Part 3

By this time the grand air had taken flight, and the officer, so pompous a moment before, looked as if the steady gaze and the quiet voice of the traveller had reduced him to the last stage of fear.--“Once more, my good major,” said Alexander.--“His Imperial Majesty?” exclaimed the man, in surprise and terror, letting his pipe drop from his trembling fingers.--“His very self,” answered the Emperor; and he smiled at the wonderful change in the major’s face and manner.

“Ah, Sire, pardon me!” cried the officer, falling on his knees,--“pardon me!”--“And what is there to pardon?” said Alexander, with real, simple dignity. “My friend, you have done me no harm. I asked you which road I should take, and you told me. Thanks!”

But the major never forgot the lesson. If, in later years, he was tempted to be rude or haughty to his so-called inferiors, there rose at once in his mind a picture of a well-remembered scene, in which his pride of power had brought such shame upon him. Two soldiers in a quiet country-town made but an every-day picture, after all; but what a difference there had been between the pompous manner of the petty officer and the natural, courteous dignity of the Emperor of all the Russias!

_Word Exercise._

haughty (_haw´te_) Maj´es-ty Colonel (_kur´nel_) Lieu-ten´ant (_lĕu-ten´ant_) Ka-lou´ga (_kă-loo´gă_) Em´per-or Im-pe´ri-al Ex´cel-len-cy

_Phrase Exercise._

1. _Habited in a plain military_ coat.--2. Air of dignity.--3. Speak with _familiarity_.--4. Answered shortly.--5. Haughty reply.--6. Lofty response.--7. Steady gaze.--8. Exclaimed in surprise.--9. Simple dignity.--10. Pompous manner.--11. Petty officer.--12. Natural dignity.

IX.--FARMER JOHN.

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

Home from his journey, Farmer John Arrived this morning safe and sound; His black coat off, and his old clothes on, “Now I’m myself,” said Farmer John; And he thinks, “I’ll look around.” Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup! Are you so glad you would eat me up?” The old cow lows at the gate to greet him; The horses prick up their ears to meet him. “Well, well, old Bay! Ha, ha, old Gray! Do you get good feed when I’m away?

“You haven’t a rib,” says Farmer John; “The cattle are looking round and sleek; The colt is going to be a roan, And a beauty, too; how he has grown! We’ll wean the calf in a week.” Says Farmer John, “When I’ve been off, To call you again about the trough, And water you and pet you while you drink, Is a greater comfort than you can think!” And he pats old Bay And he slaps old Gray; “Ah! this is the comfort of going away.

“For after all,” says Farmer John, “The best of a journey is getting home: I’ve seen great sights, but I would not give This spot, and the peaceful life I live, For all their Paris and Rome; These hills for the city’s stifled air, And big hotels and bustle and glare;-- Land all houses and roads all stones, That deafen your ears and batter your bones! Would you, old Bay? Would you, old Gray? That’s what one gets by going away.

“There Money is king,” says Farmer John, “And Fashion is queen; and it’s very queer To see how sometimes, while the man Is raking and scraping all he can, The wife spends, every year, Enough, you would think, for a score of wives, To keep them in luxury all their lives! The town is a perfect Babylon To a quiet chap,” says Farmer John. “You see, old Bay, You see, old Gray, I’m wiser than when I went away.

“I’ve found out this,” says Farmer John, “That happiness is not bought and sold, And clutched in a life of waste and hurry, In nights of pleasure and days of worry, And wealth isn’t all in gold, Mortgage and stocks, and ten per cent., But in simple ways and sweet content, Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends, Some land to till, and a few good friends, Like you, old Bay, And you, old Gray,-- That’s what I’ve learned by going away.”

And a happy man is Farmer John,-- O a rich and happy man is he! He sees the peas and pumpkins growing, The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing, And fruit on vine and tree; The large kind oxen look their thanks, As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks; The doves light round him, and strut and coo; Says Farmer John, “I’ll take you, too,-- And you, old Bay, And you, old Gray, Next time I travel so far away.”

_Word Exercise._

trough (_trawf_) luxury (_lŭk´shu-re_) mortgage (_mor´gaj_) foreheads (_fŏr´eds_) clutched jour´ney (_jŭr-_) Bab´y-lon hăp´pi-nĕss

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Arrived safe and sound.--2. Stifled air.--3. Bustle and glare.--4. Money is king.--5. Fashion is queen.--6. Raking and scraping.--7. Days of _worry_.--8. Simple ways.--9. Sweet content.--10. Sees the corn _in tassel_.--11. Buckwheat _blowing_.--12. Look their thanks.--13. The doves _light_ round him.

* * * * *

_There is nothing so kingly as kindness,_ _And nothing so royal as truth._

--_Alice Cary._

X.--THE POOR LITTLE MATCH GIRL.

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

It was New Year’s Eve, and a cold, snowy evening. On this night, a poor little girl walked along the street with naked feet, benumbed with cold, and carrying in her hand a bundle of matches, which she had been trying all day to sell, but in vain; no one had given her a single penny. The snow fell fast upon her pretty yellow hair and her bare neck; but she did not mind that. She looked wistfully at the bright lights which shone from every window as she passed along; she could smell the nice roast goose, and she longed to taste it: it was New Year’s Eve!

Wearied and faint she laid herself down in a corner of the street, and drew her little legs under her to keep herself warm. She could not go home, for her father would scold her for not having sold any matches; and, even if she were there, she would still be cold, for the house was but poorly protected, and the wind whistled through many a chink in the roof and walls. She thought she would try and warm her cold fingers by lighting one of the matches; she drew one out, struck it against the wall, and immediately a bright, clear flame streamed from it, like a little candle.

The little girl looked at the flame, and she saw before her a beautiful brass stove with a nice warm fire in it! She stretched out her feet to warm them,--when, lo, the match went out; in a moment the stove and fire vanished; she sat again in the cold night, with the burnt match in her hand.

She struck another; the flame blazed on the opposite wall, and she saw through it into a room where a table was laid out with handsome dishes,--roast goose, and other nice things were there,--and, what was still more extraordinary, she saw the goose jump from the dish, knife, and fork, and all, and come running towards her. But again the match went out; and nothing but the dark wall and the cold street were to be seen.

The little girl drew another match; and, as soon as it struck a light, she saw a most beautiful Christmas tree, much larger and more splendid than any she had ever seen before. A vast number of lighted candles hung among the branches; and a multitude of pretty variegated pictures, like those in the shops, met her eyes. The girl lifted up her little hands in rapture at the sight; but again the match fell; and in the same moment one of the blazing candles shot through the sky, like a falling star, and fell at her feet. “Now some one dies,” cried she; for she had been told by her good old grandmother, that when a star falls, a soul returns to God.

Again she struck; and, behold, a bright light shone round about her, and in the midst of it stood her kind grandmother, looking calmly and smilingly upon her.

“Dear grandmother,” said she, “take me, oh take me! You will be gone from me when the match goes out, like the bright stove, the nice supper, and the Christmas tree;” and saying this, she struck all the rest of the matches at once, which made a light round her almost like day. And now the good grandmother smiled still more sweetly upon her; she lifted her up in her arms, and they soared together, far, far away; where there was no longer any cold, or hunger, or pain,--they were in Paradise!

But the poor little match-girl was still in the corner of the street, in the cold New Year’s morning. She was frozen to death, and a bundle of burnt matches lay beside her. People said, “She has been trying to warm herself, poor thing!” But ah, they knew not what glorious things she had seen; they knew not into what joys she had entered--nor how happy she was on this festival of the New Year!

_Word Exercise._

calmly (_kām-le_) fes´ti-val vanished (_van´isht_) vā´ri-e-gāt-ed Par´a-dise grand´mother op´po-site (_op´po-zĭt_) handsome (_han´sum_) Christmas (_krĭs´mas_) extraordinary (_eks-tror´dĭ-na-re_)

_Phrase Exercise._

1. _Benumbed_ with cold.--2. She _did not mind_ that.--3. Looked _wistfully_.--4. Wearied and faint.--5. Poorly protected.--6. A _clear_ flame _streamed_ from it.--7. A table _was laid out_.--8. _In rapture_ at the sight.--9. _Soared_ far away.--10. _Glorious_ things.

XI.--THE SANDS O’ DEE.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o’ Dee.” The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o’er and o’er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she.

“Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress o’ golden hair, O’ drowned maiden’s hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee.”

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o’ Dee.

XII.--THE RHINOCEROS.

Next to the mighty elephant, the rhinoceros is the largest and strongest of animals. There are several species of the rhinoceros, some of which are found in Asia, and others in different parts of Africa.

In the latter country there are four varieties,--the black rhinoceros, having a single horn; a black species, having two horns; the long-horned white rhinoceros; and the common white species, which has a short, stubby horn.

The largest of the African species is the long-horned, white, or square-nosed rhinoceros. When full grown, it sometimes measures eighteen feet in length, and about as many feet around the body. Its horn frequently grows to the length of thirty inches.

The black rhinoceros, although much smaller than the white, and seldom having a horn over eighteen inches long, is far more ferocious than the white species, and possesses a wonderful degree of strength.

The form of the rhinoceros is clumsy, and its appearance dull and heavy. The limbs are thick and powerful, and each foot has three toes, which are covered with broad, hoof-like nails. The tail is small; the head very long and large. Taken altogether, there are few--if any--animals that compare with the rhinoceros in ugliness. The eyes are set in such a manner that the animal can not see anything exactly in front of it; but the senses of hearing and smelling are so keen that sight is not required to detect an enemy, whether it be man or beast. The skin of the African rhinoceros is smooth, and has only a few scattering hairs here and there. It is, however, very thick and tough, and can resist the force of a rifle-ball except when it is fired from a very short distance.

The largest known species of the rhinoceros is found in Asia. It lives chiefly in the marshy jungles, and on the banks of lakes and rivers, in India. Some of this species are over five feet in height, and have horns three feet in length and eighteen inches around the base. Unlike that of the African rhinoceros, the skin of the Asiatic species is not smooth, but lies in thick folds upon the body, forming flaps which can be lifted with the hand.

The food of the rhinoceros consists of roots, and the young branches and leaves of trees and shrubs. It ploughs up the roots with the aid of its horn, and gathers the branches and leaves with its upper lip, which is long and pointed, and with it rolls its food together before placing it in its mouth. The flesh of the rhinoceros is good to eat; and its strong, thick skin is made by the natives into shields, whips, and other articles.

Though clumsy, and apparently very stupid, the rhinoceros is a very active animal when attacked or otherwise alarmed. It is very fierce and savage,--so much so, that the natives dread it more than they do the lion. In hunting the rhinoceros, it is dangerous for a man to fire at one, unless he is mounted upon a swift horse, and can easily reach some place of safety. When attacking an enemy, the rhinoceros lowers its head and rushes forward like an angry bull. Though it may not see the object of its attack, its sense of smell is so acute that it knows when the enemy is reached. Then begins a furious tossing of the head, and if its powerful horn strikes the foe, a terrible wound is the result. When wounded itself, the rhinoceros loses all sense of fear, and charges again and again, with such desperate fury, that the enemy is almost always overcome.

A famous traveller in South Africa relates the following incident that happened during one of his hunting excursions:

“Having proceeded about two miles, I came upon a black rhinoceros, feeding within fifty yards of me. I fired from my saddle, and sent a bullet in behind his shoulder, upon which he rushed forward, blowing like a grampus, and then stood looking about him. Presently he started off, and I followed. I expected that he would come to bay, but it seems a rhinoceros never does that,--a fact I did not know at that time. Suddenly he fell flat upon the ground; but soon recovering his feet, he resumed his course as if nothing had happened.

“I spurred on my horse, dashed ahead, and rode right in his path. Upon this, the hideous monster charged me in the most resolute manner, blowing loudly through his nostrils. Although I quickly turned about, he followed me at such a furious pace for several hundred yards, with his horrid, horny snout within a few yards of my horse’s tail, that I thought my destruction was certain. The animal, however, suddenly turned and ran in another direction. I had now become so excited with the incident, that I determined to give him one more shot any way. Nerving my horse again, I made another dash after the rhinoceros, and coming up pretty close to him, I again fired, though with little effect, the ball striking some thick portion of the skin and doing no harm. Not caring to run the chance of the huge brute again charging me, and believing that my rifle-ball was not powerful enough to kill him, I determined to give up the pursuit, and accordingly let him run off while I returned to the camp.”

XIII.--THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

ELIZA COOK.

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize, I’ve bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs; ’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would you learn the spell?--a mother sat there, And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood’s hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear; And gentle words that mother would give, To fit me to die and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day, When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray; And I almost worshipped her when she smiled And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Years rolled on, but the last one sped-- My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled; I learned how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

’Tis past! ’tis past! but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow: ’Twas there she nursed me, ’twas there she died; And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother’s old arm-chair.

XIV.--ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

LEIGH HUNT.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold:-- Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?”--The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.” “And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,” Replied the Angel. Abou spake more low, But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blest, And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

XV.--PRINCE ARTHUR.

DICKENS.

At two-and-thirty years of age, in the year 1199, John became king of England. His pretty little nephew, Arthur, had the best claim to the throne; but John seized the treasure, and made fine promises to the nobility, and got himself crowned at Westminster within a few weeks after his brother Richard’s death. I doubt whether the crown could possibly have been put upon the head of a meaner coward, or a more detestable villain, if the country had been searched from end to end to find him out.

The French king, Philip, refused to acknowledge the right of John to his new dignity, and declared in favor of Arthur. You must not suppose that he had any generosity of feeling for the fatherless boy; it merely suited his ambitious schemes to oppose the king of England. So John and the French king went to war about Arthur.

He was a handsome boy, at that time only twelve years old. He was not born when his father, Geoffrey, had his brains trampled out at the tournament; and, besides the misfortune of never having known a father’s guidance and protection, he had the additional misfortune to have a foolish mother (Constance by name), lately married to her third husband. She took Arthur, upon John’s accession, to the French king, who pretended to be very much his friend, and made him a knight, and promised him his daughter in marriage; but who cared so little about him in reality, that, finding it his interest to make peace with King John for a time, he did so without the least consideration for the poor little prince, and heartlessly sacrificed all his interests.

Young Arthur, for two years afterwards, lived quietly, and in the course of that time his mother died. But the French king, then finding it his interest to quarrel with King John again, made Arthur his pretence, and invited the orphan boy to court. “You know your rights, prince,” said the French king, “and you would like to be a king. Is it not so?” “Truly,” said Prince Arthur, “I should greatly like to be a king!” “Then,” said Philip, “you shall have two hundred gentlemen who are knights of mine, and with them you shall go to win back the provinces belonging to you, of which your uncle, the usurping king of England, has taken possession. I myself, meanwhile, will head a force against him in Normandy.”

Prince Arthur went to attack the town of Mirebeau, because his grandmother, Eleanor, was living there, and because his knights said, “Prince, if you can take her prisoner, you will be able to bring the king your uncle to terms!” But she was not to be easily taken. She was old enough by this time--eighty; but she was as full of stratagem as she was full of years and wickedness. Receiving intelligence of young Arthur’s approach, she shut herself up in a high tower, and encouraged her soldiers to defend it like men. Prince Arthur with his little army besieged the high tower. King John, hearing how matters stood, came up to the rescue with his army. So here was a strange family party! The boy-prince besieging his grandmother, and his uncle besieging him!

This position of affairs did not last long. One summer night, King John, by treachery, got his men into the town, surprised Prince Arthur’s force, took two hundred of his knights, and seized the prince himself in his bed. The knights were put in heavy irons, and driven away in open carts, drawn by bullocks, to various dungeons, where they were most inhumanly treated, and where some of them were starved to death. Prince Arthur was sent to the Castle of Falaise.

One day, while he was in prison at that castle, mournfully thinking it strange that one so young should be in so much trouble, and looking out of the small window in the deep, dark wall, at the summer sky and the birds, the door was softly opened, and he saw his uncle, the king, standing in the shadow of the archway, looking very grim.

“Arthur,” said the king, with his wicked eyes more on the stone floor than on his nephew, “will you not trust to the gentleness, the friendship, and the truthfulness of your loving uncle?” “I will tell my loving uncle that,” replied the boy, “when he does me right. Let him restore to me my kingdom of England, and then come to me and ask the question.” The king looked at him and went out. “Keep that boy a close prisoner,” said he to the warden of the castle. Then the king took secret counsel with the worst of his nobles, how the prince was to be got rid of. Some said, “Put out his eyes and keep him in prison, as Robert of Normandy was kept.” Others said, “Have him stabbed.” Others, “Have him poisoned.”

King John feeling that in any case, whatever was done afterwards, it would be a satisfaction to his mind to have those handsome eyes burnt out, that had looked at him so proudly, while his own royal eyes were blinking at the stone floor, sent certain ruffians to Falaise to blind the boy with red-hot irons. But Arthur so pathetically entreated them, and shed such piteous tears, and so appealed to Hubert de Bourg (or Burgh), the warden of the castle, who had a love for him, and was a merciful, tender man, that Hubert could not bear it. To his eternal honor, he prevented the torture from being performed; and, at his own risk sent the savages away.

The chafed and disappointed king bethought himself of the stabbing suggestion next; and, with his shuffling manner and his cruel face, proposed it to one William de Bray. “I am a gentleman, and not an executioner,” said William de Bray, and left the presence with disdain. But it was not difficult for a king to hire a murderer in those days. King John found one for his money, and sent him down to the castle of Falaise. “On what errand dost thou come?” said Hubert to this fellow. “To despatch young Arthur,” he returned. “Go back to him who sent thee,” answered Hubert, “and say that I will do it!”