Part 8

Many stories are told how these hunters and fishermen by tricks took their game. Sometimes they would drive a whole herd of deer or buffalo out upon a narrow neck of land running far into the water, and then cut off all escape by building a row of fires across the neck. In this way they kept the herd together until they killed all they wanted.

The war-dance was a great thing among Indians, and they thought the only way to get honor was by following the war-path. Therefore many hours were spent in learning war-dances and in being able to hit a small mark a great way off with the bow and arrow. By the time an Indian lad reached sixteen and was able to do these things well, he was old enough to go to war and to help fight the battles which so often took place among the tribes.

Hunting and fishing and going to war were, however, not all the things that the Indians did. They had many sports and games for children, and also many for those who were grown up. They played ball on the grass, a game like hockey with sticks on the ice, and lacrosse, which we have now adopted as our national game.--SELECTED.

SPEAK GENTLY

Speak gently; it is better far To rule by love than fear: Speak gently; let no harsh words mar The good we might do here.

Speak gently to the little child; Its love be sure to gain; Teach it in accents soft and mild; It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the aged one; Grieve not the care-worn heart: The sands of life are nearly run; Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor; Let no harsh tone be heard; They have enough they must endure, Without an unkind word.

Speak gently to the erring; know They must have toiled in vain; Perhaps unkindness made them so; Oh, win them back again!

Speak gently: ’tis a little thing Dropped in the heart’s deep well; The good, the joy, which it may bring, Eternity shall tell.

--DAVID BATES.

DAYBREAK

A wind came up out of the sea, And said, “O mists, make room for me.”

It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone.”

And hurried landwards, far away, Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”

It said unto the forest, “Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out!”

It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing, And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”

And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer, Your clarion blow; the day is near.”

It whispered to the fields of corn, “Bow down and hail the coming morn.”

It shouted through the belfry-tower, “Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”

--HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE CHOICE OF HERCULES

One morning when Hercules was a fair-faced lad of twelve years, he was sent out to do an errand which he disliked very much. As he walked slowly along the road, his heart was full of bitter thoughts; and he murmured because others no better than himself were living in ease and pleasure, while for him there was little but labor and pain. Thinking upon these things, he came after a while to a place where two roads met; and he stopped, not certain which one to take.

The road on his right was hilly and rough, and there was no beauty in it or about it; but he saw that it led straight towards the blue mountains in the far distance. The road on his left was broad and smooth, with shade trees on either side, where sang thousands of beautiful birds; and it went winding in and out, through groves and green meadows, where bloomed countless flowers; but it ended in fog and mist long before reaching the wonderful mountains of blue.

While the lad stood in doubt as to which way he should go, he saw two women coming towards him, each by a different road. The one who came down the flowery way reached him first, and Hercules saw that she was beautiful as a summer day. Her cheeks were red, her eyes sparkled, her voice was like the music of morning.

“O noble youth,” she said, “this is the road which you should choose. It will lead you into pleasant ways where there is neither toil, nor hard study, nor drudgery of any kind. Your ears shall always be delighted with sweet sounds, and your eyes with things beautiful and gay; and you need do nothing but play and enjoy the hours as they pass.”

By this time the other fair woman had drawn near, and she now spoke to the lad.

“If you take my road,” said she, “you will find that it is rocky and rough, and that it climbs many a hill and descends into many a valley and quagmire. The views which you will sometimes get from the hilltops are grand and glorious, while the deep valleys are dark and the uphill ways are toilsome; but the road leads to the blue mountains of endless fame, of which you can see faint glimpses, far away. They cannot be reached without labor; there is nothing worth having but must be won through toil. If you would have fruits and flowers, you must plant and care for them; if you would gain the love of your fellow-men, you must love them and suffer for them; if you would be a man, you must make yourself strong by the doing of manly deeds.”

Then the boy saw that this woman, although her face seemed at first very plain, was as beautiful as the dawn, or as the flowery fields after a summer rain.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Some call me Labor,” she answered; “but others know me as Truth.”

“And what is your name?” he asked, turning to the first lady.

“Some call me Pleasure,” said she, with a smile; “but I choose to be known as the Joyous One.”

“And what can you promise me at the end if I go with you?”

“I promise nothing at the end. What I give, I give at the beginning.”

“Labor,” said Hercules, “I shall follow your road. I want to be strong and manly and worthy of the love of my fellows. And whether I shall ever reach the blue mountains or not, I want to have the reward of knowing that my journey has not been without some worthy aim.”

--JAMES BALDWIN.

THE WALKER OF THE SNOW

Speed on, speed on, good Master! The camp lies far away; We must cross the haunted valley Before the close of day.

How the snow-blight came upon me I will tell you as I go,-- The blight of the Shadow-hunter, Who walks the midnight snow.

To the cold December heaven Came the pale moon and the stars, As the yellow sun was sinking Behind the purple bars.

The snow was deeply drifted Upon the ridges drear, That lay for miles around me And the camps for which we steer.

’Twas silent on the hillside, And by the solemn wood, No sound of life or motion To break the solitude,

Save the wailing of the moose-bird With a plaintive note and low, And the skating of the red leaf Upon the frozen snow.

And said I, “Though dark is falling, And far the camp must be, Yet my heart it would be lightsome If I had but company.”

And then I sang and shouted, Keeping measure, as I sped, To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe As it sprang beneath my tread.

Nor far into the valley Had I dipped upon my way, When a dusky figure joined me, In a capuchon of gray,

Bending upon the snow-shoes, With a long and limber stride; And I hailed the dusky stranger As we travelled side by side.

But no token of communion Gave he by word or look, And the fear-chill fell upon me At the crossing of the brook.

For I saw by the sickly moonlight As I followed, bending low, That the walking of the stranger Left no footmarks on the snow.

Then the fear-chill gathered o’er me, Like a shroud around me cast, As I sank upon the snow-drift Where the Shadow-hunter passed.

And the other trappers found me, Before the break of day, With my dark hair blanched and whitened As the snow in which I lay.

But they spoke not as they raised me; For they knew that in the night I had seen the Shadow-hunter, And had withered in his blight.

Sancta Maria speed us! The sun is falling low,-- Before us lies the valley Of the Walker of the Snow!

--CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

THE FROG TRAVELLERS

Long, long ago, before the white man came across the Sea of Peace to Japan, before the screaming engines frightened the white heron from the rice fields, and before the sparrows perched on telegraph wires, there lived two frogs, one in a well at Kioto, the other in a pond at Ozaka.

In the land of Japan there is a proverb that “the frog in the well knows not the great ocean.” The Kioto frog had heard this said many times by the maids who came to draw water, and one day he became vexed at their laughter.

“I shall stay here no longer,” he said to himself. “I shall go at once to see this great ocean of which they talk. I do not believe it is half as wide or as deep as my well, where I can see the stars even in the daytime, but I shall at least know what it looks like.”

Then Mr. Frog told his family that he was going on a journey, going out to Ozaka to see the great ocean. So Mrs. Frog gave him a package of boiled rice and snails, and tying it round his neck, he set off on his journey. When he came out of the well, he saw that the other animals did not leap, but walked upright on their legs. He thought he must walk in the same way, so he stood up on his hind legs and waddled off slowly across the fields.

On this very same day the frog who lived in the pond decided to see more of the world.

“Good-by,” he said to Mrs. Frog, as he jumped from a lily-pad into the grass, “I am tired of sitting here in the sun thinking and blinking, so I am going to Kioto.”

It so happened that the Kioto frog and the frog from Ozaka met on a hill halfway between the two cities.

“Good morning,” said one, bowing his head to the ground three times.

“Good morning,” said the other, also bowing respectfully.

Then they sank down in a shady spot, for they were very tired and lame from trying to walk on their hind feet.

“Where are you going?” asked the Ozaka frog. “This is a fine day for a journey.”

“I set out to see the great ocean at Ozaka, of which I have heard so often,” replied the frog who lived in the well, “but I am so tired that I think I shall be satisfied with looking at it from the top of this hill.”

“I am going to Kioto,” said the other frog.

“It is a long journey, my friend,” said the Kioto frog. “Why do you not look at it from this hill and save yourself the trouble of walking all the way?”

“That is a good plan, friend,” said the frog from Ozaka.

Then the two frogs climbed to the top of a flat rock, and stood up on their hind legs, the Kioto frog facing the great ocean at Ozaka, and the other facing the city of Kioto. A frog’s eyes, as you know very well, are so placed that when he sits comfortably at home on his lily-pad, he looks before him. But when he stands on his hind legs with his head in the air, he sees only what is behind him. Standing in this way, on top of the rock, the frogs looked long and steadily at the landscape. At last, being very tired, they sat down again.

“Ozaka looks exactly like my home,” said the Kioto frog; “and as for the ocean, I saw nothing larger than the brook I swam across this morning.”

“You are right,” said the other. “Kioto looks just like Ozaka. They are as much alike as two grains of rice. I am glad that I met you, for you have saved me much trouble. I shall return to my pond at once. Good-by, my friend.”

Then the two frogs jumped to the ground and hurried off, leaping as a frog should do, and thus reaching home in a short time. That night they told their friends about their adventures, and still the frog in the pond thinks he has seen the great world, and “the frog in the well knows not the great ocean.”

--WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS.

* * * * *

A good action is never thrown away.

THE THREE BELLS

Beneath the low-hung night cloud That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly, The cruel leak gained fast.

Over the awful ocean Her signal guns pealed out. Dear God! was that thy answer From the horror round about?

A voice came down the wild wind, “Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry: “Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow Shall lay till daylight by!”

Hour after hour crept slowly, Yet on the heaving swells Tossed up and down the ship-lights, The lights of the Three Bells!

And ship to ship made signals, Man answered back to man, While oft, to cheer and hearten, The Three Bells nearer ran;

And the captain from her taffrail Sent down his hopeful cry. “Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted, “The Three Bells shall lay by!”

All night across the waters The tossing lights shone clear; All night from reeling taffrail The Three Bells sent her cheer,

And when the dreary watches Of storm and darkness passed, Just as the wreck lurched under, All souls were saved at last.

Sail on, Three Bells, forever, In grateful memory sail! Ring on, Three Bells of rescue, Above the wave and gale!

Type of the Love eternal, Repeat the Master’s cry, As tossing through our darkness The lights of God draw nigh!

--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

* * * * *

O world, as God has made it! All is beauty: And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. What further may be sought for or declared?

HOW THE INDIAN KNEW

One day an Indian came back from a trip to his traps, and noticed, when he reached his wigwam, that a deer that had hung inside had been stolen. He at once set to work to find the thief.

Following the trail left by the evil-doer, the Indian soon met a party of white men. He asked if they had seen a little old man, lame and white, who had a short gun. The Indian added that the man he was seeking was followed by a small bobtailed dog, and that he carried a deer. Such a man, he said, had stolen the deer from his wigwam.

“Why did you not seize the thief when you saw him?” said they.

“I did not see him,” answered the Indian.

“How, then, do you know that he is little, and old, and lame, and white, and has a short gun, and is followed by a little bobtailed dog?” asked they.

“I know that he is short,” replied the Indian, “because he piled up stones to stand on when he took down the meat. He must be old, because his steps are short, as is shown by his tracks. His gun, I know, is short, for I found the place where he had leaned it against a sapling while he was taking down the deer, and the muzzle left a scratch on the bark near the ground. The dog, sitting down in the sand, left the print of a stumpy tail. I knew the man was white by the tracks of his boots, for Indians wear moccasins, and do not turn out their toes when walking; and I knew that he was lame, because the steps of the left foot were shorter than those of the right, as was shown by the footprints.”

And the Indian passed on in pursuit of the one who had robbed him.--SELECTED.

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array’d, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh’d, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush’d the steed, to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash’d the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part, where many meet! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.

--THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

The butterfly, an idle thing, Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing, As do the bee and bird; Nor does it, like the prudent ant, Lay up the grain for times of want, A wise and cautious hoard.

THE CLOUDS

The dew is gleaming in the grass, The morning hours are seven; And I am fain to watch you pass, Ye soft white clouds of heaven.

Ye stray and gather, part and fold; The wind alone can tame you; I think of what in time of old The poets loved to name you.

They called you sheep, the sky your sward; A field without a reaper; They called the shining sun your lord, The shepherd wind your keeper.

Your sweetest poets I will deem The men of old for moulding In simple beauty, such a dream, And I could lie beholding,

Where daisies in the meadow toss, The wind from morn till even, Forever shepherd you across The shining field of heaven.

--ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

_By special permission._

SHOEING

At the blacksmith’s shop the bay mare Betty is being fitted to new shoes. Already the fore feet are nicely shod and the blacksmith now has the near hind foot in hand. The other occupants of the place are a small donkey and the bloodhound Laura.

Betty is a sensible horse and enjoys the shoeing process. When the time comes around for her regular visit to the forge, she walks off voluntarily and unattended to the familiar spot. No halter is necessary to keep her standing; in fact, she would not tolerate such an indignity. She takes her place by the window as if perfectly at home.

Blacksmith and horse are old friends who understand each other well. The man has won the animal’s confidence by the care he has taken to fit the shoes comfortably. Though a plain, rough fellow, he is of a kindly nature and knows his business thoroughly. The shop is a quaint little place such as one finds in English villages. The thick masonry of the walls shows how old the building is; the floor is paved with large blocks of stone. Between the anvil and the forge there is only space enough for the horse to stand.

At the stage of the process seen in the picture the preparations are all over. The old shoes were first removed and the feet pared and filed. New shoes were chosen as near the right size as possible, and one by one shaped for each foot. And now, holding the shoe in his long tongs, the blacksmith thrusts it into the fire, while he fans the flames with the bellows. Thence it is transferred, a glowing red crescent, to the anvil. Now the workman swings his hammer upon it with ringing strokes, the sparks fly out in a shower, and the soft metal is shaped at will. The shoe may be made a little broader or a little longer, as the case may be; bent a trifle here or there, to accommodate the foot to be fitted. The steel toe calk is welded in, the ends are bent to form the heels, the holes for nails are punctured, the shoe taking an occasional plunge into the flames during these processes.

Now there must be a preliminary trying-on. The shoe, still hot, is held to the foot for which it is intended, and the air is filled with the fumes of burning hoof. Yet the horse does not flinch, for the thick hoof is a perfect protection for the sensitive parts of the foot. If the careful blacksmith is not quite satisfied with the fit, there must be more hammering on the anvil, and another trying-on. When the shoe is satisfactory, it is thrust hissing into a barrel of cold water, and, when cooled and hardened, is ready to be nailed on.

It is at this point in the story that we come upon Betty. The blacksmith, after the approved method of his trade, holds the foot firmly between his knees, and bends to his task. The nails, long and flat, are in the tool-box on the floor beside him. A few firm blows of the hammer drive each one into place, first on one side, then on the other; the projecting points are twisted off every time, and finally all the rough ends are filed smoothly on the outside of the hoof. Betty is at last fully shod and will step complacently home.

The painter, Sir Edwin Landseer, has arranged the four figures of the picture in such a way that we may see each one in a characteristic pose. The bay mare is, of course, the chief attraction,--a fine high-bred creature, with straight legs, arching neck, and gentle face, marked on the forehead with a pure white star. Landseer exerted his utmost skill in reproducing the texture of the glossy hide. Its beautiful sheen is more striking by contrast with the shaggy hair of the donkey. It was a clever thought to place this plebeian little beast beside the aristocratic, high-spirited horse.

The donkey bends his head in a deprecating way below Betty’s handsome neck, and the horse permits the companionship of an inferior with gentle tolerance. There is something very appealing about the donkey, a patient little beast of burden, meekly bearing his saddle. The bloodhound shows no little curiosity as to the shoeing process, as if it were something new to her. She sits on her haunches, thrusting her head forward, the long ears drooping, the sensitive nose sniffing the strange odors.

Among these dumb companions the blacksmith feels himself surrounded by friends. He is a lover of pets, as we see by the bird-cage hanging in the window. His sturdy frame looks equal to the demands of his trade, which are, in fact, very onerous. It is grimy work, and only the roughest clothes can be worn. A big leather apron with a cut down the middle is, as it were, his badge of office. He does his work with conscientious earnestness, concentrating all his thought and energy upon each blow of the hammer. The task completed, he will take an honest pride in the good piece of work he has done for Betty.

--ESTELLE M. HURLL.

_From “Landseer,” in “The Riverside Art Series,” by permission of Houghton Mifflin and Company._

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp and black and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate’er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach; He hears his daughter’s voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, Onwards, through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night’s repose.