No More Learning

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. The cliff was almost perpendicular; at the depth
of twenty feet a narrow ledge projected, but thence there was a sheer
descent, down, down, down, to the tops of the tall trees in the valley
far below.

As Ethan Tynes looked wistfully over the precipice, he started with a
sudden surprise. There on the narrow ledge lay the dead turkey.

The sight sharpened Ethan's regrets. He had made a good shot, and he
hated to relinquish his game. While he gazed in dismayed meditation, an
idea began to kindle in his brain. Why could he not let himself down to
the ledge by those long, strong vines that hung over the edge of the
cliff?

It was risky, Ethan knew, terribly risky. But then,--if only the vines
were strong!

He tried them again and again with all his might, selected several of
the largest, grasped them hard and fast, and then slipped lightly off
the crag.

He waited motionless for a moment. His movements had dislodged clods of
earth and fragments of rock from the verge of the cliff, and until these
had ceased to rattle about his head and shoulders he did not begin his
downward journey.

Now and then as he went he heard the snapping of twigs, and again a
branch would break, but the vines which supported him were tough and
strong to the last. Almost before he knew it, he stood upon the ledge,
and with a great sigh of relief he let the vines swing loose.

"Waal, that warn't sech a mighty job at last. But law, if it hed been
Peter Birt 'stid of me, that thar wild tur-r-key would hev laid on this
hyar ledge plumb till the Jedgmint Day! "

He walked deftly along the ledge, picked up the bird, and tied it to one
of the vines with a string which he took from his pocket, intending to
draw it up when he should be once more on the top of the crag. These
preparations complete, he began to think of going back.

He caught the vines on which he had made the descent, but before he had
fairly left the ledge, he felt that they were giving way.

He paused, let himself slip back to a secure foothold, and tried their
strength by pulling with all his force.

Presently down came the whole mass in his hands. The friction against
the sharp edges of the rock over which they had been stretched with a
strong tension had worn them through. His first emotion was one of
intense thankfulness that they had fallen while he was on the ledge
instead of midway in his [v]precarious ascent.

"Ef they hed kem down whilst I war a-goin' up, I'd hev been flung down
ter the bottom o' the valley, 'kase this ledge air too narrer ter hev
cotched me. "

He glanced down at the somber depths beneath. "Thar wouldn't hev been
enough left of me ter pick up on a shovel! " he exclaimed, with a tardy
realization of his foolish recklessness.

The next moment a mortal terror seized him. What was to be his fate? To
regain the top of the cliff by his own exertions was an impossibility.

He cast his despairing eyes up the ascent, as sheer and as smooth as a
wall, without a crevice which might afford a foothold, or a shrub to
which he might cling. His strong head was whirling as he again glanced
downward to the unmeasured [v]abyss beneath. He softly let himself sink
into a sitting posture, his heels dangling over the frightful depths,
and addressed himself resolutely to the consideration of the terrible
danger in which he was placed.

Taken at its best, how long was it to last? Could he look to any human
being for deliverance? He reflected with growing dismay that the place
was far from any dwelling, and from the road that wound along the ridge.
There was no errand that could bring a man to this most unfrequented
portion of the deep woods, unless an accident should hither direct some
hunter's step. It was quite possible, nay, probable, that years might
elapse before the forest solitude would again be broken by human
presence.

His brothers would search for him when he should be missed from
home,--but such boundless stretches of forest! They might search for
weeks and never come near this spot. He would die here, he would
starve,--no, he would grow drowsy when exhausted and fall--fall--fall!

He was beginning to feel that morbid fascination that sometimes seizes
upon those who stand on great heights,--an overwhelming impulse to
plunge downward. His only salvation was to look up. He would look up to
the sky.

And what were these words he was beginning to remember faintly? Had not
the [v]circuit-rider said in his last sermon that not even a sparrow
falls to the ground unmarked of God? There was a definite strength in
this suggestion. He felt less lonely as he stared resolutely at the big
blue sky. There came into his heart a sense of encouragement, of hope.
He would keep up as long and as bravely as he could, and if the worst
should come,--was he indeed so solitary? He would hold in remembrance
the sparrow's fall of Scripture.

He had so nerved himself to meet his fate that he thought it was a fancy
when he heard a distant step. But it did not die away, it grew more and
more distinct,--a shambling step that curiously stopped at intervals and
kicked the fallen leaves.

He sought to call out, but he seemed to have lost his voice. Not a sound
issued from his thickened tongue and his dry throat. The step came
nearer. It would presently pass. With a mighty effort Ethan sent forth
a wild, hoarse cry.

The rocks [v]reverberated it, the wind carried it far, and certainly
there was an echo of its despair and terror in a shrill scream set up on
the verge of the crag. Then Ethan heard the shambling step scampering
off very fast indeed.

The truth flashed upon him. It was some child, passing on an
unimaginable errand through the deep woods, frightened by his sudden
cry.

"Stop, bubby! " he shouted; "stop a minute! It's Ethan Tynes that's
callin' of ye. Stop a minute, bubby! "

The step paused at a safe distance, and the shrill pipe of a little boy
demanded, "Whar is ye, Ethan Tynes? "

"I'm down hyar on the ledge o' the bluff. Who air ye ennyhow? "

"George Birt," promptly replied the little boy. "What air ye doin' down
thar? I thought it was Satan a-callin' of me. I never seen nobody. "

"I kem down hyar on vines arter a tur-r-key I shot. The vines bruk, an'
I hev got no way ter git up agin. I want ye ter go ter yer mother's
house, an' tell yer brother Pete ter bring a rope hyar fur me ter climb
up by. "

Ethan expected to hear the shambling step going away with a [v]celerity
in keeping with the importance of the errand. On the contrary, the step
was approaching the crag.

A moment of suspense, and there appeared among the jagged ends of the
broken vines a small red head, a deeply freckled face, and a pair of
sharp, eager blue eyes. George Birt had carefully laid himself down on
his stomach, only protruding his head beyond the verge of the crag, that
he might not fling away his life in his curiosity.

"Did ye git it? " he asked, with bated breath.

"Git what? " demanded poor Ethan, surprised and impatient.

"The tur-r-key--what ye hev done been talkin' 'bout," said George Birt.

Ethan had lost all interest in the turkey.

"Yes, yes; but run along, bub. I mought fall off'n this hyar place,--I'm
gittin' stiff sittin' still so long,--or the wind mought blow me off.
The wind is blowing toler'ble brisk. "

"Gobbler or hen? " asked George Birt eagerly.

"It air a hen," said Ethan. "But look-a-hyar, George, I'm a-waitin' on
ye an' if I'd fall off'n this hyar place, I'd be ez dead ez a door-nail
in a minute. "

"Waal, I'm goin' now," said George Birt, with gratifying alacrity. He
raised himself from his [v]recumbent position, and Ethan heard him
shambling off, kicking every now and then at the fallen leaves as he
went.

Presently, however, he turned and walked back nearly to the brink of the
cliff. Then he prostrated himself once more at full length,--for the
mountain children are very careful of precipices,--snaked along
dexterously to the verge of the crag, and protruding his red head
cautiously, began to [v]parley once more, trading on Ethan's
necessities.

"Ef I go on this errand fur ye," he said, looking very sharp indeed,
"will ye gimme one o' the whings of that thar wild tur-r-key? "

He coveted the wing-feathers, not the joint of the fowl. The "whing" of
the domestic turkey is used by the mountain women as a fan, and is
considered an elegance as well as a comfort. George Birt [v]aped the
customs of his elders, regardless of sex,--a characteristic of very
small boys.

"Oh, go 'long, bubby! " exclaimed poor Ethan, in dismay at the
[v]dilatoriness and indifference of his [v]unique deliverer. "I'll give
ye both o' the whings. " He would have offered the turkey willingly, if
"bubby" had seemed to crave it.

"Waal, I'm goin' now. " George Birt rose from the ground and started off
briskly, [v]exhilarated by the promise of both the "whings. "

Ethan was angry indeed when he heard the boy once more shambling back.
Of course one should regard a deliverer with gratitude, especially a
deliverer from mortal peril; but it may be doubted if Ethan's gratitude
would have been great enough to insure that small red head against a
vigorous rap, if it had been within rapping distance, when it was once
more cautiously protruded over the verge of the cliff.

"I kem back hyar ter tell ye," the [v]doughty deliverer began, with an
air of great importance, and magnifying his office with an extreme
relish, "that I can't go an' tell Pete 'bout'n the rope till I hev done
kem back from the mill. I hev got old Sorrel hitched out hyar a piece,
with a bag o' corn on his back, what I hev ter git ground at the mill.
My mother air a-settin' at home now a-waitin' fur that thar corn-meal
ter bake dodgers with. An' I hev got a dime ter pay at the mill; it war
lent ter my dad las' week. An' I'm afeard ter walk about much with this
hyar dime; I mought lose it, ye know. An' I can't go home 'thout the
meal; I'll ketch it ef I do. But I'll tell Pete arter I git back from
the mill. "

"The mill! " echoed Ethan, aghast. "What air ye doin' on this side o' the
mounting, ef ye air a-goin' ter the mill? This ain't the way ter the
mill. "

"I kem over hyar," said the little boy, still with much importance of
manner, notwithstanding a slight suggestion of embarrassment on his
freckled face, "ter see 'bout'n a trap that I hev sot fur squir'ls. I'll
see 'bout my trap, an' then I hev ter go ter the mill, 'kase my mother
air a-settin' in our house now a-waitin' fur meal ter bake corn-dodgers.
Then I'll tell Pete whar ye air, an' what ye said 'bout'n the rope. Ye
must jes' wait fur me hyar. "

Poor Ethan could do nothing else.

As the echo of the boy's shambling step died in the distance, a
redoubled sense of loneliness fell upon Ethan Tynes. But he endeavored
to [v]solace himself with the reflection that the important mission to
the squirrel-trap and the errand to the mill could not last forever, and
before a great while Peter Birt and his rope would be upon the crag.

This idea [v]buoyed him up as the hours crept slowly by. Now and then he
lifted his head and listened with painful intentness. He felt stiff in
every muscle, and yet he had a dread of making an effort to change his
[v]constrained position. He might lose control of his rigid limbs, and
fall into those dread depths beneath.

His patience at last began to give way; his heart was sinking. The
messenger had been even more [v]dilatory than he was prepared to expect.
Why did not Pete come? Was it possible that George had forgotten to tell
of his danger.