Various
Fourth Reader
MIRIAM’S SONG
Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed, – His people are free!
Sing, – for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, —
How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed, – His people are free!
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword.
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord has looked out from His pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed, – His people are free!
– Thomas Moore.
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that Nature had shed o’er the scene
Her purest of crystals and brightest of green;
’Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or rill,
Oh! no – it was something more exquisite still.
’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
– Thomas Moore.
But truth shall conquer at the last,
For round and round we run,
And ever the right comes uppermost
And ever is justice done.
THE BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA
The cavalry, who had been pursuing the Turks on the right, are coming up to the ridge beneath us, which conceals our cavalry from view. The heavy brigade in advance is drawn up in two lines. The first line consists of the Scots Greys and of their old companions in glory, the Enniskillens; the second, of the 4th Royal Irish, of the 5th Dragoon Guards, and of the 1st Royal Dragoons. The Light Cavalry Brigade is on their left, in two lines also. The silence is oppressive; between the cannon bursts one can hear the champing of bits and the clink of sabres in the valley below. The Russians on their left drew breath for a moment, and then in one grand line dashed at the Highlanders. The ground flies beneath their horses’ feet; gathering speed at every stride, they dash on towards that thin red streak topped with a line of steel.
As the Russians come within six hundred yards, down goes that line of steel in front and out rings a rolling volley of musketry. The distance is too great; the Russians are not checked, but still sweep onward through the smoke, with the whole force of horse and man, here and there knocked over by the shot of our batteries above.
With breathless suspense every one awaits the bursting of the wave upon the line of Gaelic rock; but ere they come within a hundred and fifty yards, another deadly volley flashes from the levelled rifles, and carries death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about, open files right and left, and fly back faster than they came. “Bravo, Highlanders! well done!” shout the excited spectators. But events thicken. The Highlanders and their splendid front are soon forgotten; men scarcely have a moment to think of this fact, that the 93d never altered their formation to receive that tide of horsemen. “No,” said Sir Colin Campbell, “I did not think it worth while to form them even four deep!” The ordinary British line, two deep, was quite sufficient to repel the attack of these Muscovite cavaliers.
Our eyes were, however, turned in a moment on our own cavalry. We saw Brigadier-General Scarlett ride along in front of his massive squadrons. The Russians, their light blue jackets embroidered with silver lace, were advancing on their left, at an easy gallop, towards the brow of the hill. A forest of lances glistened in their rear, and several squadrons of gray-coated dragoons moved up quickly to support them as they reached the summit. The instant they came in sight, the trumpets of our cavalry gave out a warning blast which told us all that in another moment we should see the shock of battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all his staff and escort, and groups of officers, the Zouaves, French generals and officers, and bodies of French infantry on the height, were spectators of the scene, as though they were looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre. Nearly every one dismounted and sat down, and not a word was said.
The Russians advanced down the hill at a slow canter, which they changed to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their first line was at least double the length of ours – it was three times as deep. Behind them was a similar line, equally strong and compact. They evidently despised their insignificant-looking enemy; but their time was come. The trumpets rang out again through the valley, and the Greys and Enniskilleners went right at the centre of the Russian cavalry. The space between them was only a few hundred yards; it was scarce enough to let the horses “gather way,” nor had the men quite space sufficient for the full play of their sword-arms. The Russian line brings forward each wing as our cavalry advance, and threatens to annihilate them as they pass on. Turning a little to their left so as to meet the Russian right, the Greys rush on with a cheer that thrills to every heart – the wild shout of the Enniskilleners rises through the air at the same instant. As lightning flashes through a cloud, the Greys and Enniskilleners pierced through the dark masses of the Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There was a clash of steel and a light play of sword-blades in the air, and then the Greys and the Red-coats disappear in the midst of the shaken and quivering columns. In another moment we see them emerging and dashing on with diminished numbers and in broken order against the second line, which is advancing against them as fast as it can, to retrieve the fortune of the charge. It was a terrible moment. “God help them! they are lost!” was the exclamation of more than one man, and the thought of many.
It was a fight of heroes. The first line of Russians – which had been smashed utterly by our charge, and had fled off at one flank and towards the centre – were coming back to swallow up our handful of men. By sheer steel and sheer courage, Enniskillener and Scot were winning their desperate way right through the enemy’s squadrons, and already gray horses and red coats had appeared right at the rear of the second mass, when, with irresistible force, like a bolt from a bow, the 1st Royals, the 4th Dragoon Guards, and the 5th Dragoon Guards rushed at the remnants of the first line of the enemy, went through it as though it were made of pasteboard, and, dashing on the second body of Russians, as they were still disordered by the terrible assault of the Greys and their companions, put them to utter rout.
– William Howard Russell.
TRUE WORTH
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light!
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
– Ben Jonson.
LOVE OF COUNTRY
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d
From wand’ring on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim: —
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.
– Sir Walter Scott.
HOME AND COUNTRY
There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved of Heaven o’er all the world beside,
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of Heaven’s peculiar race,
The heritage of Nature’s noblest grace,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye
The angel-guard of love and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man? – a patriot? – look around;
Oh, thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.
– James Montgomery.
What’s brave, what’s noble, let’s do it.
THE FATHERLAND
Where is the true man’s fatherland?
Is it where he by chance is born?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn
In such scant borders to be spanned?
O yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!
Is it alone where freedom is,
Where God is God, and man is man?
Doth he not claim a broader span
For the soul’s love of home than this?
O yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!
Where’er a human heart doth wear
Joy’s myrtle-wreath or sorrow’s gyves,
Where’er a human spirit strives
After a life more true and fair —
There is the true man’s birthplace grand;
His is a world-wide fatherland!
Where’er a single slave doth pine,
Where’er one man may help another —
Thank God for such a birthright, brother —
That spot of earth is thine and mine!
There is the true man’s birthplace grand;
His is a world-wide fatherland!
– James Russell Lowell.
THE OAK TREE AND THE IVY
In the greenwood stood a mighty oak. So majestic was he that all who came that way paused to admire his strength and beauty, and all the other trees of the greenwood acknowledged him to be their monarch.
Now it came to pass that the ivy loved the oak tree, and inclining her graceful tendrils where he stood, she crept about his feet, and twined herself around his sturdy and knotted trunk. And the oak tree pitied the ivy.
“Oho!” he cried, laughing boisterously but good-naturedly, – “oho! so you love me, do you, little vine? Very well then; play about my feet, and I shall keep the storms from you and shall tell you pretty stories about the clouds, the birds, and the stars.”
The ivy marvelled greatly at the strange stories the oak tree told; they were stories the oak tree heard from the wind that loitered about his lofty head and whispered to the leaves of his topmost branches. Sometimes the story was about the great ocean in the east, sometimes of the broad prairies in the west, sometimes of the ice king who lived in the north, sometimes of the flower queen who dwelt in the south. Then, too, the moon told a story to the oak tree every night, – or at least every night that she came to the greenwood, which was very often, for the greenwood is a very charming spot, as we all know. And the oak tree repeated to the ivy every story the moon told and every song the stars sang.
“Pray, what are the winds saying now?” or “What song is that I hear?” the ivy would ask; and then the oak tree would repeat the story or the song, and the ivy would listen in great wonderment.
Whenever the storms came, the oak tree cried to the little ivy: “Cling close to me, and no harm shall befall thee! See how strong I am; the tempest does not so much as stir me – I mock its fury!”
Then, seeing how strong and brave he was, the ivy hugged him closely; his brown, rugged breast protected her from every harm, and she was secure.
The years went by; how quickly they flew, – spring, summer, winter, and then again spring, summer, winter, – ah, life is short in the greenwood, as elsewhere! And now the ivy was no longer a weakly little vine to excite the pity of the passer-by. Her thousand beautiful arms had twined hither and thither about the oak tree, covering his brown and knotted trunk, shooting forth a bright, delicious foliage, and stretching far up among his lower branches.
The oak tree was always good and gentle to the ivy. “There is a storm coming over the hills,” he would say. “The east wind tells me so; the swallows fly low in the air. Cling close to me, and no harm shall befall thee.”
Then the ivy would cling more closely to the oak tree, and no harm came to her.
Although the ivy was the most luxuriant vine in all the greenwood, the oak tree regarded her still as the tender little thing he had laughingly called to his feet that spring day many years before, – the same little ivy he had told about the stars, the clouds, and the birds. And just as patiently as in those days, he now repeated other tales the winds whispered to his topmost boughs, – tales of the ocean in the east, the prairies in the west, the ice king in the north, and the flower queen in the south. And the ivy heard him tell these wondrous things, and she never wearied with the listening.
“How good the oak tree is to the ivy!” said the ash. “The lazy vine has naught to do but to twine herself about the strong oak tree and hear him tell his stories!”
The ivy heard these envious words, and they made her very sad; but she said nothing of them to the oak tree, and that night the oak tree rocked her to sleep as he repeated the lullaby a zephyr was singing to him.
“There is a storm coming over the hills,” said the oak tree one day. “The east wind tells me so; the swallows fly low in the air, and the sky is dark. Clasp me round about with thy arms, and nestle close to me, and no harm shall befall thee.”
“I have no fear,” murmured the ivy.
The storm came over the hills and swept down upon the greenwood with deafening thunder and vivid lightning. The storm king himself rode upon the blast; his horses breathed flames, and his chariot trailed through the air like a serpent of fire. The ash fell before the violence of the storm king’s fury, and the cedars, groaning, fell, and the hemlocks, and the pines; but the oak tree alone quailed not.
“Oho!” cried the storm king, angrily, “the oak tree does not bow to me; he does not tremble in my presence. Well, we shall see.”
With that the storm king hurled a mighty thunderbolt at the oak tree, and the brave, strong monarch of the greenwood was riven. Then, with a shout of triumph, the storm king rode away.
“Dear oak tree, you are riven by the storm king’s thunderbolt!” cried the ivy, in anguish.
“Ay,” said the oak tree, feebly, “my end has come; see, I am shattered and helpless.”
“But I am unhurt,” remonstrated the ivy; “and I shall bind up your wounds and nurse you back to health and vigor.”
And so it was that, although the oak tree was ever afterwards a riven and broken thing, the ivy concealed the scars upon his shattered form and covered his wounds all over with her soft foliage.
“I had hoped,” she said, “to grow up to thy height, to live with thee among the clouds, and to hear the solemn voices thou didst hear.”
But the old oak tree said, “Nay, nay, I love thee better as thou art, for with thy beauty and thy love thou comfortest mine age.”
Then would the ivy tell quaint stories to the oak tree, – stories she had learned from the crickets, the bees, the butterflies, and the mice when she was a humble little vine and played at the foot of the majestic oak tree towering in the greenwood. And these simple tales pleased the old and riven oak tree; they were not as heroic as the tales the wind, the clouds, and the stars told, but they were far sweeter, for they were tales of contentment, of humility, of love. So the old age of the oak tree was grander than his youth.
And all who went through the greenwood paused to behold and admire the beauty of the oak tree then; for about his scarred and broken trunk the gentle vine had so entwined her graceful tendrils and spread her fair foliage, that one saw not the havoc of the years nor the ruin of the tempest, but only the glory of the oak tree’s age, which was the ivy’s love and ministering. – Eugene Field.
From “A Little Book of Profitable Tales.” Copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field. Published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
HARVEST SONG
The God of harvest praise;
In loud Thanksgiving raise
Hand, heart, and voice.
The valleys laugh and sing,
Forests and mountains ring,
The plains their tribute bring,
The streams rejoice.
Yes, bless His holy name,
And joyous thanks proclaim
Through all the earth.
To glory in your lot
Is comely; but be not
God’s benefits forgot
Amid your mirth.
The God of harvest praise,
Hands, hearts, and voices raise,
With sweet accord.
From field to garner throng,
Bearing your sheaves along,
And in your harvest song
Bless ye the Lord.
– James Montgomery.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
HARVEST TIME
Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain,
Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain,
Wearied of pleasuring weeks away,
Summer is lying asleep to-day, —
Where winds come sweet from the wild-rose briers
And the smoke of the far-off prairie fires.
Yellow her hair as the goldenrod,
And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod;
Purple her eyes as the mists that dream
At the edge of some laggard sun-drowned stream;
But over their depths the lashes sweep,
For Summer is lying to-day asleep.
The north wind kisses her rosy mouth,
His rival frowns in the far-off south,
And comes caressing her sunburnt cheek,
And Summer awakes for one short week, —
Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain,
Then sleeps and dreams for a year again.
– E. Pauline Johnson.
People are great only as they are kind.
HARE-AND-HOUNDS AT RUGBY
The only incident worth recording here, however, was the first run at hare-and-hounds. On the last Tuesday but one of the half-year, Tom was passing through the hall after dinner, when he was hailed with shouts from Tadpole and several other boys. They were seated at one of the long tables; the chorus of their shouts was, “Come and help us tear up scent.”
Tom approached the table in obedience to the summons, always ready to help, and found the party engaged in tearing up old newspapers, copy-books, and magazines into small pieces, with which they were filling four large canvas bags.
“It’s the turn of our house to find scent for Big-side hare-and-hounds,” exclaimed Tadpole. “Tear away; there’s no time to lose.”
“I think it’s a great shame,” said another small boy, “to have such a hard run for the last day.”
“Which run is it?” said Tadpole.
“Oh, the Barby run, I hear,” answered the other. “Nine miles at least, and hard ground; no chance of getting in at the finish unless you’re a first-rate runner.”
“Well, I’m going to have a try,” said Tadpole.
“I should like to try, too,” said Tom.
“Well, then, leave your waistcoat behind, and listen at the door, after roll-call, and you’ll hear where the meet is.”
After roll-call, sure enough, there were two boys at the door, calling out, “Big-side hare-and-hounds meet at White Hall.” And Tom, having girded himself with leather strap, and left all superfluous clothing behind, set off for White Hall, an old gable-ended house some quarter of a mile from the town, with East, whom he had persuaded to join. At the meet they found some forty or fifty boys; and Tom felt sure, from having seen many of them run at football, that he and East were more likely to get in than they.
After a few minutes’ waiting, two well-known runners, chosen for the hares, buckled on the four bags filled with scent, compared their watches with those of young Brooke and Thorne, and started off at a long, swinging trot across the fields in the direction of Barby. Then the hounds clustered round Thorne, who explained shortly: “They’re to have six minutes’ law. We run into the Cock, and every one who comes in within a quarter of an hour of the hares will be counted, if he has been round Barby church.”
Then comes a pause of a minute or so, and then the watches are pocketed, and the pack is led through the gateway into the field which the hares had first crossed. Here they break into a trot, scattering over the field to find the first traces of the scent which the hares throw out as they go along.
The old hounds make straight for the likely points, and in a minute a cry of “Forward” comes from one of them, and the whole pack, quickening their pace, make for the spot. The boy who hit the scent first, and the two or three nearest to him, are over the first fence, and making play along the hedgerow in the long-grass field beyond. The rest of the pack rush at the gap already made, and scramble through, jostling one another. “Forward” again, before they are half through; the pace quickens into a sharp run, the tail hounds all straining to get up with the lucky leaders.
They are gallant hares, and the scent lies thick right across another meadow and into a ploughed field, where the pace begins to tell; then over a good hedge with a ditch on the other side, and down a large pasture studded with old thorns, which slopes down to the first brook. The brook is a small one, and the scent lies right ahead up the opposite slope, and as thick as ever. Many a youngster now begins to drag his legs heavily, and feel his heart beat like a hammer, and those farthest behind think that after all it isn’t worth while to keep it up.
Tom, East, and Tadpole had a good start, and are well along for such young hands. After rising the slope and crossing the next field, they find themselves up with the leading hounds, who have overrun the scent and are trying back. They have come a mile and a half in about eleven minutes, a pace which shows that it is the last day. Only about twenty-five of the original starters show here, the rest having already given in. The leaders are busy making casts into the fields on the left and right, and the others get their second winds.
Then comes the cry of “Forward” again from young Brooke, at the extreme left, and the pack settles down to work again, steadily and doggedly, the whole keeping pretty well together. The scent, though still good, is not so thick. There is no need of that, for in this part of the run every one knows the line which must be taken, and so there are no casts to be made, but good downright running and fencing to be done.
All who are now up mean coming in, and they come to the foot of Barby Hill without losing more than two or three more of the pack. This last straight two miles and a half is always a vantage-ground for the hounds, and the hares know it well. They are generally viewed on the side of Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the lookout for them to-day. But not a sign of them appears, so now will be the hard work for the hounds, and there is nothing for it but to cast about for the scent, for it is the hares’ turn, and they may baffle the pack dreadfully in the next two miles.
Ill fares it now with our youngsters that they follow young Brooke; for he takes the wide casts round to the left, conscious of his own powers, and loving the hard work. However, they struggle after him, sobbing and plunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tadpole some thirty yards behind.
Now comes a brook, with stiff clay banks, from which they can hardly drag their legs; and they hear faint cries for help from the wretched Tadpole, who has fairly stuck fast. But they have too little run left in themselves to pull up for their own brothers. Three fields more, and another check, and then “Forward” called away to the extreme right.
The two boys’ souls die within them. They can never do it. Young Brooke thinks so, too, and says kindly, “You’ll cross a lane after next field; keep down it, and you’ll hit the Dunchurch-road.” Then he steams away for the run in, in which he’s sure to be first, as if he were just starting. They struggle on across the next field, the “Forwards” getting fainter and fainter, and then ceasing. The whole hunt is out of ear-shot, and all hope of coming in is over.
“Hang it all!” broke out East, as soon as he had wind enough, pulling off his hat and mopping his face, all spattered with dirt and lined with sweat, from which went up a thick steam into the still, cold air. “I told you how it would be. What a thick I was to come! Here we are dead beat, and yet I know we’re close to the run in, if we knew the country.”
“Well,” said Tom, mopping away, and gulping down his disappointment, “it can’t be helped. We did our best, anyhow. Hadn’t we better find this lane, and go down it as young Brooke told us?”
“I suppose so – nothing else for it,” grunted East. “If ever I go out last day again,” growl – growl – growl.
So they turned back slowly and sorrowfully, and found the lane, and went limping down it, plashing in the cold, puddly ruts, and beginning to feel how the run had taken the heart out of them. The evening closed in fast, and clouded over, dark, cold, and dreary.
“I say, it must be locking-up, I should think,” remarked East, breaking the silence; “it’s so dark.”
“What if we’re late?” said Tom.
“No tea, and sent up to the Doctor,” answered East.
The thought didn’t add to their cheerfulness. Presently a faint halloo was heard from an adjoining field. They answered it and stopped, hoping for some competent rustic to guide them, when over a gate some twenty yards ahead crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of collapse. He had lost a shoe in the brook, and been groping after it up to his elbows in the stiff, wet clay, and a more miserable creature in the shape of a boy seldom has been seen.
The sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered them, for he was some degree more wretched than they. They also cheered him, as he was now no longer under the dread of passing his night alone in the fields. And so in better heart, the three plashed painfully down the never-ending lane. At last it widened, just as utter darkness set in, and they came out on to a turnpike road, and there paused, bewildered, for they had lost all bearings, and knew not whether to turn to the right or left.
Luckily for them they had not to decide, for lumbering along the road, with one lamp lighted, and two spavined horses in the shafts, came a heavy coach, which after a moment’s suspense they recognized as the Oxford coach, the redoubtable Pig and Whistle.
It lumbered slowly up, and the boys, mustering their last run, caught it as it passed, and began scrambling up behind, in which exploit East missed his footing and fell flat on his nose along the road. Then the others hailed the old scarecrow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed to take them in for a shilling. So there they sat on the back seat, drubbing with their heels, and their teeth chattering with cold, and jogged into Rugby some forty minutes after locking-up. – Thomas Hughes.