She was
marvelously
beautiful,
and her beauty was of a kind to haunt one in one's dreams.
and her beauty was of a kind to haunt one in one's dreams.
The Literary World - Seventh Reader
Explain "I change, but I cannot die.
" A
cenotaph is a memorial built to one who is buried elsewhere. Why
should the clear sky be the cloud's cenotaph? How does the
reappearing of the cloud unbuild it?
NEW ENGLAND WEATHER
There is a [v]sumptuous variety about the New England weather that
compels the stranger's admiration--and regret. The weather is always
doing something there; always attending strictly to business; always
getting up new designs and trying them on the people to see how they
will go. But it gets through more business in spring than in any other
season. In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six
different kinds of weather within four and twenty hours. It was I who
made the fame and fortune of the man who had that marvelous collection
of weather on exhibition at the Centennial, which so astounded the
foreigners. He was going to travel around the world and get specimens
from all climes. I said, "Don't do it; just come to New England on a
favorable spring day. " I told him what we could do in the way of style,
variety, and quantity. Well, he came, and he made his collection in four
days. As to variety, he confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of
weather that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity, after he
had picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not
only had weather enough, but weather to spare, weather to hire out,
weather to sell, weather to deposit, weather to invest, and weather to
give to the poor.
Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accurate prophecy and
thoroughly deserves it. You take up the paper and observe how crisply
and confidently he checks off what to-day's weather is going to be on
the Pacific, down South, in the Middle States, in the Wisconsin region.
See him sail along in the joy and pride of his power till he gets to New
England, and then see his tail drop. _He_ doesn't know what the weather
is going to be in New England. Well, he mulls over it, and by and by he
gets out something like this: "Probable northeast to southwest winds,
varying to the southward and westward and eastward and points between;
high and low barometer, swapping around from place to place; probable
areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by
earthquakes with thunder and lightning. " Then he jots down this
postscript from his wandering mind, to cover accidents: "But it is
possible that the program may be wholly changed in the meantime. " Yes,
one of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling
uncertainty of it. There is certain to be plenty of weather, but you
never can tell which end of the procession is going to move first.
But, after all, there are at least two or three things about that
weather (or, if you please, the effects produced by it) which we
residents would not like to part with. If we hadn't our bewitching
autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one
feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries--the ice storm.
Every bough and twig is strung with ice beads, frozen dewdrops, and the
whole tree sparkles cold and white like the [v]Shah of Persia's diamond
plume. Then the wind waves the branches, and the sun comes out and turns
all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms that glow and burn and
flash with all manner of colored fires; which change and change again,
with inconceivable rapidity, from blue to red, from red to green, and
green to gold. The tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very explosion of
dazzling jewels, and it stands there the [v]acme, the climax, the
supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering, intoxicating,
intolerable magnificence. One cannot make the words too strong. Month
after month I lay up hate and grudge against the New England weather;
but when the ice storm comes at last I say: "There, I forgive you now;
you are the most enchanting weather in the world. "
MARK TWAIN.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Mark Twain's humor was noted for exaggeration. Find examples of
exaggeration in this selection. Old Probabilities was the name
signed by a weather prophet of the period. How was he affected by
New England weather? At what point did Twain drop his fun and begin
a beautiful tribute to a New England landscape? How does the
tribute close?
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Three Men in a Boat--Jerome K. Jerome.
The House Boat on the Styx--John Kendrick Bangs.
[Illustration: Silence Deep and White]
THE FIRST SNOWFALL
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping fields and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new roofed with Carrara
Came chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
That noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, "Father, who makes it snow? "
And I told of the good All-Father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar on our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall. "
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That _my_ kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
When did the snow begin? How do you know? What time is it now? Is
snow still falling? Read the lines that show this. Of what sorrow
does the snow remind the poet? Read the lines which show that peace
had come to the parents. Make a list of the comparisons (or
similes) used by the poet. Read the lines which show that the storm
was a quiet one. Which lines do you like best?
OLD EPHRAIM
For some days after our arrival on the Bighorn range we did not come
across any grizzly. There were plenty of black-tail deer in the woods,
and we encountered a number of bands of cow and calf elk, or of young
bulls; but after several days' hunting, we were still without any game
worth taking home, and we had seen no sign of grizzly, which was the
game we were especially anxious to kill, for neither Merrifield nor I
had ever seen a bear alive.
Sometimes we hunted in company; sometimes each of us went out alone. One
day we had separated; I reached camp early in the afternoon, and waited
a couple of hours before Merrifield put in an appearance.
At last I heard a shout, and he came in sight galloping at speed down an
open glade, and waving his hat, evidently having had good luck; and when
he reined in his small, wiry cow-pony, we saw that he had packed behind
his saddle the fine, glossy pelt of a black bear. Better still, he
announced that he had been off about ten miles to a perfect tangle of
ravines and valleys where bear sign was very thick; and not of black
bear either, but of grizzly. The black bear (the only one we got on the
mountains) he had run across by accident.
Merrifield's tale made me decide to shift camp at once, and go over to
the spot where the bear-tracks were plentiful. Next morning we were off,
and by noon pitched camp by a clear brook, in a valley with steep,
wooded sides.
That afternoon we again went out, and I shot a fine bull elk. I came
home alone toward nightfall, walking through a reach of burnt forest,
where there was nothing but charred tree-trunks and black mold. When
nearly through it I came across the huge, half-human footprints of a
great grizzly, which must have passed by within a few minutes. It gave
me rather an eery feeling in the silent, lonely woods, to see for the
first time the unmistakable proofs that I was in the home of the mighty
lord of the wilderness.
That evening we almost had a visit from one of the animals we were
after. Several times we had heard at night the musical calling of the
bull elk--a sound to which no writer has as yet done justice. This
particular night, when we were in bed and the fire was smoldering, we
were roused by a ruder noise--a kind of grunting or roaring whine,
answered by the frightened snorts of the ponies. It was a bear which had
evidently not seen the fire, as it came from behind the bank, and had
probably been attracted by the smell of the horses. After it made out
what we were, it stayed round a short while, again uttered its peculiar
roaring grunt, and went off; we had seized our rifles and had run out
into the woods, but in the darkness could see nothing; indeed it was
rather lucky we did not stumble across the bear, as he could have made
short work of us when we were at such a disadvantage.
Next day we went off on a long tramp through the woods and along the
sides of the canyons. There were plenty of berry bushes growing in
clusters; and all around these there were fresh tracks of bear. But the
grizzly is also a flesh-eater, and has a great liking for [v]carrion. On
visiting the place where Merrifield had killed the black bear, we found
that the grizzlies had been there before us, and had utterly devoured
the carcass, with cannibal relish. Hardly a scrap was left, and we
turned our steps toward where lay the bull elk I had killed. It was
quite late in the afternoon when we reached the place.
A grizzly had evidently been at the carcass during the preceding night,
for his great footprints were in the ground all around it, and the
carcass itself was gnawed and torn, and partially covered with earth and
leaves--the grizzly has a curious habit of burying all of his prey that
he does not at the moment need.
The forest was composed mainly of what are called ridge-pole pines,
which grow close together, and do not branch out until the stems are
thirty or forty feet from the ground. Beneath these trees we walked over
a carpet of pine needles, upon which our moccasined feet made no sound.
The woods seemed vast and lonely, and their silence was broken now and
then by the strange noises always to be heard in the great pine
forests.
We climbed up along the trunk of a dead tree that had toppled over until
its upper branches struck in the limb crotch of another, which thus
supported it at an angle half-way in its fall. When above the ground far
enough to prevent the bear's smelling us, we sat still to wait for his
approach; until, in the gathering gloom, we could no longer see the
sights of our rifles. It was useless to wait longer; and we clambered
down and stole out to the edge of the woods. The forest here covered one
side of a steep, almost canyon-like ravine, whose other side was bare
except for rock and sage-brush. Once out from under the trees there was
still plenty of light, although the sun had set, and we crossed over
some fifty yards to the opposite hillside, and crouched down under a
bush to see if perchance some animal might not also leave the cover.
Again we waited quietly in the growing dusk until the pine trees in our
front blended into one dark, frowning mass. At last, as we were rising
to leave, we heard the sound of the breaking of a dead stick, from the
spot where we knew the carcass lay. "Old Ephraim" had come back to the
carcass. A minute afterward, listening with strained ears, we heard him
brush by some dry twigs. It was entirely too dark to go in after him;
but we made up our minds that on the morrow he should be ours.
Early next morning we were over at the elk carcass, and, as we expected,
found that the bear had eaten his fill of it during the night. His
tracks showed him to be an immense fellow, and were so fresh that we
doubted if he had left long before we arrived; and we made up our minds
to follow him up and try to find his lair. The bears that lived on these
mountains had evidently been little disturbed; indeed, the Indians and
most of the white hunters are rather chary of meddling with "Old
Ephraim," as the mountain men style the grizzly. The bears thus seemed
to have very little fear of harm, and we thought it likely that the bed
of the one who had fed on the elk would not be far away.
My companion was a skillful tracker, and we took up the trail at once.
For some distance it led over the soft, yielding carpet of moss and pine
needles, and the footprints were quite easily made out, although we
could follow them but slowly; for we had, of course, to keep a sharp
look-out ahead and around us as we walked noiselessly on in the somber
half-light always prevailing under the great pine trees.
After going a few hundred yards the tracks turned off on a well-beaten
path made by the elk; the woods were in many places cut up by these game
trails, which had often become as distinct as ordinary footpaths. The
beast's footprints were perfectly plain in the dust, and he had lumbered
along up the path until near the middle of the hillside, where the
ground broke away and there were hollows and boulders. Here there had
been a windfall, and the dead trees lay among the living, piled across
one another in all directions; while between and around them sprouted up
a thick growth of young spruces and other evergreens. The trail turned
off into the tangled thicket, within which it was almost certain we
should find our quarry. We could still follow the tracks, by the slight
scrapes of the claws on the bark, or by the bent and broken twigs; and
we advanced with noiseless caution.
When in the middle of the thicket we crossed what was almost a
breastwork of fallen logs, and Merrifield, who was leading, passed by
the upright stem of a great pine. As soon as he was by it, he sank
suddenly on one knee, turning half round, his face fairly aflame with
excitement; and as I strode past him, with my rifle at the ready, there,
not ten steps off, was the great bear, slowly rising from his bed among
the young spruces. He had heard us, but apparently hardly knew exactly
where or what we were, for he reared up on his haunches sideways to us.
Then he saw us and dropped down again on all-fours, the shaggy hair on
his neck and shoulders seeming to bristle as he turned toward us. As he
sank down on his fore feet, I had raised the rifle; his head was bent
slightly down, and when I saw the top of the white bead fairly between
his small, glittering, evil eyes, I pulled trigger. Half-rising up, the
huge beast fell over on his side in the death throes, the ball having
gone into his brain, striking as fairly between the eyes as if the
distance had been measured.
The whole thing was over in twenty seconds from the time I caught sight
of the game; indeed, it was over so quickly that the grizzly did not
have time to show fight. He was a monstrous fellow, much larger than any
I have seen since. As near as we could estimate, he must have weighed
above twelve hundred pounds.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States from 1901 to
1909, was one of the greatest hunters of the present generation. As
he was in weak health as a young man, he went West and lived for
some time the life of a ranchman and hunter, killing much wild
game. In later years he went on a great hunting trip to Africa, and
finally explored the wilds of the Amazon river, in South America,
in search of game and adventure. "Old Ephraim" narrates one of his
earlier hunting experiences, and is taken from the book, _The
Hunting Trips of a Ranchman_.
Give an account of the capture of the grizzly bear. Why did not
Merrifield fire? Compare the weight of the bear with that of the
average cow or horse. Tell of any bear hunt of which you know.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Watchers of the Trail--Charles C. D. Roberts.
Monarch, the Bear--Ernest Thompson Seton.
Wild Animals I Have Known--Ernest Thompson Seton.
African Game Trails--Theodore Roosevelt.
MIDWINTER
The speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains gray and thin.
But cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him as he sings,
White as the down of angels' wings.
I watch the slow flakes as they fall
On bank and briar and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.
On turf and curb and bower-roof
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden-walk;
And lovingly round tattered stalk
And shivering stem its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.
All day it snows: the sheeted post
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muffled wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumach and the wayside thorn,
And clustering spangles lodge and shine
In the dark tresses of the pine.
The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
In [v]surplice white the cedar stands,
And blesses him with priestly hands.
Still cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree:
But in my inmost ear is heard
The music of a holier bird;
And heavenly thoughts as soft and white
As snow-flakes on my soul alight,
Clothing with love my lonely heart,
Healing with peace each bruised part,
Till all my being seems to be
Transfigured by their purity.
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
When did this storm begin? Read lines which show this. Give reasons
for your answer. What comparisons are used by the poet in
describing the snowfall? Which comparison do you like best? What
healing thought does the storm bring to the poet? Compare it with
the same thought in _The First Snowfall_.
A GEORGIA FOX HUNT[177-*]
I
In the season of 1863, the Rockville Hunting Club, which had been newly
organized, was at the height of its success. It was composed of men too
old to go in the army, and of young men who were not old enough, or who,
from one cause and another, were exempted from military service.
Ostensibly, its object was to encourage the noble sport of fox-hunting
and to bind by closer ties the congenial souls whose love for horse and
hound and horn bordered on enthusiasm. This, I say, was its
[v]ostensible object, for it seems to me, looking back upon that
terrible time, that the main purpose of the association was to devise
new methods of forgetting the sickening [v]portents of disaster that
were even then thick in the air. Any suggestion or plan calculated to
relieve the mind from the weight of the horror of those desperate days
was eagerly seized upon and utilized. With the old men and the fledgling
boys in the neighborhood of Rockville, the desire to escape momentarily
the realities of the present took the shape of fox-hunting and other
congenial amusements. With the women--ah well! Heaven only knows how
they sat dumb and silent over their great anguish and grief, cheering
the helpless and comforting and succoring the sick and wounded. It was
a mystery to me then, and it is a mystery to me now.
About the first of November the writer hereof received a long-expected
letter from Tom Tunison, the secretary of the club, who was on a visit
to Monticello. It was brief and breezy.
"Young man," he wrote, "they are coming. They are going to give us a
[v]ruffle. Their dogs are good, but they lack form and finish as well as
discipline--plenty of bottom but no confidence. I haven't hesitated to
put up our horn as the prize. Get the boys together and tell them about
it, and see that our own eleven are in fighting trim. You won't believe
it, but Sue, Herndon, Kate, and Walthall are coming with the party; and
the fair de Compton, who set all the Monticello boys wild last year when
she got back from Macon, vows and declares she is coming, too. Remember
the 15th. Be prepared. "
I took in the situation at a glance. Tom, in his reckless style, had
bantered a party of Jasper county men as to the superiority of their
dogs, and had even offered to give them an opportunity to gain the
silver-mounted horn won by the Rockville club in Hancock county the year
before. The Jasper county men, who were really breeding some excellent
dogs, accepted the challenge, and Tom had invited them to share the
hospitality of the plantation home called "Bachelors' Hall. "
If the truth must be confessed, I was not at all grieved at the
announcement in Tom's letter, apart from the agreeable change in the
social atmosphere that would result from the presence of ladies in
"Bachelors' Hall. " I was eagerly anxious to test the mettle of a
favorite hound--Flora--whose care and training had cost me a great deal
of time and trouble. Although it was her first season in the field, she
had already become the pet and pride of the Rockville club, the members
of which were not slow to sound her praises. Flora was an experiment.
She was the result of a cross between the Henry hound (called in Georgia
the "Birdsong dog," in honor of the most successful breeder) and a
Maryland hound. She was a grand-daughter of the famous Hodo and in
everything except her color (she was white with yellow ears) was the
exact reproduction of that magnificent fox-hound. I was anxious to see
her put to the test.
It was with no small degree of satisfaction, therefore, that I informed
Aunt Patience, the cook, of Tom's programme. Aunt Patience was a
privileged character, whose comments upon people and things were free
and frequent; when she heard that a party of hunters, accompanied by
ladies, proposed to make the hall their temporary headquarters, her
remarks were ludicrously indignant.
"Well, ef dat Marse Tom ain't de beatinest white man dat I ever sot eyes
on--'way off yander givin' way his vittles fo' he buy um at de sto'!
How I know what Marse Tom want, an' tel I know, whar I gwineter git um?
He better be home yer lookin' atter deze lazy niggers, stidder
high-flyin' wid dem Jasper county folks. Ef dez enny vittles on dis
plan'ash'n, hits more'n I knows un. En he'll go runnin' roun' wid dem
harum-skarum gals twell I boun' he don't fetch dat pipe an' dat 'backer
what he said he would. Can't fool me 'bout de gals what grows up deze
days. Dey duz like dey wanter stan' up an' cuss dersef' case dey wuzent
borned men. "
"Why, Aunt Patience, your Marse Tom says Miss de Compton is as pretty as
a pink and as fine as a fiddle. "
"Law, chile! you needn't talk 'bout de gals to dis ole 'omen. I done
know um fo' you wuz borned. W'en you see Miss Compton you see all de
balance un um. Deze is new times. Marse Tom's mammy useter spin her
fifteen cents o' wool a day--w'en you see Miss Compton wid a hank er
yarn in 'er han', you jes' sen' me word. "
Whereupon, Aunt Patience gave her head handkerchief a vigorous wrench,
and went her way--the good old soul--even then considering how she
should best set about preparing a genuine surprise for her young master
in the shape of daily feasts for a dozen guests. I will not stop here to
detail the character of this preparation or to dwell upon its success.
It is enough to say that Tom Tunison praised Aunt Patience to the
skies; and, as if this were not sufficient to make her happy, he
produced a big clay pipe, three plugs of real "manufac terbacker," which
was hard to get in those times, a red shawl, and twelve yards of calico.
The fortnight that followed the arrival of Tom's guests was one long to
be remembered, not only in the [v]annals of the Rockville Hunting Club
but in the annals of Rockville itself. The fair de Compton literally
turned the heads of old men and young boys, and even succeeded in
conquering the critics of her own sex.
She was marvelously beautiful,
and her beauty was of a kind to haunt one in one's dreams. It was easy
to perceive that she had made a conquest of Tom, and I know that every
suggestion he made and every project he planned had for its sole end and
aim the enjoyment of Miss Carrie de Compton.
It was several days before the minor details of the contest, which was
at once the excuse for and the object of the visit of Tom's guests,
could be arranged, but finally everything was "[v]amicably adjusted,"
and the day appointed. The night before the hunt, the club and the
Jasper county visitors assembled in Tom Tunison's parlor for a final
discussion of the event.
"In order," said Tom, "to give our friends and guests an opportunity
fully to test the speed and bottom of their kennels, it has been decided
to pay our respects to 'Old Sandy'. "
"And pray, Mr. Tunison, who is 'Old Sandy'? " queried Miss de Compton.
"He is a fox, Miss de Compton, and a tough one. He is a trained fox. He
has been hunted so often by the inferior packs in his neighborhood that
he is well-nigh [v]invincible. He is so well known that he has not been
hunted, except by accident, for two seasons. He is not as suspicious as
he was two years ago, but we must be careful if we want to get within
hearing distance of him to-morrow morning. "
"Do any of the ladies go with us? " asked Jack Herndon.
"I go, for one," responded Miss de Compton, and in a few minutes all the
ladies had decided to go along, even if they found it inconvenient to
participate actively in the hunt.
"Then," said Tom, rising, "we must say good night. Uncle Plato will
sound 'Boots and Saddle' at four o'clock to-morrow morning. "
"Four o'clock! " exclaimed the ladies in dismay.
"At four precisely," answered Tom, and the ladies with pretty little
gestures of mock despair swept upstairs while Tom brought out cigars for
the boys.
My friend little knew how delighted I was that "Old Sandy" was to be put
through his paces. He little knew how carefully I had studied the
peculiarities of this famous fox--how often when training Flora I had
taken her out and followed "Old Sandy" through all his ranges, how I
had "felt of" both his speed and bottom and knew all his weak points.
II
Morning came, and with it Uncle Plato's bugle call. Aunt Patience was
ready with a smoking hot breakfast, and everybody was in fine spirits.
As the eager, happy crowd filed down the broad avenue that led to the
hall, the fair de Compton, who had been delayed in mounting, rode by my
side.
"You choose your escort well," I ventured to say.
"I have a weakness for children," she replied; "particularly for
children who know what they are about. Plato has told me that if I
desired to see all of the hunt without much trouble, to follow you. I am
selfish, you perceive. "
We rode over the red hills and under the russet trees until we came to
"Old Sandy's" favorite haunt. Here a council of war was held, and it was
decided that Tom and a portion of the hunters should skirt the fields,
while another portion led by Miss de Compton and myself should enter and
bid the fox good morning. Uncle Plato, who had been given the cue,
followed me with the dogs, and in a few moments we were very near the
particular spot where I hoped to find the venerable deceiver of dogs and
men. The hounds were already sallying hither and thither, anxious and
evidently expectant.
Five minutes went by without a whimper from the pack. There was not a
sound save the eager rustling of the dogs through the sedge and
undergrowth. The ground was familiar to Flora, and I watched her with
pride as with powerful strides she circled around. Suddenly she paused
and flung her head in the air, making a beautiful picture where she
stood poised, as if listening. My heart gave a great thump. It was a
trick of hers, and I knew that "Old Sandy" had been around within the
past twenty-four hours! With a rush, a bound, and an eager cry, my
favorite came toward us, and the next moment "Old Sandy," who had been
lying almost at our horses' feet, was up and away with Flora right at
his heels. A wild hope seized me that my favorite would run into the shy
veteran before he could get out of the field. But no! One of the Jasper
county hunters, rendered momentarily insane by excitement, endeavored to
ride the fox down with his horse, and in another moment Sir Reynard was
over the fence and into the woodland beyond, followed by the hounds.
They made a splendid but [v]ineffectual burst of speed, for when "Old
Sandy" found himself upon the blackjack hills he was foot-loose. The
morning, however, was fine--just damp enough to leave the scent of the
fox hanging breast high in the air, whether he shaped his course over
lowlands or highlands.
[Illustration: The Beginning of the Fox Hunt]
In the midst of all the confusion that had ensued, Miss de Compton
remained cool, serene, and apparently indifferent, but I observed a
glow upon her face and a sparkle in her eyes, as Tom Tunison, riding his
gallant gray and heading the hunters, easily and gracefully took a
couple of fences when the hounds veered to the left.
"Our Jasper county friend has saved 'Old Sandy,' Miss de Compton," I
said, "but he has given us an opportunity of witnessing some very fine
sport. The fox is so badly frightened that he may endeavor in the
beginning to outfoot the dogs, but in the end he will return to his
range, and then I hope to show you what a cunning old customer he is. If
Flora doesn't fail us at the critical moment, you will have the honor of
wearing his brush on your saddle. "
"Youth is always confident," replied Miss de Compton.
"In this instance, however, I have the advantage of knowing both hound
and fox. Flora has a few weaknesses, but I think she understands what is
expected of her to-day. "
Thus bantering and chaffing each other, we turned our horses' heads in a
direction [v]oblique to that taken by the other hunters, who, with the
exception of Tom Tunison and Jack Herndon, now well up with the dogs,
were struggling along as best they could. For a half mile or more we
cantered down a lane, then turned into a stubble field, and made for a
hill crowned and skirted by a growth of blackjack, through which an
occasional pine had broken, as it seemed, in a vain but noble effort to
touch the sky. Once upon the summit of the hills, we had a majestic view
upon all sides. The fresh morning breezes blew crisp and cool and
bracing, but were not uncomfortable after the exercise we had taken; and
as the clouds that had muffled up the east dispersed themselves or were
dissolved, the generous sun spread layer upon layer of golden light upon
hill and valley and forest and stream.
Away to the left we could hear the hounds, and the music of their
voices, toyed with by the playful wind, rolled itself into melodious
little echoes that broke pleasantly upon the ear, now loud, now faint,
now far and now near. The first burst of speed, which had been terrific,
had settled down into a steady run, but I knew by the sound that the
pace was still tremendous, and I imagined I could hear the silvery
tongue of Flora as she led the eager pack. The cries of the hounds,
however, grew fainter and fainter, until presently they were lost in the
distance.
"He is making a straight shoot for the Turner [v]old fields, two miles
away," I remarked, by way of explanation.
"And pray, why are we here? " Miss de Compton asked.
"To be in at the death. (The fair de Compton smiled [v]sarcastically. )
In the Turner old fields the fox will make his grand double, gain upon
the dogs, head for yonder hill, and come down the ravine upon our
right. At the fence here, within plain view, he will attempt a trick
that has heretofore always been successful, and which has given him a
reputation as a trained fox. I depend upon the intelligence of Flora to
see through 'Old Sandy's' [v]strategy, but if she hesitates a moment, we
must set her right. "
I spoke with the confidence of one having experience, and Miss de
Compton smiled and was content. We had little time for further
conversation, for in a few minutes I observed a dark shadow emerge from
the undergrowth on the opposite hill and slip quickly across the open
space of fallow land. It crossed the ravine that intersected the valley,
stole quietly through the stubble to the fence, and there paused a
moment, as if hesitating. In a low voice I called Miss de Compton's
attention to the figure, but she refused to believe that it was the same
fox we had aroused thirty minutes before. Howbeit, it was the
[v]veritable "Old Sandy" himself. I should have known him among a
thousand foxes. He was not in as fine feather as when, at the start, he
had swung his brush across Flora's nose--the pace had told on him--but
he still moved with an air of confidence.
Then and there Miss de Compton beheld a display of fox tactics shrewd
enough to excite the admiration of the most indifferent--a display of
cunning that seemed to be something higher than instinct.
"Old Sandy" paused only a moment. With a bound he gained the top of
the fence, stopped to pull something from one of his fore
feet--probably a cockle bur--and then carefully balancing himself,
proceeded to walk the fence. By this time, the music of the dogs was
again heard in the distance, but "Old Sandy" took his time.
One--two--three--seven--ten--twenty panels of the fence were cleared.
Pausing, he again subjected his fore feet to examination, and licked
them carefully. Then he proceeded on his journey along the fence until
he was at least one hundred yards from where he left the ground. Here
he paused for the first time, gathered himself together, leaped
through the air, and rushed away. As he did so, the full note of the
pack burst upon our ears as the hounds reached the brow of the hill
from the lowlands on the other side.
"Upon my word! " exclaimed Miss de Compton; "that fox ought to go free. I
shall beg Mr. Tunison--"
But before she finished her sentence the dogs came into view, and I
could hardly restrain a shout of triumph as I saw Flora running easily
and unerringly far to the front. Behind her, led by Captain--and so
close together that, as Uncle Plato afterward remarked, "You mout kivver
de whole caboodle wid a hoss-blanket"--were the remainder of the Tunison
kennel, while the Jasper county hounds were strung out behind in wild
but heroic confusion. I felt strongly tempted to give the view-halloo,
and push "Old Sandy" to the wall at once, but I knew that the fair de
Compton would regard the exploit with severe [v]reprobation forever
after. Across the ravine and to the fence the dogs came, their voices,
as they got nearer, crashing through the silence like a chorus of
demons.
Now was the critical moment. If Flora should fail me--!
Several of the older dogs topped the rails, and scattered through the
undergrowth. Flora came over with them, made a small circle, with her
sensitive nose to the damp earth, and then went rushing down the fence.
Past the point where "Old Sandy" took his flying leap she ran, turned
suddenly to the left, and came swooping back in a wide circle. I had
barely time to warn Miss de Compton that she must prepare to do a little
rapid riding, when my favorite, with a fierce cry of delight that
thrilled me through and through, picked up the blazing [v]drag, and away
we went with a scream and a shout. I felt in my very bones that "Old
Sandy" was doomed. I had never seen Flora so prompt and eager; I had
never observed the scent to be better. Everything was auspicious.
We went like the wind. Miss de Compton rode well, and the long stretches
of stubble land through which the chase led were unbroken by ditch or
fence. The pace of the hounds was simply terrific, and I knew that no
fox on earth could long stand up before the white demon that led the
hunt with such splendor.
Five--ten--fifteen minutes we rushed at the heels of the rearmost dogs,
until, suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of the pack. The scent
was lost! Flora ran about in wide circles, followed by the greater
portion of the dogs. To the left, to the right they went. At that
moment, chancing to look back, I caught a glimpse of "Old Sandy," broken
down and bedraggled, making his way toward a clump of briars. He had
played his last [v]trump and lost. Pushed by the dogs, he had dropped in
his tracks and literally allowed them to run over him. I rode at him
with a shout; there was a short, sharp race, and in a few moments [v]_La
Mort_ was sounded over the famous fox on the horn that the Jasper county
boys did not win.
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
This gives a good picture of a fox hunt in the South in the long
ago. Tell what you like best about it. Who is telling the story?
Was he young or old? How do you know? What opinion do you form of
the "fair de Compton"? See if you can get an old man, perhaps a
negro, to tell you of a fox hunt he has seen.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
In Ole Virginia--Thomas Nelson Page.
Old Creole Days--George W. Cable.
Swallow Barn--John P. Kennedy.
The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains--Charles Egbert Craddock.
FOOTNOTE:
[177-*] From the _Atlanta Constitution_.
RAIN AND WIND
I hear the hoofs of horses
Galloping over the hill,
Galloping on and galloping on,
When all the night is shrill
With wind and rain that beats the pane--
And my soul with awe is still.
For every dripping window
Their headlong rush makes bound,
Galloping up and galloping by,
Then back again and around,
Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs,
And the draughty cellars sound.
And then I hear black horsemen
Hallooing in the night;
Hallooing and hallooing,
They ride o'er vale and height,
And the branches snap and the shutters clap
With the fury of their flight.
All night I hear their gallop,
And their wild halloo's alarm;
The tree-tops sound and vanes go round
In forest and on farm;
But never a hair of a thing is there--
Only the wind and the storm.
MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN.
THE SOUTHERN SKY
Presently the stars begin to peep out, timidly at first, as if to see
whether the elements here below had ceased their strife, and if the
scene on earth be such as they, from bright spheres aloft, may shed
their sweet influences upon. Sirius, or that blazing world Argus, may be
the first watcher to send down a feeble ray; then follow another and
another, all smiling meekly; but presently, in the short twilight of the
latitude, the bright leaders of the starry host blaze forth in all their
glory, and the sky is decked and spangled with superb brilliants.
In the twinkling of an eye, and faster than the admiring gazer can tell,
the stars seem to leap out from their hiding-places. By invisible hands,
and in quick succession, the constellations are hung out; first of all,
and with dazzling glory, in the azure depths of space appears the great
Southern Cross. That shining symbol lends a holy grandeur to the scene,
making it still more impressive.
Alone in the night-watch, after the sea-breeze has sunk to rest, I have
stood on deck under those beautiful skies, gazing, admiring, rapt. I
have seen there, above the horizon at once and shining with a splendor
unknown to other latitudes, every star of the [v]first magnitude--save
only six--that is contained in the catalogue of the one hundred
principal fixed stars.
There lies the city on the seashore, wrapped in sleep. The sky looks
solid, like a vault of steel set with diamonds. The stillness below is
in harmony with the silence above, and one almost fears to speak, lest
the harsh sound of the human voice, reverberating through those vaulted
"chambers of the south," should wake up echo and drown the music that
fills the soul.
Orion is there, just about to march down into the sea; but Canopus and
Sirius, with Castor and his twin brother, and [v]Procyon, Argus, and
Regulus--these are high up in their course; they look down with great
splendor, smiling peacefully as they precede the Southern Cross on its
western way. And yonder, farther still, away to the south, float the
Magellanic clouds, and the "Coal Sacks"--those mysterious, dark spots in
the sky, which seem as though it had been rent, and these were holes in
the "azure robe of night," looking out into the starless, empty, black
abyss beyond. One who has never watched the southern sky in the
stillness of the night, after the sea-breeze with its turmoil is done,
can have no idea of its grandeur, beauty, and loveliness.
MATTHEW FONTAINE MAURY.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Do you know any of the stars or the constellations mentioned? Some
of them are seen in our latitude, but the southern sky Maury
describes is south of the equator. The "Southern Cross" is seen
only below the equator. The "Magellan Clouds" are not far from the
South Pole.
DAFFODILS
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,--
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee,--
A poet could not but be gay
In such a [v]jocund company.
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
DAWN
I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from
Providence to Boston; and for this purpose I rose at two o'clock in the
morning. Everything around was wrapped in darkness and hushed in
silence. It was a mild, serene, midsummer night,--the sky was without a
cloud,--the winds were [v]whist. The moon, then in the last quarter, had
just risen, and the stars shone with a luster but little affected by her
presence.
Jupiter, two hours high, was the herald of the day; the [v]Pleiades,
just above the horizon, shed their sweet influence in the east; Lyra
sparkled near the [v]zenith; Andromeda veiled her newly discovered
glories from the naked eye in the south; the steady Pointers, far
beneath the pole, looked meekly up from the depths of the north to their
sovereign.
Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we proceeded,
the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue
of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children,
went first to rest; the sister-beams of the Pleiades soon melted
together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained
unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of
angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens; the
glories of night dissolved into the glories of the dawn.
The blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up
their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon
blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the
inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above
in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the Blue
Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and
turned the dewy teardrops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds.
In a few seconds, the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide
open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of
man, began his state.
I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient [v]Magians, who, in
the morning of the world, went up to the hilltops of Central Asia, and,
ignorant of the true God, adored the most glorious work of His hand. But
I am filled with amazement, when I am told that, in this enlightened age
and in the heart of the Christian world, there are persons who can
witness this daily manifestation of the power and wisdom of the Creator,
and yet say in their hearts, "There is no God. "
EDWARD EVERETT.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
What experience did Everett describe? What impresses the mood of
the early morning? In what latitude did Everett live? What stars
and constellations did he mention? Trace the steps by which he
pictured the sunrise. Why did he not wonder at the belief of the
"ancient Magians"? What thought does cause amazement?
SPRING
Spring, with that nameless [v]pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair--
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.
Out in the lonely woods, the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court, with green festoons,
The banks of dark [v]lagoons.
In the deep heart of every forest tree,
The blood is all aglee;
And there's a look about the leafless bowers,
As if they dreamed of flowers.
Yet still, on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;
Or where, like those strange [v]semblances we find
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,
The brown of Autumn corn.
[Illustration: The Woods in Spring]
As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.
In gardens, you may note, amid the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.
But many gleams and showers need must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.
Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn,
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.
At times, a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate
Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from a beech's heart,
A blue-eyed [v]Dryad, stepping forth, should say,
"Behold me! I am May! "
HENRY TIMROD.
AMONG THE CLIFFS
It was a critical moment. There was a stir other than that of the wind
among the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground.
The wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of
half-doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still
for an instant. The world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the
mountain air tasted of the fresh [v]sylvan fragrance that pervaded the
forest, the foliage blamed with the red and gold of autumn, the distant
[v]Chilhowee heights were delicately blue.
That instant's doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. As the turkeys
stood in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers
to a brighter sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. The
flock took suddenly to wing,--a flash from among the leaves, the sharp
crack of a rifle, and one of the birds fell heavily over the bluff and
down toward the valley.
The young mountaineer's exclamation of triumph died in his throat. He
came running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the
depths where his game had disappeared.
"Waal, sir," he broke forth pathetically, "this beats my time! If my
luck ain't enough ter make a horse laugh! "
He did not laugh, however; perhaps his luck was calculated to stir only
[v]equine risibility.
cenotaph is a memorial built to one who is buried elsewhere. Why
should the clear sky be the cloud's cenotaph? How does the
reappearing of the cloud unbuild it?
NEW ENGLAND WEATHER
There is a [v]sumptuous variety about the New England weather that
compels the stranger's admiration--and regret. The weather is always
doing something there; always attending strictly to business; always
getting up new designs and trying them on the people to see how they
will go. But it gets through more business in spring than in any other
season. In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six
different kinds of weather within four and twenty hours. It was I who
made the fame and fortune of the man who had that marvelous collection
of weather on exhibition at the Centennial, which so astounded the
foreigners. He was going to travel around the world and get specimens
from all climes. I said, "Don't do it; just come to New England on a
favorable spring day. " I told him what we could do in the way of style,
variety, and quantity. Well, he came, and he made his collection in four
days. As to variety, he confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of
weather that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity, after he
had picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not
only had weather enough, but weather to spare, weather to hire out,
weather to sell, weather to deposit, weather to invest, and weather to
give to the poor.
Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accurate prophecy and
thoroughly deserves it. You take up the paper and observe how crisply
and confidently he checks off what to-day's weather is going to be on
the Pacific, down South, in the Middle States, in the Wisconsin region.
See him sail along in the joy and pride of his power till he gets to New
England, and then see his tail drop. _He_ doesn't know what the weather
is going to be in New England. Well, he mulls over it, and by and by he
gets out something like this: "Probable northeast to southwest winds,
varying to the southward and westward and eastward and points between;
high and low barometer, swapping around from place to place; probable
areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by
earthquakes with thunder and lightning. " Then he jots down this
postscript from his wandering mind, to cover accidents: "But it is
possible that the program may be wholly changed in the meantime. " Yes,
one of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling
uncertainty of it. There is certain to be plenty of weather, but you
never can tell which end of the procession is going to move first.
But, after all, there are at least two or three things about that
weather (or, if you please, the effects produced by it) which we
residents would not like to part with. If we hadn't our bewitching
autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one
feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries--the ice storm.
Every bough and twig is strung with ice beads, frozen dewdrops, and the
whole tree sparkles cold and white like the [v]Shah of Persia's diamond
plume. Then the wind waves the branches, and the sun comes out and turns
all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms that glow and burn and
flash with all manner of colored fires; which change and change again,
with inconceivable rapidity, from blue to red, from red to green, and
green to gold. The tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very explosion of
dazzling jewels, and it stands there the [v]acme, the climax, the
supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering, intoxicating,
intolerable magnificence. One cannot make the words too strong. Month
after month I lay up hate and grudge against the New England weather;
but when the ice storm comes at last I say: "There, I forgive you now;
you are the most enchanting weather in the world. "
MARK TWAIN.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Mark Twain's humor was noted for exaggeration. Find examples of
exaggeration in this selection. Old Probabilities was the name
signed by a weather prophet of the period. How was he affected by
New England weather? At what point did Twain drop his fun and begin
a beautiful tribute to a New England landscape? How does the
tribute close?
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Three Men in a Boat--Jerome K. Jerome.
The House Boat on the Styx--John Kendrick Bangs.
[Illustration: Silence Deep and White]
THE FIRST SNOWFALL
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping fields and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new roofed with Carrara
Came chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
That noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, "Father, who makes it snow? "
And I told of the good All-Father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar on our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall. "
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That _my_ kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
When did the snow begin? How do you know? What time is it now? Is
snow still falling? Read the lines that show this. Of what sorrow
does the snow remind the poet? Read the lines which show that peace
had come to the parents. Make a list of the comparisons (or
similes) used by the poet. Read the lines which show that the storm
was a quiet one. Which lines do you like best?
OLD EPHRAIM
For some days after our arrival on the Bighorn range we did not come
across any grizzly. There were plenty of black-tail deer in the woods,
and we encountered a number of bands of cow and calf elk, or of young
bulls; but after several days' hunting, we were still without any game
worth taking home, and we had seen no sign of grizzly, which was the
game we were especially anxious to kill, for neither Merrifield nor I
had ever seen a bear alive.
Sometimes we hunted in company; sometimes each of us went out alone. One
day we had separated; I reached camp early in the afternoon, and waited
a couple of hours before Merrifield put in an appearance.
At last I heard a shout, and he came in sight galloping at speed down an
open glade, and waving his hat, evidently having had good luck; and when
he reined in his small, wiry cow-pony, we saw that he had packed behind
his saddle the fine, glossy pelt of a black bear. Better still, he
announced that he had been off about ten miles to a perfect tangle of
ravines and valleys where bear sign was very thick; and not of black
bear either, but of grizzly. The black bear (the only one we got on the
mountains) he had run across by accident.
Merrifield's tale made me decide to shift camp at once, and go over to
the spot where the bear-tracks were plentiful. Next morning we were off,
and by noon pitched camp by a clear brook, in a valley with steep,
wooded sides.
That afternoon we again went out, and I shot a fine bull elk. I came
home alone toward nightfall, walking through a reach of burnt forest,
where there was nothing but charred tree-trunks and black mold. When
nearly through it I came across the huge, half-human footprints of a
great grizzly, which must have passed by within a few minutes. It gave
me rather an eery feeling in the silent, lonely woods, to see for the
first time the unmistakable proofs that I was in the home of the mighty
lord of the wilderness.
That evening we almost had a visit from one of the animals we were
after. Several times we had heard at night the musical calling of the
bull elk--a sound to which no writer has as yet done justice. This
particular night, when we were in bed and the fire was smoldering, we
were roused by a ruder noise--a kind of grunting or roaring whine,
answered by the frightened snorts of the ponies. It was a bear which had
evidently not seen the fire, as it came from behind the bank, and had
probably been attracted by the smell of the horses. After it made out
what we were, it stayed round a short while, again uttered its peculiar
roaring grunt, and went off; we had seized our rifles and had run out
into the woods, but in the darkness could see nothing; indeed it was
rather lucky we did not stumble across the bear, as he could have made
short work of us when we were at such a disadvantage.
Next day we went off on a long tramp through the woods and along the
sides of the canyons. There were plenty of berry bushes growing in
clusters; and all around these there were fresh tracks of bear. But the
grizzly is also a flesh-eater, and has a great liking for [v]carrion. On
visiting the place where Merrifield had killed the black bear, we found
that the grizzlies had been there before us, and had utterly devoured
the carcass, with cannibal relish. Hardly a scrap was left, and we
turned our steps toward where lay the bull elk I had killed. It was
quite late in the afternoon when we reached the place.
A grizzly had evidently been at the carcass during the preceding night,
for his great footprints were in the ground all around it, and the
carcass itself was gnawed and torn, and partially covered with earth and
leaves--the grizzly has a curious habit of burying all of his prey that
he does not at the moment need.
The forest was composed mainly of what are called ridge-pole pines,
which grow close together, and do not branch out until the stems are
thirty or forty feet from the ground. Beneath these trees we walked over
a carpet of pine needles, upon which our moccasined feet made no sound.
The woods seemed vast and lonely, and their silence was broken now and
then by the strange noises always to be heard in the great pine
forests.
We climbed up along the trunk of a dead tree that had toppled over until
its upper branches struck in the limb crotch of another, which thus
supported it at an angle half-way in its fall. When above the ground far
enough to prevent the bear's smelling us, we sat still to wait for his
approach; until, in the gathering gloom, we could no longer see the
sights of our rifles. It was useless to wait longer; and we clambered
down and stole out to the edge of the woods. The forest here covered one
side of a steep, almost canyon-like ravine, whose other side was bare
except for rock and sage-brush. Once out from under the trees there was
still plenty of light, although the sun had set, and we crossed over
some fifty yards to the opposite hillside, and crouched down under a
bush to see if perchance some animal might not also leave the cover.
Again we waited quietly in the growing dusk until the pine trees in our
front blended into one dark, frowning mass. At last, as we were rising
to leave, we heard the sound of the breaking of a dead stick, from the
spot where we knew the carcass lay. "Old Ephraim" had come back to the
carcass. A minute afterward, listening with strained ears, we heard him
brush by some dry twigs. It was entirely too dark to go in after him;
but we made up our minds that on the morrow he should be ours.
Early next morning we were over at the elk carcass, and, as we expected,
found that the bear had eaten his fill of it during the night. His
tracks showed him to be an immense fellow, and were so fresh that we
doubted if he had left long before we arrived; and we made up our minds
to follow him up and try to find his lair. The bears that lived on these
mountains had evidently been little disturbed; indeed, the Indians and
most of the white hunters are rather chary of meddling with "Old
Ephraim," as the mountain men style the grizzly. The bears thus seemed
to have very little fear of harm, and we thought it likely that the bed
of the one who had fed on the elk would not be far away.
My companion was a skillful tracker, and we took up the trail at once.
For some distance it led over the soft, yielding carpet of moss and pine
needles, and the footprints were quite easily made out, although we
could follow them but slowly; for we had, of course, to keep a sharp
look-out ahead and around us as we walked noiselessly on in the somber
half-light always prevailing under the great pine trees.
After going a few hundred yards the tracks turned off on a well-beaten
path made by the elk; the woods were in many places cut up by these game
trails, which had often become as distinct as ordinary footpaths. The
beast's footprints were perfectly plain in the dust, and he had lumbered
along up the path until near the middle of the hillside, where the
ground broke away and there were hollows and boulders. Here there had
been a windfall, and the dead trees lay among the living, piled across
one another in all directions; while between and around them sprouted up
a thick growth of young spruces and other evergreens. The trail turned
off into the tangled thicket, within which it was almost certain we
should find our quarry. We could still follow the tracks, by the slight
scrapes of the claws on the bark, or by the bent and broken twigs; and
we advanced with noiseless caution.
When in the middle of the thicket we crossed what was almost a
breastwork of fallen logs, and Merrifield, who was leading, passed by
the upright stem of a great pine. As soon as he was by it, he sank
suddenly on one knee, turning half round, his face fairly aflame with
excitement; and as I strode past him, with my rifle at the ready, there,
not ten steps off, was the great bear, slowly rising from his bed among
the young spruces. He had heard us, but apparently hardly knew exactly
where or what we were, for he reared up on his haunches sideways to us.
Then he saw us and dropped down again on all-fours, the shaggy hair on
his neck and shoulders seeming to bristle as he turned toward us. As he
sank down on his fore feet, I had raised the rifle; his head was bent
slightly down, and when I saw the top of the white bead fairly between
his small, glittering, evil eyes, I pulled trigger. Half-rising up, the
huge beast fell over on his side in the death throes, the ball having
gone into his brain, striking as fairly between the eyes as if the
distance had been measured.
The whole thing was over in twenty seconds from the time I caught sight
of the game; indeed, it was over so quickly that the grizzly did not
have time to show fight. He was a monstrous fellow, much larger than any
I have seen since. As near as we could estimate, he must have weighed
above twelve hundred pounds.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States from 1901 to
1909, was one of the greatest hunters of the present generation. As
he was in weak health as a young man, he went West and lived for
some time the life of a ranchman and hunter, killing much wild
game. In later years he went on a great hunting trip to Africa, and
finally explored the wilds of the Amazon river, in South America,
in search of game and adventure. "Old Ephraim" narrates one of his
earlier hunting experiences, and is taken from the book, _The
Hunting Trips of a Ranchman_.
Give an account of the capture of the grizzly bear. Why did not
Merrifield fire? Compare the weight of the bear with that of the
average cow or horse. Tell of any bear hunt of which you know.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Watchers of the Trail--Charles C. D. Roberts.
Monarch, the Bear--Ernest Thompson Seton.
Wild Animals I Have Known--Ernest Thompson Seton.
African Game Trails--Theodore Roosevelt.
MIDWINTER
The speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains gray and thin.
But cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him as he sings,
White as the down of angels' wings.
I watch the slow flakes as they fall
On bank and briar and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.
On turf and curb and bower-roof
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden-walk;
And lovingly round tattered stalk
And shivering stem its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.
All day it snows: the sheeted post
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muffled wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumach and the wayside thorn,
And clustering spangles lodge and shine
In the dark tresses of the pine.
The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
In [v]surplice white the cedar stands,
And blesses him with priestly hands.
Still cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree:
But in my inmost ear is heard
The music of a holier bird;
And heavenly thoughts as soft and white
As snow-flakes on my soul alight,
Clothing with love my lonely heart,
Healing with peace each bruised part,
Till all my being seems to be
Transfigured by their purity.
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
When did this storm begin? Read lines which show this. Give reasons
for your answer. What comparisons are used by the poet in
describing the snowfall? Which comparison do you like best? What
healing thought does the storm bring to the poet? Compare it with
the same thought in _The First Snowfall_.
A GEORGIA FOX HUNT[177-*]
I
In the season of 1863, the Rockville Hunting Club, which had been newly
organized, was at the height of its success. It was composed of men too
old to go in the army, and of young men who were not old enough, or who,
from one cause and another, were exempted from military service.
Ostensibly, its object was to encourage the noble sport of fox-hunting
and to bind by closer ties the congenial souls whose love for horse and
hound and horn bordered on enthusiasm. This, I say, was its
[v]ostensible object, for it seems to me, looking back upon that
terrible time, that the main purpose of the association was to devise
new methods of forgetting the sickening [v]portents of disaster that
were even then thick in the air. Any suggestion or plan calculated to
relieve the mind from the weight of the horror of those desperate days
was eagerly seized upon and utilized. With the old men and the fledgling
boys in the neighborhood of Rockville, the desire to escape momentarily
the realities of the present took the shape of fox-hunting and other
congenial amusements. With the women--ah well! Heaven only knows how
they sat dumb and silent over their great anguish and grief, cheering
the helpless and comforting and succoring the sick and wounded. It was
a mystery to me then, and it is a mystery to me now.
About the first of November the writer hereof received a long-expected
letter from Tom Tunison, the secretary of the club, who was on a visit
to Monticello. It was brief and breezy.
"Young man," he wrote, "they are coming. They are going to give us a
[v]ruffle. Their dogs are good, but they lack form and finish as well as
discipline--plenty of bottom but no confidence. I haven't hesitated to
put up our horn as the prize. Get the boys together and tell them about
it, and see that our own eleven are in fighting trim. You won't believe
it, but Sue, Herndon, Kate, and Walthall are coming with the party; and
the fair de Compton, who set all the Monticello boys wild last year when
she got back from Macon, vows and declares she is coming, too. Remember
the 15th. Be prepared. "
I took in the situation at a glance. Tom, in his reckless style, had
bantered a party of Jasper county men as to the superiority of their
dogs, and had even offered to give them an opportunity to gain the
silver-mounted horn won by the Rockville club in Hancock county the year
before. The Jasper county men, who were really breeding some excellent
dogs, accepted the challenge, and Tom had invited them to share the
hospitality of the plantation home called "Bachelors' Hall. "
If the truth must be confessed, I was not at all grieved at the
announcement in Tom's letter, apart from the agreeable change in the
social atmosphere that would result from the presence of ladies in
"Bachelors' Hall. " I was eagerly anxious to test the mettle of a
favorite hound--Flora--whose care and training had cost me a great deal
of time and trouble. Although it was her first season in the field, she
had already become the pet and pride of the Rockville club, the members
of which were not slow to sound her praises. Flora was an experiment.
She was the result of a cross between the Henry hound (called in Georgia
the "Birdsong dog," in honor of the most successful breeder) and a
Maryland hound. She was a grand-daughter of the famous Hodo and in
everything except her color (she was white with yellow ears) was the
exact reproduction of that magnificent fox-hound. I was anxious to see
her put to the test.
It was with no small degree of satisfaction, therefore, that I informed
Aunt Patience, the cook, of Tom's programme. Aunt Patience was a
privileged character, whose comments upon people and things were free
and frequent; when she heard that a party of hunters, accompanied by
ladies, proposed to make the hall their temporary headquarters, her
remarks were ludicrously indignant.
"Well, ef dat Marse Tom ain't de beatinest white man dat I ever sot eyes
on--'way off yander givin' way his vittles fo' he buy um at de sto'!
How I know what Marse Tom want, an' tel I know, whar I gwineter git um?
He better be home yer lookin' atter deze lazy niggers, stidder
high-flyin' wid dem Jasper county folks. Ef dez enny vittles on dis
plan'ash'n, hits more'n I knows un. En he'll go runnin' roun' wid dem
harum-skarum gals twell I boun' he don't fetch dat pipe an' dat 'backer
what he said he would. Can't fool me 'bout de gals what grows up deze
days. Dey duz like dey wanter stan' up an' cuss dersef' case dey wuzent
borned men. "
"Why, Aunt Patience, your Marse Tom says Miss de Compton is as pretty as
a pink and as fine as a fiddle. "
"Law, chile! you needn't talk 'bout de gals to dis ole 'omen. I done
know um fo' you wuz borned. W'en you see Miss Compton you see all de
balance un um. Deze is new times. Marse Tom's mammy useter spin her
fifteen cents o' wool a day--w'en you see Miss Compton wid a hank er
yarn in 'er han', you jes' sen' me word. "
Whereupon, Aunt Patience gave her head handkerchief a vigorous wrench,
and went her way--the good old soul--even then considering how she
should best set about preparing a genuine surprise for her young master
in the shape of daily feasts for a dozen guests. I will not stop here to
detail the character of this preparation or to dwell upon its success.
It is enough to say that Tom Tunison praised Aunt Patience to the
skies; and, as if this were not sufficient to make her happy, he
produced a big clay pipe, three plugs of real "manufac terbacker," which
was hard to get in those times, a red shawl, and twelve yards of calico.
The fortnight that followed the arrival of Tom's guests was one long to
be remembered, not only in the [v]annals of the Rockville Hunting Club
but in the annals of Rockville itself. The fair de Compton literally
turned the heads of old men and young boys, and even succeeded in
conquering the critics of her own sex.
She was marvelously beautiful,
and her beauty was of a kind to haunt one in one's dreams. It was easy
to perceive that she had made a conquest of Tom, and I know that every
suggestion he made and every project he planned had for its sole end and
aim the enjoyment of Miss Carrie de Compton.
It was several days before the minor details of the contest, which was
at once the excuse for and the object of the visit of Tom's guests,
could be arranged, but finally everything was "[v]amicably adjusted,"
and the day appointed. The night before the hunt, the club and the
Jasper county visitors assembled in Tom Tunison's parlor for a final
discussion of the event.
"In order," said Tom, "to give our friends and guests an opportunity
fully to test the speed and bottom of their kennels, it has been decided
to pay our respects to 'Old Sandy'. "
"And pray, Mr. Tunison, who is 'Old Sandy'? " queried Miss de Compton.
"He is a fox, Miss de Compton, and a tough one. He is a trained fox. He
has been hunted so often by the inferior packs in his neighborhood that
he is well-nigh [v]invincible. He is so well known that he has not been
hunted, except by accident, for two seasons. He is not as suspicious as
he was two years ago, but we must be careful if we want to get within
hearing distance of him to-morrow morning. "
"Do any of the ladies go with us? " asked Jack Herndon.
"I go, for one," responded Miss de Compton, and in a few minutes all the
ladies had decided to go along, even if they found it inconvenient to
participate actively in the hunt.
"Then," said Tom, rising, "we must say good night. Uncle Plato will
sound 'Boots and Saddle' at four o'clock to-morrow morning. "
"Four o'clock! " exclaimed the ladies in dismay.
"At four precisely," answered Tom, and the ladies with pretty little
gestures of mock despair swept upstairs while Tom brought out cigars for
the boys.
My friend little knew how delighted I was that "Old Sandy" was to be put
through his paces. He little knew how carefully I had studied the
peculiarities of this famous fox--how often when training Flora I had
taken her out and followed "Old Sandy" through all his ranges, how I
had "felt of" both his speed and bottom and knew all his weak points.
II
Morning came, and with it Uncle Plato's bugle call. Aunt Patience was
ready with a smoking hot breakfast, and everybody was in fine spirits.
As the eager, happy crowd filed down the broad avenue that led to the
hall, the fair de Compton, who had been delayed in mounting, rode by my
side.
"You choose your escort well," I ventured to say.
"I have a weakness for children," she replied; "particularly for
children who know what they are about. Plato has told me that if I
desired to see all of the hunt without much trouble, to follow you. I am
selfish, you perceive. "
We rode over the red hills and under the russet trees until we came to
"Old Sandy's" favorite haunt. Here a council of war was held, and it was
decided that Tom and a portion of the hunters should skirt the fields,
while another portion led by Miss de Compton and myself should enter and
bid the fox good morning. Uncle Plato, who had been given the cue,
followed me with the dogs, and in a few moments we were very near the
particular spot where I hoped to find the venerable deceiver of dogs and
men. The hounds were already sallying hither and thither, anxious and
evidently expectant.
Five minutes went by without a whimper from the pack. There was not a
sound save the eager rustling of the dogs through the sedge and
undergrowth. The ground was familiar to Flora, and I watched her with
pride as with powerful strides she circled around. Suddenly she paused
and flung her head in the air, making a beautiful picture where she
stood poised, as if listening. My heart gave a great thump. It was a
trick of hers, and I knew that "Old Sandy" had been around within the
past twenty-four hours! With a rush, a bound, and an eager cry, my
favorite came toward us, and the next moment "Old Sandy," who had been
lying almost at our horses' feet, was up and away with Flora right at
his heels. A wild hope seized me that my favorite would run into the shy
veteran before he could get out of the field. But no! One of the Jasper
county hunters, rendered momentarily insane by excitement, endeavored to
ride the fox down with his horse, and in another moment Sir Reynard was
over the fence and into the woodland beyond, followed by the hounds.
They made a splendid but [v]ineffectual burst of speed, for when "Old
Sandy" found himself upon the blackjack hills he was foot-loose. The
morning, however, was fine--just damp enough to leave the scent of the
fox hanging breast high in the air, whether he shaped his course over
lowlands or highlands.
[Illustration: The Beginning of the Fox Hunt]
In the midst of all the confusion that had ensued, Miss de Compton
remained cool, serene, and apparently indifferent, but I observed a
glow upon her face and a sparkle in her eyes, as Tom Tunison, riding his
gallant gray and heading the hunters, easily and gracefully took a
couple of fences when the hounds veered to the left.
"Our Jasper county friend has saved 'Old Sandy,' Miss de Compton," I
said, "but he has given us an opportunity of witnessing some very fine
sport. The fox is so badly frightened that he may endeavor in the
beginning to outfoot the dogs, but in the end he will return to his
range, and then I hope to show you what a cunning old customer he is. If
Flora doesn't fail us at the critical moment, you will have the honor of
wearing his brush on your saddle. "
"Youth is always confident," replied Miss de Compton.
"In this instance, however, I have the advantage of knowing both hound
and fox. Flora has a few weaknesses, but I think she understands what is
expected of her to-day. "
Thus bantering and chaffing each other, we turned our horses' heads in a
direction [v]oblique to that taken by the other hunters, who, with the
exception of Tom Tunison and Jack Herndon, now well up with the dogs,
were struggling along as best they could. For a half mile or more we
cantered down a lane, then turned into a stubble field, and made for a
hill crowned and skirted by a growth of blackjack, through which an
occasional pine had broken, as it seemed, in a vain but noble effort to
touch the sky. Once upon the summit of the hills, we had a majestic view
upon all sides. The fresh morning breezes blew crisp and cool and
bracing, but were not uncomfortable after the exercise we had taken; and
as the clouds that had muffled up the east dispersed themselves or were
dissolved, the generous sun spread layer upon layer of golden light upon
hill and valley and forest and stream.
Away to the left we could hear the hounds, and the music of their
voices, toyed with by the playful wind, rolled itself into melodious
little echoes that broke pleasantly upon the ear, now loud, now faint,
now far and now near. The first burst of speed, which had been terrific,
had settled down into a steady run, but I knew by the sound that the
pace was still tremendous, and I imagined I could hear the silvery
tongue of Flora as she led the eager pack. The cries of the hounds,
however, grew fainter and fainter, until presently they were lost in the
distance.
"He is making a straight shoot for the Turner [v]old fields, two miles
away," I remarked, by way of explanation.
"And pray, why are we here? " Miss de Compton asked.
"To be in at the death. (The fair de Compton smiled [v]sarcastically. )
In the Turner old fields the fox will make his grand double, gain upon
the dogs, head for yonder hill, and come down the ravine upon our
right. At the fence here, within plain view, he will attempt a trick
that has heretofore always been successful, and which has given him a
reputation as a trained fox. I depend upon the intelligence of Flora to
see through 'Old Sandy's' [v]strategy, but if she hesitates a moment, we
must set her right. "
I spoke with the confidence of one having experience, and Miss de
Compton smiled and was content. We had little time for further
conversation, for in a few minutes I observed a dark shadow emerge from
the undergrowth on the opposite hill and slip quickly across the open
space of fallow land. It crossed the ravine that intersected the valley,
stole quietly through the stubble to the fence, and there paused a
moment, as if hesitating. In a low voice I called Miss de Compton's
attention to the figure, but she refused to believe that it was the same
fox we had aroused thirty minutes before. Howbeit, it was the
[v]veritable "Old Sandy" himself. I should have known him among a
thousand foxes. He was not in as fine feather as when, at the start, he
had swung his brush across Flora's nose--the pace had told on him--but
he still moved with an air of confidence.
Then and there Miss de Compton beheld a display of fox tactics shrewd
enough to excite the admiration of the most indifferent--a display of
cunning that seemed to be something higher than instinct.
"Old Sandy" paused only a moment. With a bound he gained the top of
the fence, stopped to pull something from one of his fore
feet--probably a cockle bur--and then carefully balancing himself,
proceeded to walk the fence. By this time, the music of the dogs was
again heard in the distance, but "Old Sandy" took his time.
One--two--three--seven--ten--twenty panels of the fence were cleared.
Pausing, he again subjected his fore feet to examination, and licked
them carefully. Then he proceeded on his journey along the fence until
he was at least one hundred yards from where he left the ground. Here
he paused for the first time, gathered himself together, leaped
through the air, and rushed away. As he did so, the full note of the
pack burst upon our ears as the hounds reached the brow of the hill
from the lowlands on the other side.
"Upon my word! " exclaimed Miss de Compton; "that fox ought to go free. I
shall beg Mr. Tunison--"
But before she finished her sentence the dogs came into view, and I
could hardly restrain a shout of triumph as I saw Flora running easily
and unerringly far to the front. Behind her, led by Captain--and so
close together that, as Uncle Plato afterward remarked, "You mout kivver
de whole caboodle wid a hoss-blanket"--were the remainder of the Tunison
kennel, while the Jasper county hounds were strung out behind in wild
but heroic confusion. I felt strongly tempted to give the view-halloo,
and push "Old Sandy" to the wall at once, but I knew that the fair de
Compton would regard the exploit with severe [v]reprobation forever
after. Across the ravine and to the fence the dogs came, their voices,
as they got nearer, crashing through the silence like a chorus of
demons.
Now was the critical moment. If Flora should fail me--!
Several of the older dogs topped the rails, and scattered through the
undergrowth. Flora came over with them, made a small circle, with her
sensitive nose to the damp earth, and then went rushing down the fence.
Past the point where "Old Sandy" took his flying leap she ran, turned
suddenly to the left, and came swooping back in a wide circle. I had
barely time to warn Miss de Compton that she must prepare to do a little
rapid riding, when my favorite, with a fierce cry of delight that
thrilled me through and through, picked up the blazing [v]drag, and away
we went with a scream and a shout. I felt in my very bones that "Old
Sandy" was doomed. I had never seen Flora so prompt and eager; I had
never observed the scent to be better. Everything was auspicious.
We went like the wind. Miss de Compton rode well, and the long stretches
of stubble land through which the chase led were unbroken by ditch or
fence. The pace of the hounds was simply terrific, and I knew that no
fox on earth could long stand up before the white demon that led the
hunt with such splendor.
Five--ten--fifteen minutes we rushed at the heels of the rearmost dogs,
until, suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of the pack. The scent
was lost! Flora ran about in wide circles, followed by the greater
portion of the dogs. To the left, to the right they went. At that
moment, chancing to look back, I caught a glimpse of "Old Sandy," broken
down and bedraggled, making his way toward a clump of briars. He had
played his last [v]trump and lost. Pushed by the dogs, he had dropped in
his tracks and literally allowed them to run over him. I rode at him
with a shout; there was a short, sharp race, and in a few moments [v]_La
Mort_ was sounded over the famous fox on the horn that the Jasper county
boys did not win.
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
This gives a good picture of a fox hunt in the South in the long
ago. Tell what you like best about it. Who is telling the story?
Was he young or old? How do you know? What opinion do you form of
the "fair de Compton"? See if you can get an old man, perhaps a
negro, to tell you of a fox hunt he has seen.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING
In Ole Virginia--Thomas Nelson Page.
Old Creole Days--George W. Cable.
Swallow Barn--John P. Kennedy.
The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains--Charles Egbert Craddock.
FOOTNOTE:
[177-*] From the _Atlanta Constitution_.
RAIN AND WIND
I hear the hoofs of horses
Galloping over the hill,
Galloping on and galloping on,
When all the night is shrill
With wind and rain that beats the pane--
And my soul with awe is still.
For every dripping window
Their headlong rush makes bound,
Galloping up and galloping by,
Then back again and around,
Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs,
And the draughty cellars sound.
And then I hear black horsemen
Hallooing in the night;
Hallooing and hallooing,
They ride o'er vale and height,
And the branches snap and the shutters clap
With the fury of their flight.
All night I hear their gallop,
And their wild halloo's alarm;
The tree-tops sound and vanes go round
In forest and on farm;
But never a hair of a thing is there--
Only the wind and the storm.
MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN.
THE SOUTHERN SKY
Presently the stars begin to peep out, timidly at first, as if to see
whether the elements here below had ceased their strife, and if the
scene on earth be such as they, from bright spheres aloft, may shed
their sweet influences upon. Sirius, or that blazing world Argus, may be
the first watcher to send down a feeble ray; then follow another and
another, all smiling meekly; but presently, in the short twilight of the
latitude, the bright leaders of the starry host blaze forth in all their
glory, and the sky is decked and spangled with superb brilliants.
In the twinkling of an eye, and faster than the admiring gazer can tell,
the stars seem to leap out from their hiding-places. By invisible hands,
and in quick succession, the constellations are hung out; first of all,
and with dazzling glory, in the azure depths of space appears the great
Southern Cross. That shining symbol lends a holy grandeur to the scene,
making it still more impressive.
Alone in the night-watch, after the sea-breeze has sunk to rest, I have
stood on deck under those beautiful skies, gazing, admiring, rapt. I
have seen there, above the horizon at once and shining with a splendor
unknown to other latitudes, every star of the [v]first magnitude--save
only six--that is contained in the catalogue of the one hundred
principal fixed stars.
There lies the city on the seashore, wrapped in sleep. The sky looks
solid, like a vault of steel set with diamonds. The stillness below is
in harmony with the silence above, and one almost fears to speak, lest
the harsh sound of the human voice, reverberating through those vaulted
"chambers of the south," should wake up echo and drown the music that
fills the soul.
Orion is there, just about to march down into the sea; but Canopus and
Sirius, with Castor and his twin brother, and [v]Procyon, Argus, and
Regulus--these are high up in their course; they look down with great
splendor, smiling peacefully as they precede the Southern Cross on its
western way. And yonder, farther still, away to the south, float the
Magellanic clouds, and the "Coal Sacks"--those mysterious, dark spots in
the sky, which seem as though it had been rent, and these were holes in
the "azure robe of night," looking out into the starless, empty, black
abyss beyond. One who has never watched the southern sky in the
stillness of the night, after the sea-breeze with its turmoil is done,
can have no idea of its grandeur, beauty, and loveliness.
MATTHEW FONTAINE MAURY.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
Do you know any of the stars or the constellations mentioned? Some
of them are seen in our latitude, but the southern sky Maury
describes is south of the equator. The "Southern Cross" is seen
only below the equator. The "Magellan Clouds" are not far from the
South Pole.
DAFFODILS
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,--
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee,--
A poet could not but be gay
In such a [v]jocund company.
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
DAWN
I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from
Providence to Boston; and for this purpose I rose at two o'clock in the
morning. Everything around was wrapped in darkness and hushed in
silence. It was a mild, serene, midsummer night,--the sky was without a
cloud,--the winds were [v]whist. The moon, then in the last quarter, had
just risen, and the stars shone with a luster but little affected by her
presence.
Jupiter, two hours high, was the herald of the day; the [v]Pleiades,
just above the horizon, shed their sweet influence in the east; Lyra
sparkled near the [v]zenith; Andromeda veiled her newly discovered
glories from the naked eye in the south; the steady Pointers, far
beneath the pole, looked meekly up from the depths of the north to their
sovereign.
Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we proceeded,
the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue
of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children,
went first to rest; the sister-beams of the Pleiades soon melted
together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained
unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of
angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens; the
glories of night dissolved into the glories of the dawn.
The blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up
their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon
blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the
inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above
in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the Blue
Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and
turned the dewy teardrops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds.
In a few seconds, the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide
open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of
man, began his state.
I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient [v]Magians, who, in
the morning of the world, went up to the hilltops of Central Asia, and,
ignorant of the true God, adored the most glorious work of His hand. But
I am filled with amazement, when I am told that, in this enlightened age
and in the heart of the Christian world, there are persons who can
witness this daily manifestation of the power and wisdom of the Creator,
and yet say in their hearts, "There is no God. "
EDWARD EVERETT.
=HELPS TO STUDY=
What experience did Everett describe? What impresses the mood of
the early morning? In what latitude did Everett live? What stars
and constellations did he mention? Trace the steps by which he
pictured the sunrise. Why did he not wonder at the belief of the
"ancient Magians"? What thought does cause amazement?
SPRING
Spring, with that nameless [v]pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair--
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.
Out in the lonely woods, the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court, with green festoons,
The banks of dark [v]lagoons.
In the deep heart of every forest tree,
The blood is all aglee;
And there's a look about the leafless bowers,
As if they dreamed of flowers.
Yet still, on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;
Or where, like those strange [v]semblances we find
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,
The brown of Autumn corn.
[Illustration: The Woods in Spring]
As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.
In gardens, you may note, amid the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.
But many gleams and showers need must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.
Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn,
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.
At times, a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate
Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from a beech's heart,
A blue-eyed [v]Dryad, stepping forth, should say,
"Behold me! I am May! "
HENRY TIMROD.
AMONG THE CLIFFS
It was a critical moment. There was a stir other than that of the wind
among the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground.
The wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of
half-doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still
for an instant. The world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the
mountain air tasted of the fresh [v]sylvan fragrance that pervaded the
forest, the foliage blamed with the red and gold of autumn, the distant
[v]Chilhowee heights were delicately blue.
That instant's doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. As the turkeys
stood in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers
to a brighter sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. The
flock took suddenly to wing,--a flash from among the leaves, the sharp
crack of a rifle, and one of the birds fell heavily over the bluff and
down toward the valley.
The young mountaineer's exclamation of triumph died in his throat. He
came running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the
depths where his game had disappeared.
"Waal, sir," he broke forth pathetically, "this beats my time! If my
luck ain't enough ter make a horse laugh! "
He did not laugh, however; perhaps his luck was calculated to stir only
[v]equine risibility.
