Chapter 7

How can I describe the spending of that evening? How can I get sufficient power out of the English language to let you know what a nuisance that bird was to us? How can I tell you of the cool manner in which he inspected our domestic arrangements, walking slowly from room to room, and standing on one leg till his curiosity was satisfied, or how describe the expression of wretchedness that he threw over his entire person when he was tethered to the banisters, and found out that, owing to our limited accommodation he was to remain in the hall all night, or picture the way in which he ate the snails specially provided for him, verifying to the letter the naturalist's description of his appetite. How can you who have _not_ had a stork staying with you have any idea of the change that came over his temper after his supper, how he pecked at everybody who came near him; how he stood sentinel at the foot of the stairs; how my wife and I made fruitless attempts to get past, followed by ignominious retreats; how at last we outmanoeuvred him by throwing a tablecloth over his head, and then rushing by him, gained the top of the stairs before he could disentangle himself.

Added to all this we had to endure language from that parrot which was really shocking: indeed, so scurrilous did he become that we had at last to take him and lock him up in the coal-hole, where, owing to the darkness of his bedroom, or from fatigue, he presently swore himself to sleep.

Well, by this time, we were quite ready for rest, and the forgetfulness which, we hoped, sleep would bring with it; but our peace was not to last long. About 2 A.M. my wife clutched my hair and woke me up. "James, James, listen!" I listened. I heard a sort of scrambling noise outside the door. "The water running into the cistern, my dear," I said sleepily.

"James, don't be absurd; that horrid thing has broken its string, and is coming upstairs."

I listened again. It really sounded like it.

"James, if you don't go at once, _I_ must. You know the nursery door is always left open, and if that horrid thing should get in to baby----"

"But, my dear," said I, "what am I to do in my present defenceless state of clothing, if he should take to pecking?"

My wife's expression of contempt at the idea of considering myself before the baby determined me at once, come what might, to go and do him battle. Out I went, and there, sure enough, he was on the landing resting himself after his unusual exertion by tucking up one leg. He looked so subdued that I was about to take him by the string and lead him downstairs, when he drew back his head, and in less time than it takes to relate, I was back in my room, bleeding from a severe wound in the leg. I shouted out to the nurse to shut the door, and determined to let the infamous bird go where he liked. I bound up my leg and went to bed again; but the thought that there was a stork wandering about the house prevented me from getting any more sleep. From certain sounds that we heard, we had little doubt that he was spending some of his time in the cupboard where we kept our surplus crockery, and an inspection the next day confirmed this.

In the morning I ventured cautiously out, and finding he was in our spare bedroom, I shut the door upon him. I then sent for a large sack, and with the help of the tablecloth, and the boy who cleans our boots, we got him into it without any further personal damage. I took him off in this way to the station, and confided him and the parrot to the guard of the early train. As the train moved off, I heard a yell and a very improper expression from the guard. I have reason to believe that the stork had freed himself from the wrapper, and had begun pecking again.

We have determined that, taking our chance about a place in my uncle's will, we will never again have anything to do with any foreign birds, however much he may ask and desire it.

AN UNMUSICAL NEIGHBOUR.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

I once knew a man who was musical mad-- A hundred years old was the fiddle he had; I never complained, but whenever he played I wished I had lived when that fiddle was made.

THE CHALICE.

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY.

Swift, storm-scud, raced the morning sky, As light along the road I fared; Stern was the way, yet glad was I, Though feet and breast and brow were bared; For fancy, like a happy child, Ran on before and turned and smiled.

The track grew fair with turf and tree, The air was blithe with bird and flower. Boon nature's gentlest wizardry Was potent with the bounteous hour: A raptured languor o'er me crept; I laid me down at noon and slept.

I woke, and there, as in a dream, Which holds some boding fear of wrong, By fog-bound fen and sluggard stream I dragged my leaden steps along. My blood ran ice; I turned and spied A shrouded figure at my side.

"And who art thou that pacest here?" He answered like a hollow wind, Not heard by any outer ear, But in dim chambers of the mind. "I walk," he said, "in ways of shame, The comrade of thy wasted fame."

A passion clamoured in my breast, For mirthless laughter, and I laughed; In mine the phantom's cold hand pressed A cup, and in self's spite I quaffed. It clung like slime; 'twas black like ink: Death is less bitter than that drink.

"This chalice scarce can fail," said he, "Till thou and I shall fail from earth;' And we will walk in company, And waste the night with shameful mirth. I pledge thy fate; now pledge thou mine." I pledged him in the bitter wine.

"Had'st thou not slept at noon," he said, "Thou should'st have walked in praise and fame. Now loathest thou thine heart and head, And both thine eyes are blind with shame." His voice was like a hollow wind In dim death-chambers in the mind.

He turned; he bared a demon face; He filled the night with ribald song; For many a league, in evil case, We danced our leaden feet along. And every rood, in that foul wine, I pledged his fate: he drank to mine.

"What comfort has thou?" suddenly To me my phantom comrade saith. "I know," said I, "where'er I lie, The end of each man's road is death. I pray that I may find it soon; I weary of night's changeless moon."

Then, in such lays of hideous mirth As never tainted human breath, He cursed all things of human worth-- Made mock of life and scorn of death. "Art weary?" quoth he; and said I: "Fain here to lay me down and die."

"Then join," he saith, "my roundelay; Curse God and die, and make an end. Fled is thine hope, and done thy day; The fleshworm is thine only friend. Thy mouth is fouled, and he, I ween, Alone can scour thy palate clean."

I said: "I justify the rod; I claim its heaviest stripe mine own. Did justice cease to dwell with God, Then God were toppled from His throne! Fill up thy chalice to the brink-- Thy bitterest, and I will drink."

With looks like any devil's grim, He poured the brewage till it ran With fetid horror at the brim. "Now, drink," he gibed, "and play the man!" He stretched the chalice forth. It stank That my soul failed me, and I drank.

With loathing soul and quivering flesh I drank, and lo! the draught I took Was limpid-clear, and sweet and fresh As ever came from summer brook Or fountain, where the trees have made Long from the sun a pleasant shade.

He hurled the chalice to the sky; A bright hand caught it; and was gone. He blessed me with a sovereign eye, And like a god's his visage shone, And there he took me by the hand, And led me towards another land.

LIVINGSTONE.

Buried in Westminster Abbey, April, 1874.

BY HENRY LLOYD.

With solemn march and slow a soldier comes, In conquest fallen; home we bring him dead; Stand silent by, beat low the muffled drums, Uncover ye, and bow the reverent head.

Where ghostly echoes dwell and grey light falls, Where Kings and Heroes rest in honoured sleep; Their names steel bitten on the sacred walls, Inter his dust, while England bends to weep.

Stir not ye Kings and Heroes in your rest, Lest these poor bones dishonour such as you; This man was both, though nodding plume or crest Ne'er waved above his eye so bright and true.

By no sad orphan is his name abhorred, A hero, yet no battered shield he brings. Nor on his bier a blood encrusted sword; Nor as his trophies Kings, nor crowns of Kings.

War hath its heroes, Peace hath hers as well, Armed by Heaven's King from Heaven's armoury; And this dead man was one, who fought and fell, Life less his choice, than death and victory.

To do his work with purpose iron strong, To loose the captive, set the prisoner free; To heal the hideous sore of deadly wrong Kept festering by greed and cruelty;

Love on his banner, Pity in his heart; His lofty soul moved on with single aim; 'Mid deadly perils bore a noble part, And, dying, left a pure, unsullied name.

Thro' dreary miles of foul eternal swamp, And over lonely leagues of burning sand, He wrought his purpose; Faith his quenchless lamp, And Truth his sword held as in giant's hand.

His lot was as his sorrowing Master's lot, Nowhere to lay his weary honoured head; "My limbs they fail me, and my brow is hot; Build me a hut--wherein--to die," he said.

"Ah, England, I shall see thee nevermore. Farewell, my loved ones, far o'er ocean's foam; Ye watch in vain on that dear mother shore," He looked to Heaven and cried, "I'm going home."

Home, sweetest word that ever man has made, Home, after weariness and toil and pain; Home to his Father's house all unafraid, Home to his rest, no more to weep again.

How found they him, this hero of all time? Dead on his knees, as if at last he said: "Into thy hands, O God!" with faith sublime; And death looked on, scarce knowing he was dead.

O British land, that breedeth sturdy men, Be proud to hold our hero's honoured bones; Land that he wrought for with his life and pen, Write, write his glory in enduring stones.

Tell how he lived and died, how fought and fell, So in the world's glad future, looming dim; The children of the lands he loved so well, Shall learn his name and love to honour him.

IN SWANAGE BAY.

BY MRS. CRAIK.

"'Twas five-and-forty year ago, Just such another morn, The fishermen were on the beach, The reapers in the corn; My tale is true, young gentlemen, As sure as you were born.

"My tale's all true, young gentlemen," The fond old boatman cried Unto the sullen, angry lads, Who vain obedience tried: "Mind what your father says to you, And don't go out this tide.

"Just such a shiny sea as this, Smooth as a pond, you'd say, And white gulls flying, and the crafts Down Channel making way; And the Isle of Wight, all glittering bright, Seen clear from Swanage Bay.

"The Battery Point, the Race beyond, Just as to-day you see; This was, I think, the very stone Where sat Dick, Dolly, and me; She was our little sister, sirs, A small child, just turned three.

"And Dick was mighty fond of her: Though a big lad and bold, He'd carry her like any nurse, Almost from birth, I'm told; For mother sickened soon, and died When Doll was eight months old.

"We sat and watched a little boat, Her name the 'Tricksy Jane,' A queer old tub laid up ashore, But we could see her plain. To see her and not haul her up Cost us a deal of pain.

"Said Dick to me, 'Let's have a pull; Father will never know: He's busy in his wheat up there, And cannot see us go; These landsmen are such cowards if A puff of wind does blow.

"'I've been to France and back three times-- Who knows best, dad or me, Whether a ship's seaworthy or not? Dolly, wilt go to sea?' And Dolly laughed and hugged him tight, As pleased as she could be.

"I don't mean, sirs, to blame poor Dick: What he did, sure I'd do; And many a sail in 'Tricksy Jane' We'd had when she was new. Father was always sharp; and what He said, he meant it too.

"But now the sky had not a cloud, The bay looked smooth as glass; Our Dick could manage any boat, As neat as ever was. And Dolly crowed, 'Me go to sea!' The jolly little lass!

"Well, sirs, we went: a pair of oars; My jacket for a sail: Just round 'Old Harry and his Wife'-- Those rocks there, within hail; And we came back.----D'ye want to hear The end o' the old man's tale?

"Ay, ay, we came back past that point, But then a. breeze up-sprung; Dick shouted, 'Hoy! down sail!' and pulled With all his might among The white sea-horses that upreared So terrible and strong.

"I pulled too: I was blind with fear; But I could hear Dick's breath Coming and going, as he told Dolly to creep beneath His jacket, and not hold him so: We rowed for life or death.

"We almost reached the sheltered bay, We could see father stand Upon the little jetty here, His sickle in his hand; The houses white, the yellow fields, The safe and pleasant land.

"And Dick, though pale as any ghost, Had only said to me, 'We're all right now, old lad!' when up A wave rolled--drenched us three-- One lurch, and then I felt the chill And roar of blinding sea.

"I don't remember much but that: You see I'm safe and sound; I have been wrecked four times since then-- Seen queer sights, I'll be bound. I think folks sleep beneath the deep As calm as underground."

"But Dick and Dolly?" "Well, Poor Dick! I saw him rise and cling Unto the gunwale of the boat-- Floating keel up--and sing Out loud, 'Where's Doll?'--I hear him yet As clear as anything.

"'Where's Dolly?' I no answer made; For she dropped like a stone Down through the deep sea; and it closed: The little thing was gone! 'Where's Doll?' three times; then Dick loosed hold, And left me there alone.

* * * * *

"It's five-and-forty year since then," Muttered the boatman grey, And drew his rough hand o'er his eyes, And stared across the bay; "Just five-and-forty year," and not Another word did say.

"But Dolly?" ask the children all, As they about him stand. "Poor Doll! she floated back next tide With sea-weed in her hand. She's buried o'er that hill you see, In a churchyard on land.

"But where Dick lies, God knows! He'll find Our Dick at Judgment-day." The boatman fell to mending nets, The boys ran off to play; And the sun shone and the waves danced In quiet Swanage Bay.

BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

"O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?" Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. "To know if between the land and the pole I may find a broad sea-way."

"I charge you back, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN, As you would live and thrive; For between the land and the frozen pole No man may sail alive."

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, And spoke unto his men: "Half England is wrong, if he is right; Bear off to westward then."

"O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?" Cried the little Esquimaux. "Between your land and the polar star My goodly vessels go."

"Come down, if you would journey there," The little Indian said; "And change your cloth for fur clothing, Your vessel for a sled."

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, And the crew laughed with him, too:-- "A sailor to change from ship to sled, I ween were something new!"

All through the long, long polar day, The vessels westward sped; And wherever the sails of Sir John were blown, The ice gave way and fled:

Gave way with many a hollow groan, And with many a surly roar; But it murmured and threatened on every side, And closed where he sailed before.

"Ho! see ye not, my merry men, The broad and open sea? Bethink ye what the whaler said, Think of the little Indian's sled!" The crew laughed out in glee.

"Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold, The scud drives on the breeze, The ice comes looming from the north, The very sunbeams freeze."

"Bright summer goes, dark winter comes-- We cannot rule the year; But long ere summer's sun goes down, On yonder sea we'll steer."

The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, And floundered down the gale; The ships were stayed, the yards were manned, And furled the useless sail

"The summer's gone, the winter's come, We sail not yonder sea: Why sail we not, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?" A silent man was he.

"The summer goes, the winter comes-- We cannot rule the year." "I ween we cannot rule the ways, Sir John, wherein we'd steer!"

The cruel ice came floating on, And closed beneath the lee, Till the thickening waters dashed no more; 'Twas ice around, behind, before-- Oh God! there is no sea!

What think you of the whaler now? What of the Esquimaux? A sled were better than a ship, To cruise through ice and snow.

Down sank the baleful crimson sun, The northern light came out, And glared upon the ice-bound ships, And shook its spears about.

The snow came down, storm breeding storm, And on the decks were laid: Till the weary sailor, sick at heart, Sank down beside his spade.

"Sir John, the night is black and long, The hissing wind is bleak, The hard green ice is strong as death-- I prithee, Captain, speak!"

"The night is neither bright nor short, The singing breeze is cold; The ice is not so strong as hope-- The heart of man is bold!"

"What hope can scale this icy wall, High o'er the main flag-staff? Above the ridges the wolf and bear Look down with a patient settled stare, Look down on us and laugh."

"The summer, went, the winter came-- We could not rule the year; But summer will melt the ice again, And open a path to the sunny main, Whereon our ships shall steer."

The winter went, the summer went, The winter came around: But the hard green ice was strong as death, And the voice of hope sank to a breath, Yet caught at every sound.

"Hark! heard ye not the noise of guns? And there, and there again?" "'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar, As he turns in the frozen main."

"Hurrah! hurrah! the Esquimaux Across the ice-fields steal: God give them grace for their charity!" "Ye pray for the silly seal."

"Sir John, where are the English fields, And where are the English trees, And where are the little English flowers That open in the breeze?"

"Be still, be still, my brave sailors! You shall see the fields again, And smell the scent of the opening flowers, The grass, and the waving grain."

"Oh! when shall I see my orphan child? My Mary waits for me." "Oh! when shall I see my old mother, And pray at her trembling knee?"

"Be still, be still, my brave sailors! Think not such thoughts again." But a tear froze slowly on his cheek; He thought of Lady Jane.

Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold, The ice grows more and more; More settled stare the wolf and bear, More patient than before.

"Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin, We'll ever see the land? 'Twas cruel to send us here to starve, Without a helping hand.

"'Twas cruel, Sir John, to send us here, So far from help and home, To starve and freeze on this lonely sea: I ween, the Lord of the Admiralty Would rather send than come."

"Oh! whether we starve to death alone, Or sail to our own country, We have done what man has never done-- The truth is found, the secret won-- We passed the Northern Sea!"

PHADRIG CROHOORE.

BY JAMES SHERIDAN LE FANU.

Oh, Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy, And he stood six feet eight; And his arm was as round as another man's thigh,-- 'Tis Phadrig was great.

His hair was as black as the shadows of night, And it hung over scars got in many a fight. And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eye flashed like lightning from under a cloud,-- And there wasn't a girl from thirty-five under, Sorra matter how cross, but he could come round her; But of all whom he smiled on so sweetly, but one Was the girl of his heart, and he loved her alone. As warm as the sun, as the rock firm and sure, Was the love of the heart of young Phadrig Crohoore. He would die for a smile from his Kathleen O'Brien, For his love, like his hatred, was strong as a lion.

But one Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well As he hated Crohoore--and that same I can tell. And O'Brien liked him, for they were all the same parties-- The O'Hanlons, O'Briens, O'Ryans, M'Carthies; And they all went together in hating Crohoore, For many's the bating he gave them before. So O'Hanlon makes up to O'Brien, and says he: "I'll marry your daughter if you'll give her to me."

So the match was made up, and when Shrovetide came on The company assembled--three hundred if one! The O'Hanlon's, of course, turned out strong on that day, And the pipers and fiddlers were tearing away; There was laughing, and roaring, and jigging, and flinging, And joking and blessing, and kissing and singing, And they were all merry; why not, to be sure, That O'Hanlon got inside of Phadrig Crohoore; And they all talked and laughed, the length of the table, Aiting and drinking while they were able-- With the piping and fiddling, and roaring like thunder, Och! you'd think your head fairly was splitting asunder; And the priest shouted, "Silence, ye blabblers, agin," And he took up his prayer-book and was going to begin, And they all held their funning, and jigging, and bawling, So silent, you'd notice the smallest pin falling; And the priest was beginning to read, when the door Was flung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore.

Oh! Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy, And he stood six feet eight; His arm was as big as another man's thigh,-- 'Tis Phadrig was great.