Various
Fourth Reader
MR. PICKWICK ON THE ICE
On Christmas morning Mr. Wardle invited Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and his other guests to go down to the pond.
“You skate, of course, Winkle?” said Mr. Wardle.
“Ye – s; oh, yes!” replied Mr. Winkle. “I – I – am rather out of practice.”
“Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle,” said Arabella. “I like to see it so much.”
“Oh, it is so graceful,” said another young lady.
A third young lady said it was “elegant,” and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was “swanlike.”
“I should be very happy, I am sure,” said Mr. Winkle, reddening, “but I have no skates.”
This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pairs, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.
Mr. Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, – to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies, – which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when Mr. Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions which they called a reel.
All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his shoes, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.
“Now, then, sir,” said Sam, in an encouraging tone, “off with you, and show them how to do it.”
“Stop, Sam, stop!” said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam’s arms with the grasp of a drowning man. “How slippery it is, Sam!”
“Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “Hold up, sir!”
This last observation of Mr. Weller’s bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.
“These – these – are very awkward skates; aren’t they, Sam?” inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering.
“I’m afraid there’s an awkward gentleman in ’em, sir,” replied Sam.
“Now, Winkle,” cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. “Come; the ladies are all anxiety.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. “I’m coming.”
“Just going to begin,” said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. “Now, sir, start off!”
“Stop an instant, Sam,” gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. “I find I’ve got a couple of coats at home that I don’t want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.”
“Thank ’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Never mind touching your hat, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle, hastily. “You needn’t take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I’ll give it to you this afternoon, Sam.”
“You’re wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Just hold me at first, Sam, will you?” said Mr. Winkle. “There – that’s right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast.”
Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and unswanlike manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the bank, “Sam!”
“Sir?”
“Here. I want you.”
“Let go, sir,” said Sam. “Don’t you hear the governor calling? Let go, sir.”
With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian, and in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind on skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his face.
“Are you hurt?” inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.
“Not much,” said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, “Take his skates off.”
“No; but really I had scarcely begun,” remonstrated Mr. Winkle.
“Take his skates off,” repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly.
The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in silence.
“Lift him up,” said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.
Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words, “You’re a humbug, sir.”
“A what?” said Mr. Winkle, starting.
“A humbug, sir. I shall speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir.”
With those words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends.
While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy sliding which is currently called “knocking at the cobbler’s door,” and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman’s knock upon it with the other. It was a good, long slide, and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying.
“It looks like a nice warm exercise that, doesn’t it?” he inquired of Mr. Wardle.
“Ah, it does indeed,” replied Wardle. “Do you slide?”
“I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy,” replied Mr. Pickwick.
“Try it now,” said Wardle.
“Oh, do, please, Mr. Pickwick!” cried all the ladies.
“I should be very happy to afford you any amusement,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “but I haven’t done such a thing these thirty years.”
“Pooh, pooh! Nonsense!” said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. “Here, I’ll keep you company; come along!” And away went the good-tempered old fellow down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing.
Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat, took two or three short runs, stopped as often, and at last took another run and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators.
“Keep the pot a-boiling, sir,” said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely upon each other’s heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on their expedition.
It was the most intensely interesting thing to observe the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind gaining upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round when he had done so and ran after his predecessor; his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles; and when he was knocked down (which happened on the average of every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank with an ardor and enthusiasm that nothing could abate.
The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp, smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick’s hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface, and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see.
Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the men turned pale and the women fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed with frenzied eagerness at the spot where their leader had gone down; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming “Fire!” with all his might.
It was at this moment, when Mr. Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps, that a face, head, and shoulders emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.
“Keep yourself up for an instant – for only one instant!” bawled Mr. Snodgrass.
“Yes, do, let me implore you – for my sake!” roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected.
“Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?” said Wardle.
“Yes, certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. “I fell upon my back. I couldn’t get on my feet at first.”
The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick’s coat as was yet visible bore testimony to the truth of this statement; and as the fears of the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy’s suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on dry land.
“Oh, he’ll catch his death of cold,” said Emily.
“Let me wrap this shawl round you,” said Arabella.
“Ah, that’s the best thing you can do,” said Wardle; “and when you’ve got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly.”
A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller, presenting the singular appearance of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour.
But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and urged on by Mr. Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he reached the door of Manor Farm, where he paused not an instant till he was snug in bed. – Charles Dickens.
DICKENS IN CAMP
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew;
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of “Little Nell.”
Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy, – for the reader
Was youngest of them all, —
But as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp with “Nell” on English meadows
Wandered, and lost their way.
And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertaken
As by some spell divine —
Their cares drop from them, like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire; —
And he who wrought that spell?
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths entwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,
This spray of Western pine!
– Francis Bret Harte.
HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR
Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swoon’d, nor utter’d cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
“She must weep or she will die.”
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Call’d him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee —
Like summer tempest came her tears —
“Sweet my child, I live for thee.”
– Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
The world goes up and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown
Can never come over again.
– Kingsley.
THE LOCKSMITH OF THE GOLDEN KEY
From the workshop of the Golden Key there issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and good-humored that it suggested the idea of some one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. Tink, tink, tink– clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of the street’s harsher noises, as though it said, “I don’t care; nothing puts me out; I am resolved to be happy.”
Women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers. Still it struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people’s notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder sounds —tink, tink, tink, tink, tink.
It was a perfect embodiment of the still small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind. Foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near it. Neighbors who had got up splenetic that morning felt good-humor stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly. Mothers danced their babies to its ringing – still the same magical tink, tink, tink, came gayly from the workshop of the Golden Key.
Who but the locksmith could have made such music? A gleam of sun, shining through the unsashed window, and checkering the dark workshop with a broad patch of light, fell full upon him, as though attracted by his sunny heart. There he stood, working at his anvil, his face radiant with exercise and gladness – the easiest, freest, happiest man in all the world.
Beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking in the light, and falling every now and then into an idle doze, as from excess of comfort. The very locks that hung around had something jovial in their rust, and seemed like gouty old gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on their infirmities.
There was nothing surly or severe in the whole scene. It seemed impossible that any one of the innumerable keys could fit a churlish strong-box or a prison-door. Store-houses of good things, rooms where there were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter – these were their proper sphere of action. Places of distrust and cruelty and restraint they would have quadruple locked forever.
Tink, tink, tink. No man who hammered on at a dull, monotonous duty could have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat on a jolting wagon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony out of it. – Charles Dickens.
A clear conscience is better than untold riches.
TUBAL CAIN
Old Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung:
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and the spear.
And he sang: “Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and the sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord!”
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire;
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade
As the crown of his desire.
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee;
And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang: “Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true!”
But a sudden change came o’er his heart,
Ere the setting of the sun;
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done;
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind;
That the land was red with the blood they shed,
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said: “Alas! that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man!”
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o’er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smouldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright, courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang: “Hurrah for my handicraft!”
As the red sparks lit the air;
“Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,” —
And he fashioned the first ploughshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands;
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands;
And sang: “Hurrah for Tubal Cain!
Our staunch good friend is he;
And for the ploughshare and the plough
To him our praise shall be;
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We’ll not forget the sword.”
– Charles Mackay.
THE BUGLE SONG
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
– Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
LEIF ERICSSON
Out through the black wolf’s-mouth of massive cliffs one morning a swift longship sped, with the early wind rounding the great sail and helping the rowers with their oars. A line of shields hung along each side, helmeted heads gleamed here and there, and high in the stern the rising sun made a form shine like a statue of silver flame as he waved farewell to those on shore, who cheerily waved and shouted farewells back again. Ulf, the leader, still had a name to win; but what a glorious thing it was to stand there in the stern of that swift craft and feel it quiver with life beneath him in response to the rhythmic stroke of the oarsmen, as it surged through the heaving water. Brightly the sunlight leaped along the sea. Snow-white was the foam that flashed upwards underneath the curving prow, and now and then jetted high enough to come hissing inboard on the wind when the fitful gusts shifted to the rightabout. The men laughed, and carelessly shook the drops from their broad backs when it splashed among them.
What a hardy set of men they were, those Northmen of old! They had no compass; they must steer by the sun, or by the stars, guess at their rate of sailing, and tell by that how many more days distant was their destination. If the weather was fine, well. But if the sky clouded over, and sun nor star was seen for a week or more, while the wind veered at its own will, the chances were more than even that they would bring up on some coast where they had never been, with water and food to get, and perhaps every headland bristling with hostile spears. All this they knew, yet out to sea they went as happily as a fisherman seeks his nets. Trading, starving, fighting, plundering – it was all one to them. On the whole, they seemed to like fighting the best of all, since that is what their famous poems told most about.
One morning the dawn-light revealed a black spot on the low horizon. A speck that grew larger, with twinkling, fin-like flashes along each side, and in due time it proved to be a galley like their own bearing down straight for them. Nobody stopped to ask any questions. That was not sea-style then. But just as naturally as two men now in a lonely journey would shake hands on meeting, these two captains slipped their arms through their shield-handles, sheered alongside just beyond oar-tip, and exchanged cards in the shape of whistling javelins.
Up from their benches sprang the rowers. Twang! sang their war bows the song of the cord, and the air was full of hissing whispers of death as their shafts hurtled past. Round and round the two galleys circled in a strange dance, each steersman striving to bring his craft bows on, so as to ram and crush the other, while they lurched in the cross-seas, and rolled till they dipped in tons of water over the rail.
Up sprang the stranger on his prow; tall and broad-shouldered was he, with a torrent of ruddy hair floating in the wind. As Ulf turned to give an order to bale out the inrushing water, up rose a brawny arm, and a great spear flashed down from the high bow of the enemy and struck fairly between his shoulders. So sharp was the blow, so sudden, that Ulf pitched forward on one knee for just half a breath. But the spear fell clanging to the deck. The ruddy warrior stood looking at it with eyes of amazement. His own spear, that never before had failed! A flash of light leaped back like a lightning stroke; back to its master whistled the brand, for, ere he rose, Ulf snatched it up, and, as he rose, he hurled it – straight through the unguarded arm of the stranger.
“Hold!”
The shout rang sternly across the water and echoed back and forth from sail to sail. The shouting hushed. Only the creak of the swaying yard, the hoarse swash of the water, the panting of deep breathing broke the silence; then once more from the lofty prow came the commanding voice.
“Who and whence art thou?”
“A son of the Forest am I,” answered the other. “Ulf is my name, Ulf the Silent my title, Jarl Sigurd my father by adoption. The sea is my home, from over sea I came, and over sea am I going.”
“What dwarfs made that armor?” demanded the other, holding a cloth to his wounded arm.
“Ten dwarfs welded it, ten dwarfs tempered it, and the same ten guard the wearer. Thou best shouldst know what five of them can do,” and Ulf smiled grimly as he held up his hand with outspread fingers.
“Now it is thy turn. Who art thou?”
“Leif is my name,” said the other, “and Eric the Red is my father. To the west have I been sailing, searching for a land with lumber for ship-building. Now am I home-bound. Come thou with me and thou shalt be as my brother; for a good spearman art thou as ever sailed the seas; and afterwards we shall sail together.”
“I like it well,” said Ulf, frankly, “and homewards I shall go with thee” – for that was sea-politeness then. So they set a new course by the stars that night, and before Leif’s arm had ceased to tingle they saw the black walls of rock that guarded the entrance to his haven.
Many a night in after years Ulf lay awake and watched the stars, thinking the while of his visit to Greenland and of all that came of it. A mighty man of his hands was Leif. None could strike a keener blow. Yet was he hugely delighted when, one afternoon in friendly fray, Ulf again and again slipped within his guard and with a lithe writhe of his slender form twined a bear’s hug around his bulky friend and dashed him earthwards. And to give Ulf one spear’s length advantage in a hot scurry across country was never to come up with him again.
“Thou art the man of men I long have hunted for!” Leif cried. “Let your ship rest for a season; – or, better, let your longest-headed seaman captain it for a voyage, trading, and come thou with me. Far to the southwards and westwards lie rich timber lands. Where, we know not, yet storm-driven ships have seen them. These I mean to find, and for such a distant quest one ship is better than two.” So sunnily looked down the great man at the slighter one, so joyous at the thought of that voyage into the mists of the southern seas that Ulf held out his hand in silence, and the compact was made.
It did not take long to provision the craft, or to arrange other matters. Soon they were surging once more across apparently boundless seas. Three times they came to lands unknown to them, yet not the country of great trees talked of by old sailors around the winter fires. At last it loomed up in reality above the horizon, covered with timber enough to build a great city, – more than ever was seen close at hand by Northmen before. And right lustily swung the axes among them for days and weeks, until even the keenest trader among them all was contented with his share of wealth that was to come to him when back at home once more. There were not lacking signs, either, that savage neighbors might be unpleasant neighbors, as more than one stone-headed arrow had whistled past, heralded by the first war-whoop that ever was heard by ears of white men.
So, like a careful captain, Leif carried his dried fish, his smoked deer-meat, his water-casks, and his lumber by degrees all on board. He lit the watch-fires as usual at sundown; but by moonrise, with the early tide he and his men slipped quietly out of their stockaded camp and into their vessel, and silently drifted out to sea before the warm land-wind that still was faintly blowing. And late that night a savage war party called at the camp with spear and torch to find it only an empty shell.
And even now, in the entrance to a beautiful park in a great city of that land where he went timber-cutting more than fifteen hundred years ago, there, high in air, as though still standing on the prow of his ship, looms up a brave figure in bronze. A close-knit, flexible shirt of mail guards his form. One hand rests upon his side, holding his curved war-horn. The other shades the eyes; for, even in this statue of him, Leif Ericsson is still the crosser of far seas, the finder of strange lands, the sleepless watcher forever gazing from beneath his shadowed brows into the golden west. – John Preston True.
From “The Iron Star,” published by Little, Brown and Company, Boston.
I would not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
An inadvertent step may crush the snail
That crawls at evening in the public path;
But he that has humanity, forewarned,
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.
– Cowper.