Part 14

I obeyed as rapidly as possible. For an instant I shuddered in the icy air; but the next moment I lay stretched in the bottom of the sled, sheltered from the storm. I held up the ends of the reindeer skins while Lars took off his coat and crept in beside me. Then we drew the skins down and pressed the hay against them. When the wind seemed to be entirely excluded, Lars said that we must pull off our boots, untie our scarfs, and loosen our clothes. When this was done and we lay close together, I found that the chill gradually passed out of my blood. My hands and feet were no longer numb; a delightful feeling of comfort crept over me, and I lay as snugly as in the best bed. I was surprised to find that, although my head was covered, I did not feel stifled. Enough air came in under the skins to prevent us from feeling oppressed.

In five minutes, I think, we were sound asleep, and I dreamed of gathering peaches on a warm August day at home. In fact, I did not wake up thoroughly during the night; neither did Lars, though it seemed to me that we both talked in our sleep. I remember that his warm soft hair pressed against my chin, and that his feet reached no farther than my knees.

Just as I was beginning to feel a little cramped and stiff from lying so still, I was suddenly aroused by the cold wind on my face. Lars had risen up on his elbow, and was peeping out from under the skins. “I think it must be near six o’clock,” he said. “The sky is clear, and I can see the big star. We can start in another hour.”

I felt so much refreshed that I was for setting out at once, but Lars remarked, very sensibly, that it was not yet possible to find the road. While we were talking, Axel neighed.

“There they are!” cried Lars, and he immediately began to put on his boots, his scarf, and heavy coat. I did the same, and by the time we were ready, we heard shouts and the crack of whips. We harnessed Axel to the sled, and proceeded slowly in the direction of the sounds, which came, as we presently saw, from a company of farmers, out this early to plough the road. They had six pairs of horses geared to a wooden frame, something like the bow of a ship, pointed in front and spreading out to a breadth of ten or twelve feet. The machine not only cut through the drifts, but packed the snow, leaving a good solid road behind it. After it had passed, we sped along merrily in the cold morning twilight, and in little more than an hour reached the posthouse at Umea. There we found Lars’s father prepared to return home. He waited until Lars had eaten a good warm breakfast, when I said good-by to both, and went on towards Lapland.

Lars was so quiet and cheerful and fearless, that although I had been nearly all over the world and he had never been away from home, I felt that I had learned a lesson from him, and might probably learn many more, if I should know him better.

--BAYARD TAYLOR.

HIAWATHA’S FRIENDS

Two good friends had Hiawatha, Singled out from all the others, Bound to him in closest union, And to whom he gave the right hand Of his heart, in joy and sorrow; Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind. Straight between them ran the pathway, Never grew the grass upon it; Singing birds, that utter falsehoods, Story-tellers, mischief-makers, Found no eager ear to listen, Could not breed ill-will between them, For they kept each other’s counsel, Spake with naked hearts together, Pondering much and much contriving How the tribes of men might prosper. Most beloved by Hiawatha Was the gentle Chibiabos, He the best of all musicians, He the sweetest of all singers. Beautiful and childlike was he, Brave as man is, soft as woman, Pliant as a wand of willow, Stately as a deer with antlers. When he sang, the village listened; All the warriors gathered round him, All the women came to hear him; Now he stirred their souls to passion, Now he melted them to pity. From the hollow reeds he fashioned Flutes so musical and mellow, That the brook, the Sebowisha, Ceased to murmur in the woodland, That the wood-birds ceased from singing, And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, And the rabbit, the Wabasso, Sat upright to look and listen. Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, Pausing, said, “O Chibiabos, Teach my waves to flow in music, Softly as your words in singing!” Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa, Envious, said, “O Chibiabos, Teach me tones as wild and wayward, Teach me songs as full of frenzy!” Yes, the robin, the Opechee, Joyous, said, “O Chibiabos, Teach me tones as sweet and tender, Teach me songs as full of gladness!” And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa, Sobbing, said, “O Chibiabos, Teach me tones as melancholy, Teach me songs as full of sadness!” All the many sounds of nature Borrowed sweetness from his singing; All the hearts of men were softened By the pathos of his music; For he sang of peace and freedom, Sang of beauty, love, and longing; Sang of death, and life undying In the Islands of the Blessed, In the kingdom of Ponemah, In the land of the Hereafter. Very dear to Hiawatha Was the gentle Chibiabos, He the best of all musicians, He the sweetest of all singers; For his gentleness he loved him, And the magic of his singing. Dear, too, unto Hiawatha Was the very strong man, Kwasind, He the strongest of all mortals, He the mightiest among many; For his very strength he loved him, For his strength allied to goodness. Idle in his youth was Kwasind, Very listless, dull, and dreamy, Never played with other children, Never fished and never hunted, Not like other children was he; But they saw that much he fasted, Much his Manito entreated, Much besought his Guardian Spirit. “Lazy Kwasind!” said his mother, “In my work you never help me! In the Summer you are roaming Idly in the fields and forests; In the Winter you are cowering O’er the firebrands in the wigwam! In the coldest days of Winter I must break the ice for fishing; With my nets you never help me! At the door my nets are hanging, Dripping, freezing with the water; Go and wring them, Yenadizze! Go and dry them in the sunshine!” Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind Rose, but made no angry answer; From the lodge went forth in silence, Took the nets, that hung together, Dripping, freezing at the doorway; Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, Like a wisp of straw he broke them, Could not wring them without breaking, Such the strength was in his fingers. “Lazy Kwasind!” said his father, “In the hunt you never help me; Every bow you touch is broken, Snapped asunder every arrow; Yet come with me to the forest, You shall bring the hunting homeward.” Down a narrow pass they wandered, Where a brooklet led them onward, Where the trail of deer and bison Marked the soft mud on the margin, Till they found all further passage Shut against them, barred securely By the trunks of trees uprooted, Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, And forbidding further passage. “We must go back,” said the old man, “O’er these logs we cannot clamber; Not a woodchuck could get through them, Not a squirrel clamber o’er them!” And straightway his pipe he lighted, And sat down to smoke and ponder. But before his pipe was finished, Lo! the path was cleared before him: All the trunks had Kwasind lifted, To the right hand, to the left hand, Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, Hurled the cedars light as lances. “Lazy Kwasind!” said the young men, As they sported in the meadow; “Why stand idly looking at us, Leaning on the rock behind you? Come and wrestle with the others, Let us pitch the quoit together!” Lazy Kwasind made no answer, To their challenge made no answer, Only rose, and, slowly turning, Seized the huge rock in his fingers, Tore it from its deep foundation, Poised it in the air a moment, Pitched it sheer into the river, Sheer into the swift Pauwating, Where it still is seen in Summer. Once as down that foaming river, Down the rapids of Pauwating, Kwasind sailed with his companions, In the stream he saw a beaver, Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers, Struggling with the rushing currents, Rising, sinking in the water. Without speaking, without pausing, Kwasind leaped into the river, Plunged beneath the bubbling surface, Through the whirlpools chased the beaver, Followed him among the islands, Stayed so long beneath the water, That his terrified companions Cried, “Alas! good-by to Kwasind! We shall never more see Kwasind!” But he reappeared triumphant, And upon his shining shoulders Brought the beaver, dead and dripping, Brought the King of all the Beavers. And these two, as I have told you, Were the friends of Hiawatha, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind. Long they lived in peace together, Spake with naked hearts together, Pondering much and much contriving How the tribes of men might prosper.

--HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

Lost time is never found again.

THE WHITE SHIP

Henry I, king of England, went over to Normandy with his son Prince William and a great retinue to have the prince acknowledged as his successor, and to contract a marriage between him and the daughter of the Count of Anjou. Both these things were triumphantly done, with great show and rejoicing; and on the 25th of November, in the year 1120, the whole company prepared to embark for the voyage home.

On that day, there came to the king, Fitz-Stephen, a sea-captain and said, “My liege, my father served your father all his life upon the sea. He steered the ship with the golden boy upon the prow, in which your father sailed to conquer England. I have a fair vessel in the harbor here, called _The White Ship_, manned by fifty sailors of renown. I pray you, Sire, to let your servant have the honor of steering you in _The White Ship_ to England.”

“I am sorry, friend,” replied the king, “that my ship is already chosen, and that I cannot, therefore, sail with the son of the man who served my father. But the prince and his company shall go along with you in the fair _White Ship_ manned by the fifty sailors of renown.” An hour or two afterwards, the king set sail in the vessel he had chosen, accompanied by other vessels, and, sailing all night with a fair and gentle wind, arrived upon the coast of England in the morning. While it was yet night, the people in some of these ships heard a faint, wild cry come over the sea, and wondered what it was.

Now the prince was a dissolute young man of eighteen, who bore no love to the English, and who had declared that when he came to the throne, he would yoke them to the plough like oxen. He went aboard _The White Ship_ with one hundred and forty youthful nobles like himself, among whom were eighteen noble ladies of the highest rank. All this gay company, with their servants and the fifty sailors, made three hundred souls aboard the fair _White Ship_.

“Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,” said the prince, “to the fifty sailors of renown. My father the king has sailed out of the harbor. What time is there to make merry here, and yet reach England with the rest?”

“Prince,” said Fitz-Stephen, “before morning my fifty and _The White Ship_ shall overtake the swiftest vessel in attendance on your father the king, if we sail at midnight.” Then the prince commanded to make merry; and the sailors drank the three casks of wine; and the prince and all the noble company danced in the moonlight on the deck.

When, at last, the ship shot out of the harbor, there was not a sober seaman on board. But the sails were all set, and the oars all going merrily. Fitz-Stephen had the helm. The gay young nobles and the beautiful ladies wrapped in mantles of various bright colors to protect them from the cold, talked, laughed, and sang. The prince encouraged the fifty sailors to row yet harder, for the honor of _The White Ship_.

Crash! A terrific cry broke from three hundred hearts. It was the cry the people, in the distant vessels of the king, heard faintly on the water. _The White Ship_ had struck upon a rock,--was filling,--going down! Fitz-Stephen hurried the prince into a boat with some few nobles. “Push off,” he whispered, “and row to the land. It is not far off, and the sea is smooth. The rest of us must die.” But as they rowed fast away from the sinking ship, the prince heard the voice of his sister calling for help. He never in his life had been so noble as he was then. He cried in agony, “Row back at any risk! I cannot bear to leave her!”

They rowed back. As the prince held out his arms to catch his sister, such numbers leaped into the boat that it was overturned. And in the same instant, _The White Ship_ went down. Only two men floated. They both clung to the main-yard of the ship, which had broken from the mast and now supported them. One asked the other who he was. He replied, “I am a nobleman,--Godfrey by name, son of Gilbert. And you?”--”I am a poor butcher of Rouen,” was the answer. Then they said together, “Lord be merciful to us both!” and tried to encourage each other as they drifted in the cold, benumbing sea on that unfortunate November night.

By and by another man came swimming towards them, whom they knew, when he pushed aside his long wet hair, to be Fitz-Stephen. “Where is the prince?” said he. “Gone, gone!” the two cried together. “Neither he, nor his brother, nor his sister, nor the king’s niece, nor her brother, nor any of all the brave three hundred, noble or commoner, except us three, has risen above the water!” Fitz-Stephen, with a ghastly face, cried, “Woe! woe to me!” and sank to the bottom.

The other two clung to the yard for some hours. At length the young noble said faintly, “I am exhausted, and chilled with the cold, and can hold no longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve you!” So he dropped and sank; and, of all the brilliant crowd, the poor butcher of Rouen alone was saved. In the morning some fishermen saw him floating in his sheepskin coat, and got him into their boat,--the sole relater of the dismal tale.

For three days no one dared to carry the intelligence to the king. At length they sent into his presence a little boy who, weeping bitterly and falling at his feet, told him that _The White Ship_ was lost with all on board. The king fell to the ground like a dead man, and never, never afterwards was seen to smile.

--CHARLES DICKENS.

THE ARAB AND HIS STEED

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arch’d and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye; Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed, I may not mount on thee again--thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind, The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy bridle-rein--thy master hath his gold-- Fleet-limb’d and beautiful! farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold!

Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger’s home: Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare; The silky mane I braided once must be another’s care.

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be: Evening shall darken on the earth; and o’er the sandy plain Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, Thy master’s home,--from all of these my exiled one must fly. Thy proud, dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master’s hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed, Then must I, starting, wake to feel--thou’rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie like crested waves, along thy panting side, And the rich blood that’s in thee swells in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought--but no, it cannot be-- Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free. And yet, if haply, when thou’rt gone my lonely heart should yearn, Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?

Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish’d from his view? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears, Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears.

Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on! And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think: It was here he bow’d his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!

When last I saw thee drink!--Away! the fever’d dream is o’er; I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more! They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong, They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.

Who said that I had given thee up, who said that thou wert sold? ’Tis false--’tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold. Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains, Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

--CAROLINE NORTON.

A BRIDGE OF MONKEYS

For many days we had been pushing our way, as best we could, through one of the densest of South American forests. Late one afternoon we stopped by the side of a narrow but swiftly flowing river, and began to prepare our camp for the night. Suddenly we heard, at some distance from us on the other side of the stream, a great chattering and screaming, as if thousands of monkeys were moving among the trees and each trying to make more noise than all the rest.

“An army of monkeys on the march,” said our guide. “They are coming this way, and will most likely cross the river yonder where the banks are so steep, with those tall trees growing on either side.”

“How will they cross there?” I asked. “The water runs so swiftly that they certainly cannot swim across.”

“Oh, no,” said the guide; “monkeys would rather go into fire than water. If they cannot leap the stream, they will bridge it.”

“Bridge it! and how will they do that?”

“Wait, captain, and you shall see,” answered the guide.

We could now plainly see the animals making their way through the tree-tops and approaching the place which the guide had pointed out. In front was an old gray-headed monkey who directed all their movements and seemed to be the general-in-chief of the army, while here and there were other officers, each of whom appeared to have certain duties to perform.

One ran out upon an overhanging branch, and, after looking across the stream as if to measure the distance, scampered back and made a report to the leader. There was at once a change in the conduct of the army. Commands were given, and a number of able-bodied monkeys were marched to the front. Then several ran along the bank, examining the trees on both sides.

At length all gathered near a tall cottonwood, that grew over the narrowest part of the stream, and twenty or thirty of them climbed its trunk. The foremost--a strong fellow--ran out upon a limb, and, taking several turns of his tail around it, slipped off, and hung head downwards. The next on the limb climbed down the body of the first, and, wrapping his tail tightly around him, dropped off in his turn, and hung head downwards. And thus the third monkey fastened himself to the second, and the fourth to the third, and so on, until the last one upon the string rested his fore paws upon the ground.

The living chain now commenced swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The motion was slight at first, but gradually increased, the monkey at the lower end striking his hands against the ground and pushing out with all his strength. This was kept up until the end of the chain was thrown among the branches of the tree on the opposite bank. One of these the lowermost monkey caught and held fast. The chain now reached from one side of the stream to the other, forming a living bridge over which all the other monkeys, young and old, passed without confusion or delay.

The army was soon safely across, but how were the animals forming the bridge to get themselves over? Should the monkey at the top of the chain let go of the cottonwood branch, the other end of the bridge was so much lower that he, with those nearest him, would be dashed against the opposite bank or soused into the water.

The question was soon answered. A powerful fellow was seen taking firm hold of the lowest on the bridge, then another fastened himself to him in like manner, and this was continued until a dozen more were added to the string. These last monkeys then ran up to a high limb, and lifted that end of the bridge until it was several feet above that on the opposite bank.

Then the monkey who had formed the first link in the chain loosed his hold upon the cottonwood branch, and the whole bridge swung safely over. The lowermost links dropped lightly to the ground, while the higher ones leaped to the branches and came down by the trunk. The whole army then scampered away into the forest, and the sound of their chattering was soon lost in the distance.

--MAYNE REID.

_By special permission._

WE ARE SEVEN

I met a little cottage girl; She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair-- Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?”

Then did the little maid reply: “Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree.”

“You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little maid replied; “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them.

“And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.