Various
Fourth Reader
WILLIAM TELL AND HIS SON
The sun already shone brightly as William Tell entered the town of Altorf, and he advanced at once to the public place, where the first object that caught his eyes was a handsome cap embroidered with gold stuck upon the end of a long pole. Soldiers were walking around it in silence, and the people of Altorf as they passed bowed their heads to the symbol of authority. The cap had been set up by Gessler, the Austrian commander, for the purpose of discovering those who were not submissive to the Austrian power, which had ruled the people of the Swiss Cantons for a long time with great severity. He suspected that the people were about to break into rebellion, and with a view to learn who were the most discontented, he had placed the ducal cap of Austria on this pole, publicly proclaiming that every one passing near, or within sight of it, should bow before it in proof of his homage to the duke.
Tell was much surprised at this new and strange attempt to humble the people, and leaning on his crossbow, gazed scornfully on them and the soldiers. The captain of the guard at length observed this man, who alone amidst the cringing crowd carried his head erect. He ordered him to be seized and disarmed by the soldiers and then conducted him to Gessler, who put some questions to him. These he answered so haughtily that Gessler was both surprised and angry. Suddenly he was struck by the likeness between him and the boy Walter Tell, whom he had seized and put in prison the previous day for uttering some seditious words. He immediately asked his name, which he no sooner heard than he knew him to be the archer so famous as the best marksman in the Canton.
Gessler at once resolved to punish both father and son at the same time, by a method which was perhaps the most refined act of torture that man ever imagined. As soon, then, as the youth was brought out, the governor turned to Tell and said: “I have often heard of your great skill as an archer and I now intend to put it to the proof. Your son shall be placed at a distance of a hundred yards with an apple on his head. If you strike the apple with your arrow, I shall pardon you both, but if you refuse this trial, your son shall die before your eyes.”
Tell implored Gessler to spare him so cruel a trial, in which he might perhaps kill his beloved boy with his own hand. The governor would not alter his purpose, so Tell at last agreed to shoot at the apple as the only chance of saving his son’s life. Walter stood with his back to a linden tree. Gessler, some distance behind, watched every motion. His crossbow and one arrow were handed to Tell; he tried the point, broke the weapon, and demanded his quiver. It was brought to him, and emptied at his feet. He stooped down and, taking a long time to choose an arrow, managed to hide a second in his girdle.
After being in doubt for some time, his whole soul beaming in his face, his love for his son rendering him almost powerless, he at length roused himself – drew the bow – aimed – shot – and the apple, struck to the core, was carried away by the arrow.
The market-place was filled with loud cheers. Walter flew to embrace his father, who, overcome by his emotions, fell fainting to the ground, thus exposing the second arrow to view. Gessler stood over him awaiting his recovery, which speedily taking place, Tell rose and turned away with horror from the governor, who, however, scarcely yet believing his senses, thus addressed him: “Incomparable archer, I shall keep my promise; but what needed you with that second arrow which I see in your girdle?” Tell replied that it was the custom of the bowmen of Uri to have always one arrow in reserve. “Nay, nay,” said Gessler, “tell me your real motive, and, whatever it may have been, speak frankly, and your life is spared.” “The second shaft,” replied Tell, “was to pierce your heart, tyrant, if I had chanced to harm my son.”
– Chambers’ Tracts.
SAINT CHRISTOPHER
For many a year Saint Christopher
Served God in many a land;
And master painters drew his face,
With loving heart and hand,
On altar fronts and churches’ walls;
And peasants used to say, —
To look on good Saint Christopher
Brought luck for all the day.
For many a year, in lowly hut,
The giant dwelt content
Upon the bank, and back and forth
Across the stream he went;
And on his giant shoulders bore
All travellers who came,
By night, by day, or rich or poor,
All in King Jesus’ name.
But much he doubted if the King
His work would note or know,
And often with a weary heart
He waded to and fro.
One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay,
He sudden heard a call, —
“O Christopher, come, carry me!”
He sprang, looked out, but all
Was dark and silent on the shore.
“It must be that I dreamed,”
He said, and laid him down again;
But instantly there seemed
Again the feeble, distant cry, —
“Oh, come and carry me!”
Again he sprang and looked; again
No living thing could see.
The third time came the plaintive voice,
Like infant’s, soft and weak;
With lantern strode the giant forth,
More carefully to seek.
Down on the bank a little child
He found, – a piteous sight, —
Who, weeping, earnestly implored
To cross that very night.
With gruff good-will he picked him up,
And on his neck to ride
He tossed him, as men play with babes,
And plunged into the tide.
But as the water closed around
His knees, the infant’s weight
Grew heavier and heavier,
Until it was so great
The giant scarce could stand upright,
His staff shook in his hand,
His mighty knees bent under him,
He barely reached the land.
And, staggering, set the infant down,
And turned to scan his face;
When, lo! he saw a halo bright
Which lit up all the place.
Then Christopher fell down, afraid
At marvel of the thing,
And dreamed not that it was the face
Of Jesus Christ, his King,
Until the infant spoke, and said:
“O Christopher, behold!
I am the Lord whom thou hast served.
Rise up, be glad and bold!
“For I have seen, and noted well,
Thy works of charity;
And that thou art my servant good
A token thou shalt see.
Plant firmly here upon this bank
Thy stalwart staff of pine,
And it shall blossom and bear fruit,
This very hour, in sign.”
Then, vanishing, the infant smiled.
The giant, left alone,
Saw on the bank, with luscious dates,
His stout pine staff bent down.
I think the lesson is as good
To-day as it was then —
As good to us called Christians
As to the heathen men, —
The lesson of Saint Christopher,
Who spent his strength for others,
And saved his soul by working hard
To help and save his brothers!
– Helen Hunt Jackson.
Who sows his corn in the fields trusts in God.
GENERAL BROCK
One voice, one people, – one in heart
And soul, and feeling, and desire!
Relight the smouldering martial fire,
Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre.
The hero-deed cannot expire;
The dead still play their part.
Raise high the monumental stone!
A nation’s fealty is theirs,
And we are the rejoicing heirs,
The honored sons of sires whose cares
We take upon us unawares,
As freely as our own.
We boast not of the victory,
But render homage, deep and just,
To his – to their – immortal dust,
Who proved so worthy of their trust,
No lofty pile nor sculptured bust
Can herald their degree.
No tongue can blazon forth their fame —
The cheers that stir the sacred hill
Are but mere promptings of the will
That conquered then, that conquers still;
And generations yet shall thrill
At Brock’s remembered name.
– Charles Sangster.
AN ICEBERG
At twelve o’clock we went below, and had just got through dinner, when the cook put his head down the scuttle and told us to come on deck and see the finest sight we had ever seen. “Where away, Doctor?” asked the first man who was up. “On the larboard bow.” And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles off, an immense, irregular mass, its top and points covered with snow, and its centre of a deep indigo color. This was an iceberg, and of the largest size, as one of our men said who had been in the Northern Ocean. As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running high and fresh, and sparkling in the light, and in the midst lay this immense mountain-island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, and its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun.
All hands were soon on deck, looking at it, and admiring in various ways its beauty and grandeur. But no description can give any idea of the strangeness, splendor, and, really, the sublimity of the sight. Its great size, – for it must have been from two to three miles in circumference and several hundred feet in height, – its slow motion, as its base rose and sank in the water and its high points nodded against the clouds; the dashing of the waves upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its base with a white crust; and the thundering sound of the crackling of the mass, and the breaking and tumbling down of huge pieces, together with its nearness and approach, which added a slight element of fear, – all combined to give it the character of true sublimity.
The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of an indigo color, its base incrusted with frozen foam; and as it grew thin and transparent towards the edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue to the whiteness of snow. It seemed to be drifting slowly towards the north, so that we kept away and avoided it.
It was in sight all the afternoon; and when we got to leeward of it the wind died away, so that we lay to, quite near it for the greater part of the night. Unfortunately, there was no moon, but it was a clear night, and we could plainly mark the long, regular heaving of the stupendous mass, as its edges moved slowly against the stars, now revealing them, and now shutting them in. Several times in our watch loud cracks were heard, and several pieces fell down, plunging heavily into the sea. Towards morning a strong breeze sprang up, and we sailed away, and left it astern. At daylight it was out of sight.
– Richard Henry Dana.
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess. – Shakespeare.
A LEGEND OF BREGENZ
Girt round with rugged mountains
The fair Lake Constance lies;
In her blue heart reflected,
Shine back the starry skies;
And, watching each white cloudlet
Float silently and slow,
You think a piece of Heaven
Lies on our earth below!
Midnight is there: and Silence,
Enthroned in Heaven, looks down
Upon her own calm mirror,
Upon a sleeping town:
For Bregenz, that quaint city
Upon the Tyrol shore,
Has stood above Lake Constance
A thousand years and more.
Her battlements and towers,
From off their rocky steep,
Have cast their trembling shadow
For ages on the deep.
Mountain and lake and valley
A sacred legend know,
Of how the town was saved one night
Three hundred years ago.
Far from her home and kindred
A Tyrol maid had fled,
To serve in the Swiss valleys,
And toil for daily bread;
And every year that fleeted
So silently and fast
Seemed to bear farther from her
The memory of the Past.
She spoke no more of Bregenz
With longing and with tears;
Her Tyrol home seemed faded
In a deep mist of years;
Yet, when her master’s children
Would clustering round her stand,
She sang them ancient ballads
Of her own native land;
And when at morn and evening
She knelt before God’s throne,
The accents of her childhood
Rose to her lips alone.
And so she dwelt: the valley
More peaceful year by year;
When suddenly strange portents
Of some great deed seemed near.
One day, out in the meadow,
With strangers from the town
Some secret plan discussing,
The men walked up and down.
At eve they all assembled;
Then care and doubt were fled;
With jovial laugh they feasted;
The board was nobly spread.
The elder of the village
Rose up, his glass in hand,
And cried, “We drink the downfall
Of an accursed land!
The night is growing darker;
Ere one more day is flown,
Bregenz, our foeman’s stronghold,
Bregenz shall be our own!”
The women shrank in terror,
Yet Pride, too, had her part;
But one poor Tyrol maiden
Felt death within her heart.
Nothing she heard around her,
Though shouts rang forth again;
Gone were the green Swiss valleys,
The pasture and the plain;
Before her eyes one vision,
And in her heart one cry
That said, “Go forth! save Bregenz,
And then, if need be, die!”
With trembling haste and breathless,
With noiseless step she sped;
Horses and weary cattle
Were standing in the shed;
She loosed the strong white charger
That fed from out her hand;
She mounted, and she turned his head
Towards her native land.
Out – out into the darkness —
Faster, and still more fast; —
The smooth grass flies behind her,
The chestnut wood is past;
She looks up; clouds are heavy;
Why is her steed so slow? —
Scarcely the wind beside them
Can pass them as they go.
“Faster!” she cries, “oh, faster!”
Eleven the church bells chime;
“O God,” she cries, “help Bregenz,
And bring me there in time!”
But louder than bells’ ringing,
Or lowing of the kine,
Grows nearer in the midnight
The rushing of the Rhine.
She strives to pierce the blackness,
And looser throws the rein;
Her steed must breast the waters
That dash above his mane.
How gallantly, how nobly,
He struggles through the foam!
And see – in the far distance
Shine out the lights of home!
Up the steep bank he bears her,
And now they rush again
Towards the heights of Bregenz
That tower above the plain.
They reach the gates of Bregenz
Just as the midnight rings,
And out come serf and soldier
To meet the news she brings.
Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight
Her battlements are manned;
Defiance greets the army
That marches on the land.
Three hundred years are vanished,
And yet upon the hill
An old stone gateway rises
To do her honor still.
And there, when Bregenz women
Sit spinning in the shade,
They see in quaint old carving
The Charger and the Maid.
And when, to guard old Bregenz
By gateway, street, and tower,
The warder paces all night long
And calls each passing hour;
“Nine,” “ten,” “eleven,” he cries aloud,
And then (Oh, crown of Fame!),
When midnight pauses in the skies,
He calls the maiden’s name!
– Adelaide Anne Procter.
GLUCK’S VISITOR
In a secluded and mountainous part of Styria there was, in old time, a valley of the most surprising fertility. It was surrounded on all sides by steep and rocky mountains, rising into peaks, which were always covered with snow, and from which a number of torrents descended in constant cataracts. One of these fell westwards over the face of a crag so high that when the sun had set to everything else, and all below was darkness, his beams still shone full upon this waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was, therefore, called by the people of the neighborhood the Golden River. It was strange that none of these streams fell into the valley itself. They all descended on the other side of the mountains, and wound away through broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds were drawn so constantly to the snowy hills that in time of drought and heat, when all the country round was burnt up, there was still rain in the little valley; and its crops were so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to every one who beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley.
The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers called Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers, were very ugly men, with overhanging eyebrows and small dull eyes, which were always half shut, so that you couldn’t see into them, and always fancied that they saw very far into you. They lived by farming the Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they were.
They killed everything that did not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds because they pecked the fruit, they poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs in the kitchen, and smothered the locusts, which used to sing all summer in the lime trees. They worked their servants without any wages till they would not work any more, and then quarrelled with them, and turned them out of doors without paying them. It would have been very odd, if, with such a farm and such a system of farming, they hadn’t got very rich; and very rich they did get. They generally contrived to hold their own grain until it was very dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that they had given so much as a penny or a crust in charity. They were, in a word, of so cruel and grinding a temper as to receive from all those with whom they had any dealings the nickname of the “Black Brothers.”
The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined or desired. He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed, and kind in temper to every living thing. He did not, of course, agree particularly well with his brothers; or, rather, they did not agree with him. He was usually appointed to the honorable office of turnspit, – when there was anything to roast, which was not often; for, to do the brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon themselves than upon other people. At other times he used to clean the shoes, floors, and sometimes the plates, – occasionally getting what was left upon them by way of encouragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry blows by way of education.
Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet summer, and everything went wrong in the country around. The hay had hardly been got in when the haystacks were floated bodily down to the sea by a flood; the vines were cut to pieces by the hail; the grain was all killed by a black blight; only in the Treasure Valley, as usual, all was safe. As it had rain when there was rain nowhere else, so it had sun when there was sun nowhere else. Everybody came to buy grain at the farm, and went away pouring curses on the “Black Brothers.” They asked what they liked and got it, except from the poor people, who could only beg, and several of whom were starved at their very door without the slightest regard or notice.
It was drawing towards winter, and very cold weather, when one day the two elder brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was raining very hard, and the kitchen walls were by no means dry or comfortable-looking. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and brown. “What a pity,” thought Gluck, “my brothers never ask anybody to dinner! I’m sure when they have such a nice piece of mutton as this, and nobody else has so much as a dry piece of bread, it would do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them.”
Just as he spoke there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up, – more like a puff than a knock.
“It must be the wind,” said Gluck; “nobody else would venture to knock double knocks at our door.”
No, it wasn’t the wind; there it came again very hard, and what was particularly surprising, the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck went to the window, opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.
It was the most extraordinary-looking gentleman he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his cheeks were very round and very red; his eyes twinkled merrily through long silky eyelashes; his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six in height, and wore a conical, pointed cap of nearly the same altitude, decorated with a black feather some three feet high. His coat was prolonged behind, but was almost hidden by the swelling folds of an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind, whistling round the old house, carried it clear out from the wearer’s shoulders to about four times his own length.
Gluck was so frightened by the singular appearance of his visitor that he remained fixed without uttering a word, until the old gentleman, having performed another, and a more energetic tune on the knocker, turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing, he caught sight of Gluck’s little yellow head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed.
“Hello!” said the little gentleman, “that’s not the way to answer the door: I’m wet, let me in.”
To do the little gentleman justice he was wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy’s tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the ends of his mustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets and out again like a mill stream.
“I beg pardon, sir!” said Gluck. “I’m very sorry, but I really can’t.”
“Can’t what?” said the old gentleman.
“I can’t let you in, sir, – I can’t indeed; my brothers would beat me to death, sir. What do you want, sir?”
“Want?” said the old gentleman, crossly. “I want fire and shelter; and there’s your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I want only to warm myself.”
Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window, that he began to feel that it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring and throwing long bright tongues by the chimney, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing. “He does look very wet,” said little Gluck; “I’ll just let him in for a quarter of an hour.” Round he went to the door and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, there came a gust of wind through the house that made the old chimneys totter.
“That’s a good boy,” said the little gentleman. “Never mind your brothers. I’ll talk to them.”
“Pray, sir, don’t do any such thing,” said Gluck. “I can’t let you stay till they come; they’d be the death of me.”
“Dear me,” said the old gentleman, “I’m very sorry to hear that. How long may I stay?”
“Only till the mutton’s done, sir,” replied Gluck, “and it’s very brown.”
The old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was a great deal too high for the roof.
“You’ll soon dry there, sir,” said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did not dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, and the fire fizzed, and sputtered, and began to look very black and uncomfortable; never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter.
“I beg pardon, sir,” said Gluck, at length, after watching the water spreading in long quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a quarter of an hour; “mayn’t I take your cloak?”
“No, thank you,” said the old gentleman.
“Your cap, sir?”
“I am all right, thank you,” said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.
“But – sir – I’m very sorry,” said Gluck, hesitatingly, “but – really, sir – you’re – putting the fire out.”
“It’ll take longer to do the mutton, then,” replied his visitor, dryly.
Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest, it was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string thoughtfully for another five minutes.
“That mutton looks very nice,” said the old gentleman. “Can’t you give me a little bit?”
“Impossible, sir,” said Gluck.
“I’m very hungry,” continued the old gentleman. “I’ve had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They surely couldn’t miss a bit from the knuckle!”
He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck’s heart. “They promised me one slice to-day, sir,” said he; “I can give you that, but not a bit more.”
“That’s a good boy,” said the old gentleman, again.
Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharpened a knife. “I don’t care if I do get beaten for it,” thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconveniently warm. Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, and ran to open the door.
“What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?” said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck’s face. “Ay! what for indeed, you little vagabond?” said Hans, administering a blow on the ear as he followed his brother into the kitchen.
“Bless my soul!” said Schwartz, when he opened the door.
“Amen!” said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible swiftness.
“Who’s that?” said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown.
“I don’t know, indeed, brother,” said Gluck, in great terror.
“How did he get in?” roared Schwartz.
“My dear brother,” said Gluck, “he was so very wet!”
The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck’s head; but, at the instant, the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap than it flew out of Schwartz’s hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room.
“Who are you, sir?” demanded Schwartz, turning upon him.
“What’s your business?” snarled Hans.
“I’m a poor old man, sir,” the little gentleman began very modestly, “and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour.”
“Have the goodness to walk out again, then,” said Schwartz. “We’ve quite enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying-house.”
“It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray hairs!” They hung down to his shoulders, as I told you before.
“Ay!” said Hans, “there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!”
“I’m very, very hungry, sir; couldn’t you spare me a bit of bread before I go?”
“Bread, indeed!” said Schwartz. “Do you suppose we’ve nothing to do with our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you?”
“Why don’t you sell your feather?” said Hans, sneeringly. “Out with you!”
“A little bit,” said the old gentleman.
“Be off!” said Schwartz.
“Pray, gentlemen!”
“Off and be hanged!” cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman’s collar than away he went after the rolling-pin, spinning round and round till he fell in the corner on top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out; but he also had hardly touched him, when away he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.
Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the opposite direction, continued to spin until his long cloak was all wound neatly about him, clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side (for it could not stand upright without going through the ceiling), gave an additional twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and replied with perfect coolness: “Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o’clock to-night I’ll call again; after such a refusal of hospitality as I have just experienced, you will not be surprised if that visit is the last I ever pay you.”
“If I ever catch you here again,” muttered Schwartz, coming half frightened out of the corner – but before he could finish his sentence the old gentleman had shut the house door behind him with a great bang; and there drove past the window at the same instant a wreath of ragged cloud that whirled and rolled away down the valley in all manner of shapes, turning over and over in the air, and melting away at last in a gush of rain.
“A very pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluck!” said Schwartz. “Dish the mutton, sir! If ever I catch you at such a trick again – bless me, why, the mutton’s been cut!”
“You promised me one slice, brother, you know,” said Gluck.
“Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch all the gravy. It’ll be long before I promise you such a thing again. Leave the room, sir, and have the kindness to wait in the coal cellar till I call you!”
Gluck left the room melancholy enough. The brothers ate as much as they could, locked the rest in the cupboard, and proceeded to get very drunk after dinner.
Such a night as it was! Howling wind and rushing rain without intermission! The brothers had just sense enough left to put up all the shutters and double-bar the door before they went to bed. They usually slept in the same room. As the clock struck twelve they were both awakened by a tremendous crash. Their door broke open with a violence that shook the house from top to bottom,
“What’s that?” cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed.
“Only I,” said the little gentleman.
The two brothers sat up on their pillows and stared into the darkness. The room was full of water, and by the misty moonbeam which found its way through a hole in the shutter they could see in the midst of it an immense foam globe, spinning round and bobbing up and down like a cork, on which, as on a most luxurious cushion, reclined the little old gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty of room for it now, for the roof was off.
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” said their visitor, with a laugh. “I’m afraid your beds are dampish; perhaps you had better go to your brother’s room; I’ve left the ceiling on there.”
They required no second admonition, but rushed into Gluck’s room, wet through, and in an agony of terror.
“You’ll find my card on the kitchen table,” the old gentleman called after them. “Remember, the last visit!”
“Pray Heaven it may!” said Schwartz, shuddering. And the foam globe disappeared.
Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck’s window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass of ruin and desolation. The flood had swept away trees, crops, and cattle, and left in their stead a waste of red sand and gray mud. The two brothers crept shivering and horror-struck into the kitchen. The water had gutted the whole first floor; grain, money, almost every movable thing had been swept away, and there was left only a small white card on the kitchen table. On it, in large, breezy, long-legged letters, were engraved the words: