipher and spell, You've called me a dunce if I answered wrong, Or a dolt if I failed to tell Just when to say _lie_ and when to say _lay_, Or what nine sevens may make, Or the longitude of Kamschatka Bay, Or the I-forget-what's-its-name Lake, So I think it's about _my_ turn, I do, To ask a question or so of you.

The schoolmaster grim, he opened his eyes, But said not a word for sheer surprise.

Can you tell what "phen-dubs" means? I can. Can you say all off by heart The "onery twoery ickery ann," Or tell "alleys" and "commons" apart? Can _you_ fling a top, I would like to know, Till it hums like a bumble-bee? Can you make a kite yourself that will go 'Most as high as the eye can see, Till it sails and soars like a hawk on the wing, And the little birds come and light on its string?

The schoolmaster looked oh! very demure, But his mouth was twitching, I'm almost sure.

Can you tell where the nest of the oriole swings, Or the color its eggs may be? Do you know the time when the squirrel brings Its young from their nest in the tree? Can you tell when the chestnuts are ready to drop Or where the best hazel-nuts grow? Can you climb a high tree to the very tip-top, Then gaze without trembling below? Can you swim and dive, can you jump and run, Or do anything else we boys call fun?

The master's voice trembled as he replied: "You are right, my lad, I'm the dunce," he sighed.

E.J. WHEELER.

WON'T TAKE A BAFF.

To the brook in the green meadow dancing, The tree-shaded, grass-bordered brook, For a bath in its cool, limpid water, Old Dinah the baby boy took.

She drew off his cunning wee stockings, Unbuttoned each dainty pink shoe, Untied the white slip and small apron, And loosened his petticoats, too.

And while Master Blue Eyes undressing, She told him in quaintest of words Of the showers that came to the flowers, Of the rills that were baths for the birds.

And she said, "Dis yere sweetest of babies, W'en he's washed, jess as hansum'll be As any red, yaller or blue bird Dat ebber singed up in a tree.

"An' sweeter den rosies an' lilies, Or wiolets eder, I guess--" When away flew the mischievous darling, In the scantiest kind of a dress.

"Don't care if the birdies an' fowers," He shouted, with clear, ringing laugh, "Wash 'eir hands an' 'eir faces forebber An' ebber, _me_ won't take a baff."

MARGARET EYTINGE.

ONE WAY TO BE BRAVE.

(_A TRUE STORY._)

"[[P]]apa," exclaimed six-year-old Marland, leaning against his father's knee after listening to a true story, "I wish I could be as brave as that!"

"Perhaps you will be when you grow up."

"But maybe I sha'n't ever be on a railroad train when there is going to be an accident!"

"Ah! but there are sure to be plenty of other ways for a brave man to show himself."

Several days after this, when Marland had quite forgotten about trying to be brave, thinking, indeed, that he would have to wait anyway until he was a man, he and his little playmate, Ada, a year younger, were playing in the dog-kennel. It was a very large kennel, so that the two children often crept into it to "play house." After awhile, Marland, who, of course, was playing the papa of the house, was to go "down town" to his business; he put his little head out of the door of the kennel, and was just about to creep out, when right in front of him in the path he saw a snake. He knew in a moment just what sort of a snake it was, and how dangerous it was; he knew it was a rattlesnake, and that if it bit Ada or him, they would probably die. For Marland had spent two summers on his papa's big ranch in Kansas, and he had been told over and over again, if he ever saw a snake to run away from it as fast as he could, and this snake just in front of him was making the queer little noise with the rattles at the end of his tail which Marland had heard enough about to be able to recognize.

Now you must know that a rattlesnake is not at all like a lion or a bear, although just as dangerous in its own way. It will not chase you; it can only spring a distance equal to its own length, and it has to wait and coil itself up in a ring, sounding its warning all the time, before it can strike at all. So if you are ever so little distance from it when you see it first, you can easily escape from it. The only danger is from stepping on it without seeing it. But Marland's snake was already coiled, and it was hardly more than a foot from the entrance to the kennel. You must know that the kennel was not out in an open field, either, but under a piazza, and a lattice work very near it left a very narrow passage for the children, even when there wasn't any snake. If they had been standing upright, they could have run, narrow as the way was; but they would have to crawl out of the kennel and find room for their entire little bodies on the ground before they could straighten themselves up and run. Fortunately, the snake's head was turned the other way.

"Ada," said Marland very quietly, so quietly that his grandpapa, raking the gravel on the walk near by, did not hear, him, "there's a snake out here, and it is a rattlesnake. Keep very still and crawl right after me."

"Yes, Ada," he whispered, as he succeeded in squirming himself out and wriggling past the snake till he could stand upright. "_There's room_, but you mustn't make any noise!"

Five minutes later the two children sauntered slowly down the avenue, hand in hand.

"Grandpapa," said Marland, "there's a rattlesnake in there where Ada and I were; perhaps you'd better kill him!"

And when the snake had been killed, and papa for the hundredth time had folded his little boy in his arms and murmured, "My brave boy! my dear, brave little boy!" Marland looked up in surprise.

"Why, it wasn't _I_ that killed the snake, papa! it was grandpapa! I didn't do anything; I only kept very still and ran away!"

But you see, in that case, keeping very still and running away was just the bravest thing the little fellow could have done; and I think his mamma--for I am his mamma, and so I know just how she did feel--felt when she took him in her arms that night that in her little boy's soul there was something of the stuff of which heroes are made.

MRS. ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS.

THE MYSTERY OF SPRING.

Come, come, come, little Tiny, Come, little doggie! We Will "interview" all the blossoms Down-dropt from the apple-tree; We'll hie to the grove and question Fresh grasses under the swing, And learn if we can, dear Tiny, Just what is the joy called Spring.

Come, come, come, little Tiny; Golden it is, I know: Gold is the air around us, The crocus is gold below; Red as the golden sunset Is robin's breast, on the wing-- But, come, come, come, little Tiny, This isn't the half of Spring.

Spring's more than beautiful, Tiny; Fragrant it is--for, see, We catch the breath of the violets However hidden they be; And buds o'erhead in the greenwood The sweetest of spices fling-- Yet color and sweets together Are still but a part of Spring.

Then come, come, come, little Tiny, Let's hear what _you_ have to tell Learned of the years you've scampered Over the hill and dell-- What! Only a _bark_ for answer? Now, Tiny, that isn't the thing Will help unravel the riddle Of wonderful, wonderful Spring.

Yes, Tiny, there's something better Than form and scent and hue, In the grass with its emerald glory; In the air's cerulean blue; In the glow of the sweet arbutus; In the daisy's perfect mould:-- All these are delightful, Tiny, But the secret's still untold.

Oh, Tiny, _you'll_ never know it-- For the mystery lies in this: Just the fact of such warm uprising From winter's chill abyss, And the joy of our heart's upspringing Whenever the Spring is born, Because it repeats the story Of the blessed Easter-morn!

MRS. MARY B. DODGE.

MIDSUMMER WORDS.

What can they want of a midsummer verse, In the flush of the midsummer splendor? For the Empress of Ind shall I pull out my purse And offer a penny to lend her? Who cares for a song when the birds are a-wing, Or a fancy of words when the least little thing Hath message so wondrous and tender?

The trees are all plumed with their leafage superb, And the rose and the lily are budding; And wild, happy life, without hindrance or curb, Through the woodland is creeping and scudding; The clover is purple, the air is like mead, With odor escaped from the opulent weed And over the pasture-sides flooding.

Every note is a tune, every breath is a boon; 'Tis poem enough to be living; Why fumble for phrase while magnificent June Her matchless recital is giving? Why not to the music and picturing come, And just with the manifest marvel sit dumb In silenced delight of receiving?

Ah, listen! because the great Word of the Lord That was born in the world to begin it, Makes answering word in ourselves to accord, And was put there on purpose to win it. And the fulness would smother us, only for this: We _can_ cry to each other, "How lovely it is! And how blessed it is to be in it!"

MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.