Part 12

Among those who had been wounded, and lay helpless on the hillside, was Captain James Secord of Queenston. Laura Secord, his wife, had watched the battle from a distance, and hearing of his danger rushed up the hill to his aid. While she knelt at his side, three American soldiers attempted to kill him, but the slender, pale-faced woman stood in front of her wounded husband and called for help. The captain of the cowardly soldiers ordered them away, and Laura Secord, believing her husband to be dead, lifted him in her arms and carried him to their home. It was soon found that he still lived, and his wife’s tender nursing saved his life. When the summer came again, he was still an invalid and unable to walk.

The Canadians had retired from Queenston and the town was occupied by an American force. The Secords had been compelled to remain in the neighborhood on account of the captain’s health, and were frequently forced to entertain the enemy in their home.

One June day a number of officers entered the house and commanded Mrs. Secord to give them food. She pretended to be a very humble and dull person, and began at once to prepare the meal. In the meantime the officers discussed their general’s plans, and did not pay much attention to the woman who had appeared so simple. Laura Secord, however, listened to all they said, and discovered that they intended to surprise the little handful of soldiers who were defending Beaver Dam, and capture Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, the officer in charge.

When James Secord heard this news, he was in despair. The defenders of Beaver Dam should be warned of the attack, but how could he, a crippled soldier, carry the message? He was trying to think of a way out of the difficulty when his wife startled him by saying, “I shall take the message, to-morrow at daybreak. You are unable to go, and there is no one else.”

This meant that she would have to pass the American pickets, and travel in the heat, through twenty miles of bush. The woods were infested with fierce Indians belonging to both armies, and attacks from them were always to be expected. Her husband was unwilling to let her go, but seeing no other way, he finally consented.

Laura Secord arose at daybreak on the morning of the 23d of June, and began to prepare for her journey. Dressed in a short flannel skirt and cotton jacket, without shoes or stockings, her milking-stool in one hand, her pail in the other, she drove one of her cows close to the American lines and sat down to milk it. Immediately the cow kicked over the milking-pail and ran towards the bush. This happened two or three times and the soldiers laughed heartily, and chaffed at the sullen milkmaid’s clumsiness. She mumbled something about the cow being “contrary” and ran past the sentry into the bush to catch it. Her scant clothing and her evident anger at the cow deceived the man, who let her pass without asking any questions. He did not know that the cow’s antics had been caused by the pinches Mrs. Secord had given it, and that the angry milkmaid was hurrying on her way to Beaver Dam.

A mile away she hid the pail and stool under the bushes, first milking the cow to prevent her returning too soon to the clearing. Hour after hour she tramped on, going over unbeaten paths to avoid the American scouts. The underbrush in the first of the forest was tangled and dense. Soon her feet were torn and bleeding, and every step she took gave her pain. The slopes of the hills were thick with brush and hard to climb, and swamps and streams had to be crossed in the most dangerous ways. When night came, it was hard to tell which of the many blazed trails she should take, and faint with hunger and pain she fell to the ground many times.

About midnight she came to a clearing and began to hope her journey was nearly ended, when the air was filled with the war-whoop of the Red Indians. She was soon surrounded by a dozen savages who were covered with warpaint and decked with feathers. Thinking her to be a spy, one of them stepped close to her and demanded, “Woman! what does woman want?” She was terrified, but knew that everything depended upon her self-possession. She asked for the “Big Chief” and explained by signs that the “Long knives” (the Americans) were coming, and that she must reach the British. She soon discovered that the Indians were scouts of the British and that she need have no fear. With a hearty “Ugh” of understanding, one of them beckoned her to follow, and led the way through the meadows to the British lines.

She gave her message to Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, who praised her bravery and made her comfortable for the rest of the night. Her warning prepared the little garrison for the attack which took place next day, and so well were the plans made that the fifty men under Fitzgibbon compelled the American force of five hundred soldiers to surrender, almost without a struggle.

Laura Secord lived to be ninety-three years old, and when she died in 1868, she was buried beside her husband on the ground which had been the old battle-field of Lundy’s Lane. A handsome monument was erected over her grave by Canadians, who wished to do honor to the great courage of the woman who saved her countrymen from danger and defeat.--HELEN PALK.

* * * * *

He that is down needs fear no fall; He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide.

THE MAPLE LEAF FOREVER

In days of yore, from Britain’s shore Wolfe, the dauntless hero, came, And planted firm Britannia’s flag On Canada’s fair domain. Here may it wave, our boast, our pride, And joined in love together, The Thistle, Shamrock, Rose entwine The Maple Leaf forever!

The Maple Leaf, our emblem dear, The Maple Leaf forever! God save our King and Heaven bless The Maple Leaf forever!

At Queenston’s Heights and Lundy’s Lane, Our brave fathers, side by side, For freedom, homes, and loved ones dear, Firmly stood and nobly died; And those dear rights which they maintained, We swear to yield them never! Our watchword evermore shall be, The Maple Leaf forever!

Our fair Dominion now extends From Cape Race to Nootka Sound;

May peace forever be our lot, And plenteous store abound: And may those ties of love be ours Which discord cannot sever, And flourish green o’er Freedom’s home, The Maple Leaf forever!

On Merry England’s far-famed land May kind Heaven sweetly smile; God bless Old Scotland evermore, And Ireland’s Emerald Isle! Then swell the song both loud and long, Till rocks and forest quiver, God save our King, and Heaven bless The Maple Leaf forever!

--ALEXANDER MUIR.

THE COLORS OF THE FLAG

What is the blue on our flag, boys? The waves of the boundless sea, Where our vessels ride in their tameless pride, And the feet of the winds are free; From the sun and smiles of the coral isles To the ice of the South and North, With dauntless tread through tempests dread The guardian ships go forth.

What is the white on our flag, boys? The honor of our land, Which burns in our sight like a beacon light And stands while the hills shall stand; Yea, dearer than fame is our land’s great name, And we fight, wherever we be, For the mothers and wives that pray for the lives Of the brave hearts over the sea.

What is the red on our flag, boys? The blood of our heroes slain On the burning sands in the wild waste lands And the froth of the purple main; And it cries to God from the crimsoned sod And the crest of the waves outrolled, That He send us men to fight again As our fathers fought of old.

We’ll stand by the dear old flag, boys, Whatever be said or done, Though the shots come fast, as we face the blast, And the foe be ten to one-- Though our only reward be the thrust of a sword And a bullet in heart or brain. What matters one gone, if the flag float on And Britain be Lord of the main!

--FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.

HOW THE MOUNTAIN WAS CLAD

There was a deep gorge between two mountains. Through this gorge a large full stream flowed heavily over a rough and stony bottom. Both sides were high and steep, and one side was bare; but close to its foot, and so near the stream that the latter sprinkled it with moisture every spring and autumn, stood a group of fresh-looking trees gazing upwards and onwards, yet unable to advance this way or that.

“What if we should clothe the mountain,” said the juniper one day to the foreign oak, to which it stood nearer than all others. The oak looked down to find out who it was that spoke, and then it looked up again without deigning a reply. The river rushed along so violently that it worked itself into a white foam; the north wind forced its way through the gorge, and shrieked in the clefts of the rocks; the naked mountain, with its great weight, hung heavily over and felt cold. “What if we should clothe the mountain?” said the juniper to the fir on the other side. “If anybody is to do it, I suppose it must be we,” said the fir, taking hold of its beard and glancing towards the birch. “What do you think?” But the birch peered cautiously up the mountain, which hung over it so threateningly that it seemed as if it could scarcely breathe. “Let us clothe it in God’s name!” said the birch. And so, though there were but these three, they undertook to clothe the mountain. The juniper went first.

When they had gone a little way they met the heather. The juniper seemed as though about to pass it. “Nay, take the heather along,” said the fir. And the heather joined them. Soon it began to glide on before the juniper. “Catch hold of me,” said the heather. The juniper did so, and where there was only a wee crevice the heather thrust in a finger, and where it first had placed a finger, the juniper took hold with its whole hand. They crawled and crept along, the fir laboring on behind, the birch also. “This is well worth doing,” said the birch.

But the mountain began to ponder on what manner of objects these might be that were clambering up over it. And after it had been considering the matter a few hundred years, it sent a little brook down to inquire. It was yet in the time of the spring freshets, and the brook stole on until it reached the heather. “Dear, dear heather, cannot you let me pass? I am so small.” The heather was very busy; only raised itself a little and pressed onwards. In, under, and onwards went the brook. “Dear, dear juniper, cannot you let me pass? I am so small.” The juniper looked sharply at it; but if the heather had let it pass, why, in all reason, it must do so too. Under it and onwards went the brook; and now came to the spot where the fir stood puffing on the hillside. “Dear, dear fir, cannot you let me pass? I am really so small,” said the brook, and it kissed the fir’s feet and made itself so very sweet. The fir became bashful at this, and let it pass, but the birch raised itself before the brook asked it. “Hi, hi, hi!” said the birch, and grew. “Ha, ha, ha!” said the brook, and grew. “Ho, ho, ho!” said the brook, and flung the heather and the juniper and the fir and the birch flat on their faces and backs, up and down these great hills. The mountain sat up for many hundred years musing on whether it had not smiled a little that day.

It was plain enough the mountain did not want to be clad. The heather fretted over this until it grew green again, and then started forward. “Fresh courage!” said the heather.

The juniper had half raised itself to look at the heather, and continued to keep this position, until at length it stood upright. It scratched its head, and set forth again, taking such a vigorous foothold that it seemed as though the mountain must feel it. “If you will not have me, then I shall have you.” The fir crooked its toes a little to find out whether they were whole, then lifted one foot, found it whole, then the other, which proved also to be whole, then both of them. It first examined the ground it had been over; next, where it had been lying; and finally, where it should go. After this, it began to wend its way slowly along, and acted as though it had never fallen. The birch had become most wretchedly soiled, but now rose up and made itself tidy. Then they sped onwards, faster and faster upwards, and on either side in sunshine and in rain. “What in the world can this be?” said the mountain, all glittering with dew, as the summer sun shone down on it. The birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare hopped along, and the ermine hid itself and screamed.

Then the day came when the heather could peep with one eye over the edge of the mountain. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” said the heather, and away it went. “Dear me! what is it the heather sees?” said the juniper, and moved on until it could peer up. “Oh dear, oh dear!” it shrieked, and was gone.

“What’s the matter with the juniper to-day?” said the fir, and took long strides onwards in the heat of the sun. Soon it could raise itself on its toes and peep up. “Oh dear!” Branches and needles stood on end in wonderment. It worked its way forward, came up, and was gone. “What is it all the others see, and not I?” said the birch; and lifting well its skirts it tripped after. It stretched its whole head up at once. “Oh--oh--is not here a great forest of fir and heather, of juniper and birch standing on the table-land waiting for us?” said the birch; and its leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew trembled. “Ay, this is what it is to reach the goal!” said the juniper.

--_From the Norwegian of_ BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.

_By permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company._

LUCY GRAY

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray; And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor,-- The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

“To-night will be a stormy night-- You to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow.”

“That, father, will I gladly do; ’Tis scarcely afternoon,-- The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon.”

At this the father raised his hook And snapped a fagot-band; He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time; She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the town.

The wretched parents, all that night, Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood A furlong from their door.

They wept, and, turning homewards, cried, “In Heaven we all shall meet!” When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy’s feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill’s edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost, And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!

Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.

O’er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

--WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

Govern the lips As they were palace doors, the king within; Tranquil and fair and courteous be all words Which from that presence win.

BEAUTIFUL JOE

I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small town. The first thing I remember was lying close to my mother and being very snug and warm. The next thing I remember was being always hungry. I am very unwilling to say much about my early life. I have lived so long in a family where there is never a harsh word spoken, and where no one thinks of ill-treating anybody or anything, that it seems almost wrong even to think or speak of such a matter as hurting a poor dumb beast.

The man that owned my mother was a milkman. He kept one horse and three cows, and he had a shaky old cart that he used to put his milk-cans in. I don’t think there can be a worse man in the world than that milkman. He used to beat and starve my mother. I have seen him use his heavy whip to punish her. When I got older I asked her why she did not run away. She said she did not wish to; but I soon found out that the reason that she did not run away was because she loved her master. Cruel and savage as he was, she yet loved him, and I believe she would have laid down her life for him.

One reason for our master’s cruelty was his idleness. After he went his rounds in the morning with his milk-cans, he had nothing to do till late in the afternoon but take care of his stable and yard. If he had kept them clean, it would have taken up all his time; but he never did anything to make his home neat and pleasant.

My mother and I slept on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable, and when she heard his step in the morning she always roused me, so that we could run out as soon as he opened the stable door. He always aimed a kick at us as we passed, but my mother taught me how to dodge him.

After our master put the horse in the cart, and took in the cans, he set out on his rounds. My mother always went with him. I used to ask her why she followed such a man, and she would say that sometimes she got a bone from the different houses they stopped at. But that was not the whole reason. She liked the master so much, that in spite of his cruelty she wanted to be with him.

I had not her sweet and patient disposition, and I would not go with her. I watched her out of sight, and then ran up to the house to see if the master’s wife had any scraps for me. I nearly always got something, for she pitied me, and often gave me a kind word or look with the bits of food that she threw to me.

I had a number of brothers and sisters--six in all. One rainy day when we were eight weeks old the master, followed by two or three of his ragged, dirty children, came into the stable, and looked at us. Then he began to swear because we were so ugly, and said if we had been good looking, he might have sold some of us. Mother watched him anxiously, fearing some danger to her puppies, and looked up at him pleadingly. It only made him swear the more. He took one puppy after another, and right there, before his children and my poor distracted mother, put an end to their lives. It was very terrible. I lay weak and trembling, expecting every instant that my turn would come next. I don’t know why he spared me. I was the only one left.

My mother never seemed the same after this. She was weak and miserable. And though she was only four years old, she seemed like an old dog. She could not run after the master, and she lay on our heap of straw, only turning over with her nose the scraps of food I brought her to eat. One day she licked me gently, wagged her tail, and died.

As I sat by her, feeling lonely and miserable, my master came into the stable. I could not bear to look at him. He had killed my mother. There she lay, a little gaunt, scarred creature, starved and worried to death by him. She would never again look kindly at me, or curl up to me at night to keep me warm. Oh, how I hated her murderer! Still I kept quiet till he walked up to me and kicked at me. My heart was nearly broken, and I could stand no more. I flew at him and gave him a savage bite on the ankle.

“Oho!” he said. “So you are going to be a fighter, are you? I’ll fix you for that.” He seized me by the back of the neck and carried me out to the yard where a log lay on the ground. “Tom,” he called to one of his children, “bring me the hatchet!”

He laid my head on the log and pressed one hand on my struggling body. There was a quick, dreadful pain, and he had cut off my ear close to my head. Then he cut off the other ear, and turning me swiftly round, cut off my tail. Then he let me go, and stood looking at me as I rolled on the ground and yelped in agony. He was in such a passion that he did not think that people passing on the street might hear me.

There was a young man going by. He heard my screams, and hurrying up the path stood among us before the master caught sight of him.

In the midst of my pain, I heard the young man say, fiercely, “What have you been doing to that dog?”

“I’ve been cutting his ears, for fighting, my young gentleman,” said my master; “there is no law to prevent that, is there?”

“And there is no law to prevent me from taking a dog away from such a cruel owner, either,” cried the young man; and giving the master an angry look, he snatched me up in his arms, and walked down the path and out of the gate.

I was moaning with pain, but still I looked up occasionally to see which way we were going. We took the road to the town and stopped in front of a pleasant-looking home. Carrying me gently in his arms, the young man went up a walk leading to the back of the house. There was a small stable there. He went into it and put me down on the floor. Some boys were playing about the stable, and I heard them say, in horrified tones, “Oh, Cousin Harry, what is the matter with that dog?”

“Hush,” he said. “Don’t say anything. You, Jack, go down to the kitchen and ask Mary for a basin of warm water and a sponge, and don’t let your mother or Laura hear you.”

A few minutes later the young man had bathed my ears and tail, and had rubbed something on them that was cool and pleasant, and had bandaged them firmly with strips of cotton. I felt much better and was able to look about me.

Presently one of the boys cried out, “Here is Laura.” A young girl, holding up one hand to shade her eyes from the sun, was coming up the walk that led from the house to the stable. I thought then that I never had seen such a beautiful girl, and I think so still. She was tall and slender, and had lovely brown eyes and brown hair, and a sweet smile, and just to look at her was enough to make one love her.

“Why, what a funny dog!” she said, and stopped short and looked at me. Up to this, I had not thought what a queer-looking sight I must be. Now I twisted round my head, saw the white bandage on my tail, and knowing I was not a fit spectacle for a pretty young lady like that, I slunk into a corner.

“Poor doggie, have I hurt your feelings?” she said. “What is the matter with your head, good dog?”

“Dear Laura,” said the young man, coming up, “he got hurt, and I have been bandaging him.”

“Who hurt him?”

“I would rather not tell you.”

“But I wish to know.” Her voice was as gentle as ever, but she spoke so decidedly that the young man was obliged to tell her everything. All the time he was speaking she kept touching me gently with her fingers. When he had finished his account of rescuing me from the master, she said quietly:--

“You will have the man punished?”

“What is the use? That won’t stop him from being cruel.”

“It will put a check on his cruelty.”

“I don’t think it would do any good,” said the young man.