Part 7

All peacefully gliding, the waters dividing, The indolent batteau moved slowly along; The rowers, light-hearted, from sorrow long parted, Beguiled the dull moments with laughter and song: “Hurrah for the Rapid! that merrily, merrily Gambols and leaps on its tortuous way; Soon, we will enter it, cheerily, cheerily, Pleased with its freshness, and wet with its spray.”

More swiftly careering, the wild Rapid nearing, They dash down the stream like a terrified steed; The surges delight them, no terrors affright them, Their voices keep pace with their quickening speed: “Hurrah for the Rapid! that merrily, merrily Shivers its arrows against us in play; Now we have entered it, cheerily, cheerily, Our spirits as light as its feathery spray.”

Fast downward they’re dashing, each fearless eye flashing, Though danger awaits them on every side; Yon rock--see it frowning! they strike--they are drowning! But downward they speed with the merciless tide. No voice cheers the Rapid, that angrily, angrily Shivers their bark in its maddening play; Gaily they entered it--heedlessly, recklessly, Mingling their lives with its treacherous spray!

XLII.--A NARROW ESCAPE.

In 1843, Livingstone, the celebrated traveller, settled as a missionary in Mabtosa, a beautiful valley in South Africa. Here he met with an adventure which nearly terminated his earthly career.

The natives of Mabtosa had long been troubled by lions, which invaded their cattle-pens by night, and even attacked the herds during the day. These poor people, being very ignorant and superstitious, thought that the inroads of the lions were caused by witchcraft. It was perhaps for this reason that all their attempts to drive away the animals were feeble and faint-hearted, and therefore unsuccessful.

It is well known that a troop of lions will not remain long in any district where one of their number has been killed. So the next time the herds of Mabtosa were attacked, Livingstone went out with the natives to encourage them to destroy one of the marauders, and thus free themselves from the whole troop. They found the lions on a small hill covered with wood. The hunters placed themselves in a circle round the hill, and began to ascend, coming gradually closer to each other as they approached the summit.

Livingstone remained, along with a native teacher, on the plain below, to watch the manœuvres of the party. His companion, seeing one of the lions sitting on a piece of rock within the circle of hunters, took aim and fired; but the ball only struck the stones at the animal’s feet. With a roar of rage the fierce brute bounded away, broke through the ring, and escaped unhurt, the natives not having the courage to stand close and spear him as he passed.

The band again closed in and resumed their march. There were still two lions in the wood, and it was hoped that fortune would favor a second attempt to destroy one of them. But suddenly a terrific roar echoed from the hill, and the timid hunters quaked with fear. First one of the lions, and then the other, with streaming manes and glaring eyes, rushed down through the wavering ranks, and bounded away, free to continue their devastations.

As the party were returning home, bewailing their want of success, Livingstone observed one of the lions about thirty yards in front, sitting on a rock behind a bush. Raising his gun, he took steady aim, and discharged both barrels into the thicket. “He is shot! He is shot!” was the joyful cry; and some of the men were about to rush in and despatch the wounded beast with their spears. But Livingstone, seeing the lion’s tail erected in anger, warned them to keep back until he had fired a second time. He was just in the act of reloading, when, hearing a shout of terror, he looked round and saw the lion preparing to spring. It was too late to retreat. With a savage growl the frenzied animal seized him by the shoulder, and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. The shock caused a momentary anguish, followed by a sort of drowsiness, in which he had no sense of pain nor feeling of terror, though he knew all that was happening.

The lion’s paw was resting on the back of his head, and as he turned round to relieve himself of the pressure, he saw the creature’s fiery eyes directed to the native teacher, who, at a distance of ten or fifteen yards, was making ready to shoot. The gun missed fire in both barrels; and the lion sprang at his new assailant, and bit him in the thigh. Another man also, who was standing near, was severely bitten in the shoulder; but at this moment the bullets took effect, and the huge beast fell back dead.

All this occurred in a few seconds: the death-blow had been inflicted before the animal sprang upon his assailants. Livingstone’s arm was wounded in eleven places, and the bone crushed into splinters; and the injuries might have proved fatal but for his tartan jacket, which wiped the poison from the lion’s teeth before they entered the flesh.

It was long ere the wounds healed, and all through life the intrepid missionary bore the marks of this dreadful encounter. Thirty years afterwards, when his noble and useful career had ended among the swamps of Central Africa, and his remains were taken to England to be interred in Westminster Abbey, the crushed and mangled arm was one of the marks which enabled his sorrowing friends in that country to identify the body as that of David Livingstone.

_Word Exercise._

resumed (_re-zūmd´_) West´ min-ster in-trep´id ī-dĕn´tĭ-fy dĕv-as-tā´tions marauders (_ma-raw´ders_) as-sail´ants ĭg´no-rant sū-per-stĭ´tious (_-stish´us_) be-wail´ing Mab-tō´sa drow´si-ness ad-vent´ure

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Settled as a missionary.--2. Terminated his earthly career.--3. Attacked the herds.--4. Feeble and faint-hearted.--5. To watch the manœuvres.--6. _A terrific roar echoed_ from the hill.--7. _Quaked_ with fear.--8. Streaming manes.--9. Wavering ranks.--10. Bewailing their want of success.--11. Steady aim.--12. _Discharged_ both barrels.--13. A shout of terror.--14. Momentary anguish.--15. Dreadful encounter.

XLIII.--THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW. _A MIDSUMMER LEGEND._

MARY HOWITT.

“And where have you been, my Mary. And where have you been from me?” “I’ve been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The Midsummer night to see!”

“And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low?” “I saw the blithe sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow.”

“And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Hill?” “I heard the drops of the water made, And the green corn ears to fill.”

“Oh, tell me all, my Mary-- All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies, Last night on the Caldon-Low.”

“Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine: A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine.

“And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, And their dancing feet so small; But, oh, the sound of their talking Was merrier far than all!”

“And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?” “I’ll tell you all, my mother-- But let me have my way!

“And some they played with the water, And rolled it down the hill; ‘And this’ they said, ‘shall speedily turn The poor old miller’s mill;

“‘For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall the miller be By the dawning of the day!

“‘Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both his eyes!’

“And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew so sharp and shrill:--

“‘And there,’ said they, ‘the merry winds go, Away from every horn; And those shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow’s corn:

“‘Oh, the poor, blind old widow-- Though she has been blind so long, She’ll be merry enough when the mildew’s gone, And the corn stands stiff and strong!’

“And some they brought the brown lintseed, And flung it down from the Low-- ‘And this,’ said they, ‘by the sunrise, In the weaver’s croft shall grow!

“‘Oh, the poor, lame weaver, How he will laugh outright, When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!’

“And then upspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin-- ‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he, ‘And I want some more to spin.

“‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another-- A little sheet for Mary’s bed, And an apron for her mother!’

“And with that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low There was no one left but me.

“And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.

“But, as I came down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go!

“And I peeped into the widow’s field; And sure enough were seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stiff and green.

“And down by the weaver’s croft I stole, To see if the flax were high; But I saw the weaver at his gate With the good news in his eye!

“Now, this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I’m tired as I can be!”

XLIV.--VOLCANOES.

In various parts of the earth, there are mountains that send out from their highest peaks, smoke, ashes, and fire. Mountains of this class are called volcanoes, and they present a striking contrast to other mountains, on account of their conical form and the character of the rocks of which they are composed. All volcanoes have at their summits what are called craters. These are large, hollow, circular openings, from which the smoke and fire escape.

Nearly all volcanoes emit smoke constantly. This smoke proceeds from fires that are burning far down in the depths of the earth. Sometimes these fires burst forth from the crater of the volcano with tremendous force. The smoke becomes thick and black, and lurid flames shoot up to a height of hundreds of feet, making a scene of amazing grandeur. With the flames there are thrown out stones, ashes, and streams of melted rock called lava. This lava flows down the sides of the mountain, and, being red hot, destroys everything with which it comes in contact. At such times, a volcano is said to be in eruption. Such is the force of some of these eruptions, that large rocks have been hurled to great distances from the crater, and towns and cities have been buried under a vast covering of ashes and lava.

The quantity of lava and ashes which sometimes escapes from volcanoes during an eruption, is almost beyond comprehension. In 1772, a volcano in the island of Java, threw out ashes and cinders that covered the ground fifty feet deep, for a distance of seven miles all around the mountain. This eruption destroyed nearly forty towns and villages. In 1783, a volcano in Iceland sent out two streams of lava; one forty miles long and seven miles wide, and the other fifty miles long and fifteen miles wide. These streams were from one hundred to six hundred feet deep.

Near the city of Naples, in Italy, is situated the volcano Mt. Vesuvius. This fiery monster has probably caused more destruction than any other volcano known. In the year 79, A.D., it suddenly burst forth in a violent eruption, that resulted in one of the most appalling disasters that ever happened. Such immense quantities of ashes, stones, and lava were poured forth from its crater, that within twenty hours, two large cities were completely destroyed. These cities were Herculaneum and Pompeii.

At this eruption of Vesuvius, the stream of lava flowed directly through and over the city of Herculaneum into the sea. The quantity was so great that, as it cooled and became hardened, it gradually filled up all the streets and ran over the tops of the houses. While the lava was thus turning the city into a mass of solid stone, the inhabitants were fleeing from it along the shore toward Naples, and in boats on the sea. At the same time, too, the wind carried the ashes and cinders in such a direction as to deluge the city of Pompeii. Slowly and steadily the immense volume of ashes and small stones, blocked up the streets and settled on the roofs of the houses. The light of the flames that burst out from the awful crater, aided the people in their escape; but many who for some reason could not get away, perished.

Pompeii was so completely covered that nothing could be seen of it. Thus it remained, buried under the ground, until the year 1748, when it was discovered by accident. Since that time much of the city has been uncovered, and now one can walk along the streets, look into the houses, and form some idea how the people lived there eighteen hundred years ago.

XLV.--A SMALL CATECHISM.

THOMAS D’ARCY MCGEE.

Why are children’s eyes so bright? Tell me why! ’Tis because the infinite Which they’ve left, is still in sight, And they know no earthly blight,-- Therefore ’tis their eyes are bright.

Why do children laugh so gay? Tell me why! ’Tis because their hearts have play In their bosoms, every day, Free from sin and sorrow’s sway,-- Therefore ’tis they laugh so gay.

Why do children speak so free? Tell me why! ’Tis because from fallacy, Cant, and seeming, they are free; Hearts, not lips, their organs be,-- Therefore ’tis they speak so free.

Why do children love so true? Tell me why! ’Tis because they cleave unto A familiar, favorite few, Without art or self in view,-- Therefore children love so true.

XLVI.--CURIOUS BIRDS’ NESTS.

Among the most curious nests are those made by the birds called weavers. These feathered workmen serve no apprenticeship: their trade comes to them by nature; and how well they work at it! But then you must admit that Nature is a skilful teacher and birds are apt scholars.

The Baltimore oriole is a weaver, and it makes its nest out of bark, fine grass, moss, and wool, strengthening it, when circumstances permit, with pieces of string or horsehair. This nest, pouch-shaped, and open at the top, is fastened to the branch of a tree, and is sometimes interwoven with the twigs of a waving bough. The threads of grass and long fibres of moss, are woven together, in and out, as if by machinery; and it seems hard to believe that the little birds can do such work without help.

The long, slender boughs of the willow are the favorite resort of the oriole; and here, in the midst of a storm, the bird may sit in its swinging nest, fearing no danger. What is there to dread? The trees rock in the wind, but the oriole’s habitation is strong and well secured. Unless the branch from which the nest hangs be torn from the tree, the nest will endure the tempest and prove a safe shelter for the blithe little bird.

Many weaver-birds in Asia and Africa hang their nests from the ends of twigs and branches overhanging the water. This is to keep away monkeys and snakes, which abound in hot countries and are the greatest enemies birds have. The wise little weaver knows that the cunning monkey will not trust his precious life to a frail branch that may break, and drop him into the water; yet the same frail branch is strong enough for the bird and its nest. In this case, the monkey is obliged to admit that the bird’s wisdom is more than a match for his.

A very curious custom exists among a class of birds found in Africa, called “the social weavers.” They begin their work in companies, and build immense canopies, like umbrellas, in the tops of trees. These grassy structures are so closely woven that the rain cannot penetrate them. Under this shelter the birds build their nests, but no longer in company; the nest for each pair must be made by the pair without assistance from their neighbors.

The tailor-bird of India makes a still more curious nest than that of the weavers: it actually sews, using its long, slender bill as a needle. Birds that fly, birds that run, birds that swim, and birds that sing are by no means rare; but birds that sew seem like the wonderful birds in the fairy-tales.

Yet they really exist, and make their odd nests with great care and skill. They pick out a leaf large enough for their nest, and pierce rows of holes along the edges with their sharp bill; then, with the fibres of a plant or long threads of grass, they sew the leaf up into a bag. Sometimes it is necessary to sew two leaves together, that the space within may be large enough.

This kind of sewing resembles shoemakers’ or saddlers’ work; but, the leaf being like fine cloth and not like leather, perhaps the name “tailor-bird” is the most appropriate for the little worker. The bag is lined with soft, downy material, and in this the tiny eggs are laid--tiny indeed, for the tailor-bird is no larger than the humming-bird. The weight of the little creature does not even draw down the nest, and the leaf in which the eggs or young birds are hidden looks like the other leaves on the trees; so that there is nothing to attract the attention of the forest robbers.

Another bird, called the Indian sparrow, makes her nest of grass, woven like cloth and shaped like a bottle. The neck of the bottle hangs downward, and the bird enters from below. This structure, swinging from a high tree, over a river, is safe from the visits of mischievous animals.

If all the stories about this Indian sparrow are true, the inside of its nest is strangely adorned. Fire-flies are brought in by the bird and stuck to the walls with clay; whether they are placed there to light up the little home, or to dazzle the bats that infest the neighborhood, no one seems to know. Perhaps the truth is that the fire-flies are in the nest in imagination only. However that may be, the Indian sparrow is a clever workman.

Can you wonder that birds and their nests have always been a source of delight to the thoughtful enquirer?

“Mark it well--within, without. No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut, No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert, No glue to join: his little beak was all. And yet how neatly finished! What nice hand, With every implement and means of art, And twenty years’ apprenticeship to boot. Could make me such another?”

_Word Exercise._

o´ri-ōle căn´o-pies fā´vor-ĭte as-sĭst´ance monkey (_mŭng´ke_) en-quīr´er apprentice (_ap-prĕn´tis_) mischievous (_mĭs´che-vŭs_) machinery (_ma-shēn´er-e_) Baltimore (_bawl´ti-more_) nĕç´es-sa-ry ap-prō´pri-āte um-brĕl´las im´ple-mĕnt cir´cum-stance

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Apt scholars.--2. Endure the tempest.--3. Obliged to admit.--4. A curious custom exists.--5. Downy material.--6. Attract the attention.--7. Strangely adorned.--8. Infest the neighborhood.--9. Clever workman.--10. Source of delight.--11. Thoughtful enquirer.--12. Mark it well.--13. Neatly finished.--14. With apprenticeship to boot.

XLVII.--LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

CAMPBELL.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s Isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.

“And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who would cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover?”

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, “I’ll go, my chief--I’m ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:

“And, by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, “Though tempests round us gather, I’ll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her-- When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o’er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing; Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore-- His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely arm she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

“Come back! come back!” he cried, in grief, “Across this stormy water; And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--Oh! my daughter!”

’Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o’er his child-- And he was left lamenting.

XLVIII.--TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds:

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter’s sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity; in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life.

XLIX.--THE WHISTLE.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

When I was a child, seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pockets with coppers. I went directly toward a shop where they sold toys for children; and, being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for it.

I then returned home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth.

This put me in mind of what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and they laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation.

This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, “Don’t give too much for the whistle;” and so I saved my money.

As I grew up, went into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for their whistles.