Chapter 6

There with coils of rope I strapped him to my sofa, firm and fast, Douched him, doused him, bled and tapped him, till I sobered him at last, To that lost expression led him--that was all that I was at-- As for days and weeks I fed him on suggestions of green fat. Thus I caught that lost expression, and I cried, "Thrice happy day! Once again 'tis my possession." Then I turned and fled away.

Without swerving or digression to my Dora straight I sped, And she gazed at that expression, then she clapped her hands and said-- "You have found it--who'd have thought it?--you have brought it me again!" "Yes!" I cried, "and as I've brought it, make me happiest of men." But--oh! who could tell her sorrow, as she cried in wistful tones?-- "Dick, I'd marry you to-morrow, but I'm Mrs. Bowler Jones!"

A NIGHT SCENE.

BY ROBERT B. BROUGH.

Out of the grog-shop, I've stepp'd in the street. Road, what's the matter? you're loose on your feet; Staggering, swaggering, reeling about, Road, you're in liquor, past question or doubt.

Gas-lamps, be quiet--stand up, if you please. What the deuce ails you? you're weak in the knees: Some on your heads--in the gutter some sunk-- Gas-lamps, I see it, you're all of you drunk.

Angels and ministers! look at the moon-- Shining up there like a paper balloon, Winking like mad at me: Moon, I'm afraid-- Now I'm convinced--Oh! you tipsy old jade.

Here's a phenomenon: Look at the stars-- Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars, Dancing quadrilles; caper'd, shuffl'd and hopp'd. Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp'd.

Down come the houses! each drunk as a king-- Can't say I fancy much this sort of thing; Inside the bar it was safe and all right, I shall go back there, and stop for the night.

KARL, THE MARTYR.

BY FRANCES WHITESIDE.

It was the closing of a summer's day, And trellised branches from encircling trees Threw silver shadows o'er the golden space. Where groups of merry-hearted sons of toil Were met to celebrate a village feast; Casting away, in frolic sport, the cares That ever press and crowd and leave their mark Upon the brows of all whose bread is earned By daily labour. 'Twas perchance the feast Of fav'rite saint, or anniversary Of one of bounteous nature's season gifts To grateful husbandry--no matter what The cause of their uniting. Joy beamed forth On ev'ry face, and the sweet echoes rang With sounds of honest mirth too rarely heard In the vast workshop man has made his world, Where months of toil must pay one day of song.

Somewhat apart from the assembled throng There sat a swarthy giant, with a face So nobly grand that though (unlike the rest) He wore no festal garb nor laughing mien, Yet was he study for the painter's art: He joined not in their sports, but rather seemed To please his eye with sight of others' joy. There was a cast of sorrow on his brow, As though it had been early there. He sat In listless attitude, yet not devoid Of gentlest grace, as down his stalwart form He bent, to catch the playful whisperings, And note the movements of a bright-hair'd child Who danced before him in the evening sun, Holding a tiny brother by the hand.

He was the village smith (the rolled-up sleeves And the well-charred leathern apron show'd his craft); Karl was his name--a man beloved by all. He was not of the district. He had come Amongst them ere his forehead bore one trace Of age or suffering. A wife and child He had brought with him; but the wife was dead. Not so the child--who danced before him now And held a tiny brother by the hand-- Their mother's last and priceless legacy! So Karl was happy still that those two lived, And laughed and danced before him in the sun.

Yet sadly so. The children both were fair, Ruddy, and active, though of fragile form; But to that father's ever watchful eye, Who had so loved their mother, it was plain That each inherited the wasting doom Which cost that mother's life. 'Twas reason more To work and toil for them by night and day! Early and late his anvil's ringing sound Was heard amidst all seasons. Oftentimes The neighbours asked him why he worked so hard With only two to care for? He would smile, Wipe his hot brow, and say, "'Twas done in love For sake of those in mercy left him still-- And hers: he might not stay. He could not live To lose them all." The tenderest of plants Required the careful'st gardening, and so He worked on valiantly; and if he marked An extra gleam of health in Trudchen's cheeks, A growing strength in little Casper's laugh, He bowed his head, and felt his work was paid. Even as now, while sitting 'neath the tree, He watched the bright-hair'd image of his wife, Who danced before him in the evening sun, Holding her tiny brother by the hand.

The frolics pause: now Casper's laughing head Rests wearily against his father's knee In trusting lovingness; while Trudchen runs To snatch a hasty kiss (the little man, It may be, wonders if the tiny hand With which he strives to reach his father's neck Will ever grow as big and brown as that He sees imbedded in his sister's curls). When quick as lightning's flash up starts the smith, Huddles the frightened children in his arms, Thrusts them far back--extends his giant frame And covers them as with Goliath's shield!

Now hark! a rushing, yelping, panting sound, So terrible that all stood chilled with fear; And in the midst of that late joyous throng Leapt an infuriate hound, with flaming eyes, Half-open mouth, and fiercely bristling hair, Proving that madness tore the brute to death. One spring from Karl, and the wild thing was seized, Fast prison'd in the stalwart Vulcan's gripe.

A sharp, shrill cry of agony from Karl Was mingled with the hound's low fever'd growl. And all with horror saw the creature's teeth Fixed in the blacksmith's shoulder. None had power To rescue him; for scarcely could you count A moment's space ere both had disappeared-- The man and dog. The smith had leapt a fence And gained the forest with a frantic rush, Bearing the hideous mischief in his arms.

A long receding cry came on the ear, Showing how swift their flight; and fainter grew The sound: ere well a man had time to think What might be done for help, the sound was hushed, Lost in the very distance. Women crouched And huddled up their children in their arms; Men flew to seek their weapons. 'Twas a change So swift and fearful, none could realise Its actual horrors--for a time. But now, The panic past, to rescue and pursuit!

Crash! through the brake into the forest track; But pitchy darkness, caused by closing night And foliage dense, impedes the avengers' way; When lo! they trip o'er something in their path!

It was the bleeding body of the hound, Warm, but quite dead. No other trace of Karl Was near at hand; they called his name; in vain They sought him in the forest all night through; Living or dead, he was not to be found. At break of day they left the fruitless search.

Next morning, as an anxious village group Stood meditating plans what best to do, Came little Trudchen, who, in simple tones, Said, "Father's at the forge--I heard him there Working long hours ago; but he is angry. I raised the latch: he bade me to be gone. What have I done to make him chide me so?" And then her bright blue eyes ran o'er with tears. "The child's been dreaming through this troubled night," Said a kind dame, and drew the child towards her. But the sad answers of the girl were such As led them all to seek her father's forge (It lay beyond the village some short span). They forced the door, and there beheld the smith.

His sinewy frame was drawn to its full height; And round his loins a double chain of iron, Wrought with true workman skill, was riveted Fast to an anvil of enormous weight. He stood as pale and statue-like as death.

Now let his own words close the hapless tale: "I killed the hound, you know; but not until His maddening venom through my veins had passed. I knew full well the death in store for me, And would not answer when you called my name; But crouched among the brushwood, while I thought Over some plan. I know my giant strength, And dare not trust it after reason's loss. Why! I might turn and rend whom most I love. I've made all fast now. 'Tis a hideous death. I thought to plunge me in the deep, still pool That skirts the forest--to avoid it; but I thought that for the suicide's poor shift I would not throw away my chance of heaven, And meeting one who made earth heaven to me. So I came home and forged these chains about me: Full well I know no human hand can rend them, And now am safe from harming those I love. Keep off, good friends! Should God prolong my life, Throw me such food as nature may require. Look to my babes. This you are bound to do; For by my deadly grasp on that poor hound, How many of you have I saved from death Such as I now await? But hence away! The poison works! these chains must try their strength. My brain's on fire! with me 'twill soon be night."

Too true his words! the brave, great-hearted Karl, A raving maniac, battled with his chains For three fierce days. The fourth saw him free; For Death's strong hand had loosed the martyr's bonds; Where his freed spirit soars, who dares to doubt?

THE ROMANCE OF TENACHELLE.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

On panting steeds they hurry on, Kildare, and Darcy's lovely daughter-- On panting steeds they hurry on; To cross the Barrow's water; Within her father's dungeon chained, Kildare her gentle heart had gained; Now love and she have broke his chain, And he is free! is free again.

His cloak, by forest boughs is rent, The long night's toilsome journey showing; His helm's white plume is wet, and bent, And backwards o'er his shoulders flowing; Pale is the lovely lady's cheek, Her eyes grow dim, her hand is weak; And, feebly, tries she to sustain, Her falling horse, with silken rein.

"Now, clasp thy fair arms round my neck," Kildare cried to the lovely lady; "Thy weight black Memnon will not check, Nor stay his gallop, swift and steady;" The blush, one moment, dyed her cheek; The next, her arms are round his neck; And placed before him on his horse, They haste, together, on their course.

"Oh! Gerald," cried the lady fair, Now backward o'er his shoulder gazing, "I see Red Raymond, in our rear, And Owen, Darcy's banner raising-- Mother of Mercy! now I see My father, in their company; Oh! Gerald, leave me here, and fly, Enough! enough! for one to die!"

"My own dear love; my own dear love!" Kildare cried to the lovely lady, "Fear not, black Memnon yet shall prove, Than all their steeds, more swift and steady: But to guide well my gallant horse, Tasks eye, and hand, and utmost force; Then look for me, my love, and tell, What see'st thou now at Tenachelle?"

"I see, I see," the lady cried, "Now bursting o'er its green banks narrow, And through the valley spreading wide, In one vast flood, the Barrow! The bridge of Tenachelle now seems, A dark stripe o'er the rushing streams; For nought above the flood is shown, Except its parapet alone."

"But can'st thou see," Earl Gerald said, "My faithful Gallowglasses standing? Waves the green plume on Milo's head, For me, at Tenachelle commanding?" "No men are there," the lady said, "No living thing, no human aid; The trees appear, like isles of green, Nought else, through all the vale is seen."

Deep agony through Gerald passed; Oh! must she fall, the noble-hearted; And must this morning prove their last, By kinsmen and by friends deserted? Sure treason must have made its way, Within the courts of Castle Ley; And kept away the mail-clad ranks He ordered to the Barrow's banks.

"The chase comes fast," the lady cries; "Both whip and spur I see them plying; Sir Robert Verdon foremost hies, Through Regan's forest flying; Each moment on our course they gain, Alas! why did I break thy chain, And urge thee, from thy prison, here, To make the mossy turf thy bier?"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my own dear maid," Kildare cried to the weeping lady; "Soon, soon, shall come the promised aid, With shield and lance for battle ready; Look out, while swift we ride, and tell What see'st thou now at Tenachelle. Does aught on Clemgaum's Hill now move? Cheer up, and look, my own dear love!"

"Still higher swells the rushing tide," The lady said, "along the river; The bridge wall's rent, with breaches wide, Beneath its force the arches quiver. But on Clemgaum I see no plumes; From Offaly no succour comes; No banner floats, no trumpet's blown-- Alas! alas! we are alone.

"And now, O God! I see behind, My father to Red Raymond lending, His war-horse, fleeter than the wind, And on our chase, the traitor sending: He holds the lighted aquebus, Bearing death to both of us; Speed, my gallant Memnon, speed, Nor let us 'neath the ruffian bleed."

"Thy love saved _me_ at risk of life," Kildare cried, "when the axe was wielding; And now I joy, my own dear wife, To think my breast _thy_ life is shielding; Thank Heaven no bolt can now reach thee, That shall not first have passed through me; For death were mercy to the thought, That thou, for me, to death were brought."

And now they reach the trembling bridge, Through flooded bottoms swiftly rushing; Along it heaves a foaming ridge, Through its rent walls the torrent's gushing. Across the bridge their way they make, 'Neath Memnon's hoofs the arches shake; While fierce as hate, and fleet as wind, Red Raymond follows fast behind.

They've gained, they've gained the farther side! Through clouds of foam, stout Memnon dashes; And, as they swiftly onward ride, Beneath his feet the vext flood splashes. But as they reach the floodless ground, The valley rings with a sharp sound; The aquebus has hurled its rain, And by it gallant Memnon's slain.

And now behind loud rose the cry-- "The bridge! beware! the bridge is breaking!" Backwards the scared pursuers fly, While, like a tyrant, his wrath wreaking, Rushed the flood, the strong bridge rending, And its fragments downwards sending; In its throat Red Raymond swallowed, While above him the flood bellowed.

Hissing, roaring, in its course, The shattered bridge before it spurning, The flood burst down, with giant force, The oaks of centuries upturning. The awed pursuers stood aghast; All hope to reach Kildare's now past Blest be the Barrow, which thus rose, To save true lovers from their foes!

And now o'er Clemgaum's Hill appear, Their white plumes on the breezes dancing, A gallant troop, with shield and spear, From Offaley with aid advancing. Quick to Kildare his soldiers ride, And raise him up from Memnon's side; Unhurt he stands, and to his breast, The Lady Anna Darcy's pressed.

"Kinsmen and friends," exclaimed Kildare, "Behold my bride, the fair and fearless, Who broke my chain, and brought me here, In truth, in love, and beauty, peerless. Here, at the bridge of Tenachelle, Amid the friends I love so well, I swear that until life depart, She'll rule my home, my soul, my heart!"

MICHAEL FLYNN.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

Said Michael Flynn, the lab'ring man, "Yis, sorr, although oi'm poor, Sooner than live on charity I'd beg from door to door."

A NIGHT WITH A STORK.

BY WILLIAM G. WILCOX.

Four individuals--namely, my wife, my infant son, my maid-of-all-work, and myself, occupy one of a row of very small houses in the suburbs of London. I am a thoroughly domesticated man, and notwithstanding that my occupation necessitates absence from my dwelling between the hours of 9 A.M. and 5 P.M., my heart is usually at home with my diminutive household. My wife and I love regularity and quiet above all things; and although, since the arrival of my son and heir, we have not enjoyed that perfect peace which was ours during the first years of our married life, yet his powerful little lungs, I am bound to say, have failed to make ours a noisy house.

Up to the time when the incident occurred which I am going to tell you about our regularity had remained undisturbed, and we got up, went to bed, dined, breakfasted, and took tea at the same time, day after day. Well, as I say, we had been going on in this clockwork fashion for a considerable time, when the other morning the postman brought a letter to our door, and on looking at the direction, I found that it came from an old, rich, and very eccentric uncle of mine, with whom--hem! for certain reasons, we wished to remain on the best of terms.

"What can Uncle Martin have to write about?" was our simultaneous exclamation. "The present for baby at last, I do believe, James," added my wife; "a cheque, perhaps, or----" I opened the letter and read:--

"MARTIN HOUSE, HERTS., "_October 17th_.

"DEAR NEPHEW,--You may perhaps have heard that I am forming an aviary here. A friend in Rotterdam has written to me to say that he has sent by the boat, which will arrive in London to-morrow afternoon, a very intelligent parrot and a fine stork. As the vessel arrives too late for them to be sent on the same night, I shall be obliged by your taking the birds home, and forwarding them to me the next morning. With my respects to your good lady,

"I remain,

"Your affectionate Uncle,

"RALPH MARTIN."

We looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then my wife said, "James, what is a stork?"

"A stork, my dear, is a--a--sort of ostrich, I think."

"An ostrich! why that's an enormous----"

"Yes, my dear, the creature that puts its head in the sand, and kicks when it's pursued, you know."

"James, the horrid thing shall _not_ come here! If it should kick baby we should never forgive ourselves."

"No, no, my dear, I don't think the _stork_ is at all ferocious. No, it can't be. Stork! stork! I always associate storks with chimneys. Yes, abroad, I think in Holland, or Germany, or somewhere, the stork sweeps the chimneys with its long legs from the top. But let's see what the Natural History says, my dear. That will tell us all about it. Stork--um--um--'hind toe short, middle toe long, and joined to the outer one by a large membrane, and by a smaller one to the inner toe.' Well, _that_ won't matter much for one night, will it, dear? 'His height often exceeds four feet.'"

"_Four_ feet!!!" interrupted my wife. "James, how high are you?"

"Well, my dear, really, comparisons are exceedingly disagreeable--um--um--'appetite extremely voracious,' and his food--hulloa! 'frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels!'"

"Frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels," repeated my wife. "James, do you expect me to provide supper and breakfast of this description for the horrid thing?"

"Well, my dear, we must do our best for baby's sake, you know, for baby's sake," and, getting my hat, I left as usual for the office. I passed anything but a pleasant day there, my thoughts constantly reverting to our expected visitors. At four o'clock I took a cab to the docks, and on arriving there inquired for the ship, which was pointed out to me as "the one with the crowd on the quay." On driving up I discovered why there was a crowd, and the discovery did not bring comfort with it. On the deck, on one leg, stood the stork. Whether it was the sea voyage, or the leaving his home, or, that being a stork of high moral principle, he was grieving at the persistent swearing of the parrot, I do not know, but I never saw a more melancholy looking object in my life.

I went down on the deck, and did not like the expression of relief that came over the captain's face when he found what I had come for. The transmission of the parrot from the ship to the cab was an easy matter, as he was in a cage; but the stork was merely tethered by one leg; and although he did his best, when brought to the foot of the ladder, in trying to get up, he failed utterly, and had to be half shoved, half hauled all the way. Even then he persisted in getting outside of every bar--like this. After a great deal of trouble we got him to the top. I hurried him into the cab, and telling the man to drive as quickly as possible, got in with my guests. At first I had to keep dodging my head about to keep my face away from his bill, as he turned round; but all of a sudden he broke the little window at the back of the cab, thrust his head through, and would keep it there, notwithstanding that I kept pulling him back. Consequently when we drove up to my house there was a mob of about a thousand strong around us. I got him in as well as I could, and shut the door.