Chapter 7

"Miss Maggie, you're to come down this minute," said Kezia, entering the room hurriedly. "What have you been a-doing? I never saw such a fright!"

"Don't, Kezia," said Maggie, angrily. "Go away!"

"But I tell you, you're to come down, Miss, this minute: your mother says so," said Kezia, going up to Maggie and taking her by the hand to raise her from the floor.

"Get away, Kezia; I don't want any dinner," said Maggie, resisting Kezia's arm. "I shan't come."

"Oh, well, I can't stay. I've got to wait at dinner," said Kezia, going out again.

"Maggie, you little silly," said Tom, peeping into the room ten minutes after, "why don't you come and have your dinner? There's lots o' goodies, and mother says you're to come. What are you crying for?"

Oh, it was dreadful! Tom was so hard and unconcerned; if _he_ had been crying on the floor, Maggie would have cried, too. And there was the dinner, so nice; and she was _so_ hungry. It was very bitter.

But Tom was not altogether hard. He went and put his head near her, and said, in a lower, comforting tone: "Won't you come, then, Maggie? Shall I bring you a bit of pudding when I've had mine--and a custard and things?"

"Ye-e-es," said Maggie, beginning to feel life a little more tolerable.

"Very well," said Tom, going away. But he turned again at the door and said: "But you'd better come, you know. There's the dessert, you know."

Maggie's tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom left her. His good nature had taken off the keenest edge of her suffering.

Slowly she rose from among her scattered locks, and slowly she made her way down-stairs. Then she stood leaning with one shoulder against the frame of the dining-parlour door, peeping in when it was ajar. She saw Tom and Lucy with an empty chair between them, and there were the custards on a side-table--it was too much. She slipped in and went towards the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than she repented, and wished herself back again.

Mrs. Tulliver gave a little scream as she saw her, and dropped the large gravy-spoon into the dish with the most serious results to the tablecloth.

Mrs. Tulliver's scream made all eyes turn towards the same point as her own, and Maggie's cheeks and ears began to burn, while Uncle Glegg, a kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman, said: "Heyday! what little girl's this? Why, I don't know her. Is it some little girl you've picked up in the road, Kezia?"

"Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself," said Mr. Tulliver in an undertone to Mr. Deane, laughing with much enjoyment.

"Why, little Miss, you've made yourself look very funny," said Uncle Pullet.

"Fie, for shame!" said Aunt Glegg, in her severest tone of reproof. "Little girls that cut their own hair should be whipped and fed on bread and water, not come and sit down with their aunts and uncles."

"Aye, aye," said Uncle Glegg, meaning to give a playful turn, "she must be sent to jail, I think, and they'll cut the rest of her hair off there, and make it all even."

"She's more like a gypsy than ever," said Aunt Pullet in a pitying tone.

"She's a naughty child, that'll break her mother's heart," said Mrs. Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes.

Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and derision. Her first flush came from anger. Tom thought she was braving it out, supported by the recent appearance of the pudding and custard.

He whispered: "Oh, my! Maggie, I told you you'd catch it." He meant to be friendly, but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her ignominy.

Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, her heart swelled, and, getting up from her chair, she ran to her father, hid her face on his shoulder, and burst out into loud sobbing. "Come, come," said her father, soothingly, putting his arm round her, "never mind; give over crying: father'll take your part."

Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never forgot any of these moments when her father "took her part"; she kept them in her heart, and thought of them long years after, when every one else said that her father had done very ill by his children.

GEORGE ELIOT: "The Mill on the Floss." (Adapted)

THE CORN SONG

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, Our ploughs their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with autumn's moon-lit eves, Its harvest-time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves, And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gift Apollo showered of old, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk Around their costly board; Give us the bowl of samp and milk, By homespun beauty poured!

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls, Who will not thank the kindly earth, And bless our farmer girls!

WHITTIER

SPORTS IN NORMAN ENGLAND

After dinner all the youth of the city go into the field of the suburbs, and address themselves to the famous game of football. The scholars of each school have their peculiar ball; and the particular trades have, most of them, theirs. The elders of the city, the fathers of the parties, and the rich and wealthy, come to the field on horseback, in order to behold the exercises of the youth, and in appearance are themselves as youthful as the youngest; seeming to be revived at the sight of so much agility, and in a participation of the diversion of their festive sons.

At Easter the diversion is prosecuted on the water; a target is strongly fastened to a trunk or mast fixed in the middle of the river, and a youngster standing upright in the stern of a boat, made to move as fast as the oars and current can carry it, is to strike the target with his lance; and if, in hitting it, he breaks his lance and keeps his place in the boat, he gains his point and triumphs; but if it happens the lance is not shivered by the force of the blow, he is, of course, tumbled into the water, and away goes his vessel without him.

However, a couple of boats full of young men are placed one on each side of the target, so as to be ready to take up the unsuccessful adventurer the moment he emerges from the stream and comes fairly to the surface. The bridge and the balconies on the banks are filled with spectators, whose business is to laugh. On holidays, in summer, the pastime of the youth is to exercise themselves in archery, in running, leaping, wrestling, casting of stones, and flinging to certain distances, and, lastly, with bucklers.

In the winter holidays when that vast lake which waters the walls of the City towards the north is hard frozen, the youth, in great numbers, go to divert themselves on the ice. Some, taking a small run, place their feet at the proper distance, and are carried, sliding sideways, a great way; others will make a large cake of ice, and seating one of their companions upon it, they take hold of one another's hands, and draw him along: when it sometimes happens that, moving so swiftly on so slippery a plain, they all fall down headlong.

Others there are who are still more expert in these amusements on the ice; they place certain bones, the leg bones of some animal, under the soles of their feet by tying them round their ankles, and, then, taking a pole shod with iron into their hands, they push themselves forward by striking it against the ice, and are carried along with a velocity equal to the flight of a bird, or a bolt discharged from a cross-bow. Sometimes two of them thus furnished agree to start opposite one to another, at a great distance; they meet, elevate their poles, attack and strike each other, when one or both of them fall, and not without some bodily hurt; and even after their fall they shall be carried a good distance from each other by the rapidity of the motion. Very often the leg or the arm of the party that falls, if he chances to light upon them, is broken; but youth is an age ambitious of glory, fond and covetous of victory, and that in future time it may acquit itself boldly and valiantly in real engagements, it will run these hazards in sham ones.

Hawking and hunting were sports only for persons of quality, and woe be to the unhappy man of the lower orders who indulged in either of these sports. If caught he would be severely punished and might have his eyes put out.

After breakfast, knights with their ladies ride out, each bearing upon his wrist a falcon with scarlet hood and collar of gold. As they near the river a heron, who had been fishing for his breakfast among the reeds near the bank, hears them and spreading his wings flies upward. A knight slips the hood from the falcon's head and next instant he sees the heron. Away he darts, while knights and ladies rein in their horses and watch. Up, and up, he goes until he passes the heron and still he flies higher. Next instant he turns and, with a terrible swoop downwards, pounces upon the heron and kills it.

The knight sounds his whistle and instantly the falcon turns and darts back to him for the dainty food which is given as a reward for his good hunting. Then he is chained and hooded again till another bird rises. So the morning passes, and many a bird do the falcons bring down before the knights and ladies return to the castle for "noon-meat."

WILLIAM FITZSTEPHEN (Adapted)

And He that doth the ravens feed, Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to my age!

SHAKESPEARE

A SONG OF CANADA

Sing me a song of the great Dominion! Soul-felt words for a patriot's ear! Ring out boldly the well-turned measure, Voicing your notes that the world may hear; Here is no starveling--Heaven-forsaken-- Shrinking aside where the Nations throng; Proud as the proudest moves she among them-- Worthy is she of a noble song!

Sing me the might of her giant mountains, Baring their brows in the dazzling blue; Changeless alone, where all else changes, Emblems of all that is grand and true: Free, as the eagles around them soaring; Fair, as they rose from their Maker's hand: Shout, till the snow-caps catch the chorus-- The white-topp'd peaks of our mountain land.

Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests, Silence eternal, and peace profound, In whose great heart's deep recesses Breaks no tempest, and comes no sound; Face to face with the deathlike stillness, Here, if at all, man's soul might quail: Nay! 'tis the love of that great peace leads us Thither, where solace will never fail!

Sing me the pride of her stately rivers, Cleaving their way to the far-off sea; Glory of strength in their deep-mouth'd music-- Glory of mirth in their tameless glee. Hark! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids; Deep unto deep through the dead night calls; Truly, I hear but the voice of Freedom Shouting her name from her fortress walls!

Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies, League upon league of the golden grain: Comfort, housed in the smiling homestead-- Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain. Land of Contentment! May no strife vex you, Never war's flag on your plains be unfurl'd; Only the blessings of mankind reach you-- Finding the food for a hungry world!

Sing me the charm of her blazing camp fires; Sing me the quiet of her happy homes, Whether afar 'neath the forest arches, Or in the shade of the city's domes; Sing me her life, her loves, her labours; All of a mother a son would hear; For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding, Sweet are the strains to the lover's ear.

Sing me the worth of each Canadian, Roamer in wilderness--toiler in town-- Search earth over you'll find none stancher, Whether his hands be white or brown; Come of a right good stock to start with, Best of the world's blood in each vein; Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one, For us or from us, you'll find we're--MEN!

Sing me the song, then; sing it bravely; Put your soul in the words you sing; Sing me the praise of this glorious country-- Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring. Here is no starveling--Heaven-forsaken-- Crouching apart where the Nations throng; Proud as the proudest moves she among them-- Well is she worthy a noble song!

ROBERT REID

A MAD TEA PARTY

There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind."

The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice, indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.

"Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.

"You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity: "it's very rude."

The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was: "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"

"Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles--I believe I can guess that," she added aloud.

"Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare.

"Exactly so," said Alice.

"Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on.

"I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know."

"Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "Why, you might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!"

"You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!"

"You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in its sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!"

"It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much.

"Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.

"No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter.

"Nor I," said the March Hare.

Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than wasting it in asking riddles that have no answers."

"Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story."

"I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal.

"Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried.

"Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once.

The Dormouse slowly opened its eyes. "I wasn't asleep," it said in a hoarse, feeble voice, "I heard every word you fellows were saying."

"Tell us a story!" said the March Hare.

"Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice.

"And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done."

"Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry, "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--"

"What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking.

"They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two.

"They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked: "they'd have been ill."

"So they were," said the Dormouse, "_very_ ill."

Alice tried a little to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary way of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?"

"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.

"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more."

"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "It's very easy to take _more_ than nothing."

"Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice.

"Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly.

Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?"

The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said: "It was a treacle-well."

"There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! Sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked: "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself."

"No, please go on!" Alice said, very humbly, "I won't interrupt you again. I dare say there may be _one_."

"One, indeed!" said the Dormouse, indignantly. However it consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--"

"What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.

"Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.

"I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter, "let's all move one place on."

He moved as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice, rather unwillingly, took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk jug into his plate.

Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?"

"You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh stupid?"

"But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark.

"Of course they were," said the Dormouse,--"well in."

This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it.

"They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--"

"Why with an M?" said Alice.

"Why not?" said the March Hare.

Alice was silent.

The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze, but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on, "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are 'much of a muchness'--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?"

"Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--"

"Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter.

This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off: the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot.

LEWIS CARROLL: "The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland."

THE SLAVE'S DREAM

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand!-- A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyena scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds, Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away!

LONGFELLOW

Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man. Histories make men wise; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtle; logic and rhetoric, able to contend.

BACON

THE CHASE

Early one August morning a doe was feeding on Basin Mountain.

The sole companion of the doe was her only child, a charming little fawn, whose brown coat was just beginning to be mottled with beautiful spots.

The buck, his father, had been that night on a long tramp across the mountain to Clear Pond, and had not yet returned. He went to feed on the lily pads there.

The doe was daintily cropping tender leaves and turning from time to time to regard her offspring. The fawn had taken his morning meal and now lay curled up on a bed of moss.

If the mother stepped a pace or two farther away in feeding, the fawn made a half-movement, as if to rise and follow her. If, in alarm, he uttered a plaintive cry, she bounded to him at once.

It was a pretty picture,--maternal love on the one part, and happy trust on the other.

The doe lifted her head with a quick motion. Had she heard something? Probably it was only the south wind in the balsams. There was silence all about in the forest. With an affectionate glance at her fawn, she continued picking up her breakfast.

But suddenly she started, head erect, eyes dilated, a tremor in her limbs. She turned her head to the south; she listened intently.

There was a sound, a distinct, prolonged note, pervading the woods. It was repeated. The doe had no doubt now. It was the baying of a hound--far off, at the foot of the mountain.