Various
Fourth Reader
THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS
West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
Oh! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so,
But never a favor you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail and unship the mast:
I wooed you long, but my wooing’s past;
My paddle will lull you into rest:
O drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep!
By your mountains steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep,
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.
August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.
The river rolls in its rocky bed,
My paddle is plying its way ahead,
Dip, dip,
When the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.
And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow:
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And far to forwards the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore;
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe and boil and bound and splash.
Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel,
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.
We’ve raced the rapids; we’re far ahead:
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir-tree rocking its lullaby
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
– E. Pauline Johnson.
THE FIRST YEARS OF THE RED RIVER SETTLEMENT
In the year 1812, several Scottish families emigrated to Hudson Bay, with a view to colonizing the tract of country known as the Red River district. This tract had been purchased from the Hudson’s Bay Company by the Earl of Selkirk, under whose direction and patronage the settlers left their native land to seek a home in the unknown wilderness of the west.
The emigrants arrived in safety, after a journey across sea and land which gave them a slight foretaste of the perilous life on which they had embarked. But a few hours had passed over their heads in the land of their adoption, when an array of armed men, painted, disfigured, and dressed in the savage costume of the country, warned them that they were unwelcome visitors. These crested warriors, for the most part, were employees of the North-West Company, the great rivals of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who were afraid that the new settlers would ruin the fur-trade. As this order to depart was soon followed by the fear of perishing through want of food, the settlers resolved to seek refuge at Pembina, seventy miles distant. Hither, a straggling party promised to conduct them.
The settlement of this contract between parties ignorant of each other’s language furnished a scene as curious as it was interesting: the language employed on the one side being Gaelic and broken English; on the other, an Indian jargon and mongrel French, with a mixture of signs and gestures, wry faces, and grim countenances. The bargain proved to be a hard one for the emigrants. The Indians agreed to carry the children and others not able to walk, but all the rest, both men and women, had to trudge on foot; while all their treasured goods were given by way of payment to their guides. One man, for example, had to give his gun, an old family piece, that had been carried by his father at the battle of Culloden. One of the women also parted with her marriage ring, the sight of which on her finger was a temptation to the Indians, who are remarkably fond of trinkets.
No sooner had the gypsy train got under way, than the savages scampered on ahead, and were soon out of sight with the children, leaving the terrified mothers running and crying after them for their babes. This heartless trick was often played them; but without any other harm than a fright. In other ways the emigrants suffered greatly, especially from cold, wet, and walking in English shoes; their feet blistered and swelled, so that many of them were hardly able to move by the time they reached their journey’s end.
At Pembina the people passed the winter in tents or huts according to Indian fashion, and lived on the products of the chase in common with the natives. This mode of life was not without its charms; it tended to foster kind and generous feelings between the two races, who parted with regret when the Scots in May, 1813, returned to the colony to commence their work as farmers.
They now enjoyed peace, but hunger pressed on them, and they often had a hard time to get food. Fish were very scarce that season, as were roots and berries; so that their only dependence was on a harsh and tasteless wild parsnip, and on a species of nettle. These, sometimes raw, sometimes boiled, they ate without salt.
While such was their summer fare, the hoe was at work, and a little seed wheat, procured at Fort Alexander, an Indian trading-post on the Winnipeg River, turned out very well. One of the settlers, from the planting of four quarts, reaped twelve and a half bushels. But they had a difficult task to save the crop from the fowls of the air. In the spring myriads of blackbirds and wild pigeons passed the colony in their migration to the north and returned again on their way to the south, during the time of harvest. They were in such flocks as to threaten the little patches of grain with total destruction. Bird-nets, guns, and scarecrows were all in use, and men, women, and children kept constantly going about their little gardens from morning till night, driving away or slaying the greedy birds.
The fears of the settlers had now vanished. They were cheered by the hope that the North-Westers would not disturb them any more. Under this impression, they began to take courage, and to prepare for the arrival of their friends, for they expected all the other emigrants before the winter. In this hope they were disappointed. It was late in the season before they learned that their friends were delayed, and then, rather than consume the little grain they had secured, they resolved to try Pembina again, and to save what seed they could for another year.
At Pembina disappointment awaited them. Notwithstanding the great kindness shown by the French half-breeds to the Scottish settlers during the last winter, they now kept aloof and treated their visitors coldly. Ignorant and awkward as the settlers were with regard to the chase, they had to think and act for themselves, slaving all winter in deep snows to preserve life. A plot, too, was discovered to murder two of the party who undertook to hunt, and so this means of life was closed to them. Provisions, which they had to buy, and then to drag home with great labor, were very scarce and very dear.
At last, at the beginning of 1814, the settlers returned to the colony once more in a state of great poverty. They had even had to barter away their clothing for food. Half-naked, and discouraged, many of them severely frostbitten, they again took up their struggle for life in the Settlement. – Alexander Ross.
Adapted from “The Red River Settlement.”
THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR
Out and in the river is winding
The links of its long red chain,
Through belts of dusky pine-land
And gusty leagues of plain.
Only at times a smoke-wreath
With the drifting cloud-rack joins, —
The smoke of the hunting-lodges
Of the wild Assiniboins!
Drearily blows the north wind
From the land of ice and snow;
The eyes that look are weary,
And heavy the hands that row.
And with one foot on the water,
And one upon the shore,
The Angel of Shadow gives warning
That day shall be no more.
Is it the clang of wild-geese?
Is it the Indian’s yell,
That lends to the voice of the north wind
The tones of a far-off bell?
The voyageur smiles as he listens
To the sound that grows apace;
Well he knows the vesper ringing
Of the bells of St. Boniface —
The bells of the Roman Mission,
That call from their turrets twain,
To the boatman on the river,
To the hunter on the plain!
Even so in our mortal journey
The bitter north winds blow,
And thus upon life’s Red River
Our hearts, as oarsmen, row.
And when the Angel of Shadow
Rests his feet on wave and shore,
And our eyes grow dim with watching,
And our hearts faint at the oar,
Happy is he who heareth
The signal of his release
In the bells of the Holy City,
The chimes of eternal peace!
– John Greenleaf Whittier.
SEVEN TIMES FOUR
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;
When the wind wakes, how they rock in the grasses,
And dance with the cuckoo-buds, slender and small;
Here’s two bonny boys, and here’s mother’s own lasses,
Eager to gather them all.
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Mother shall thread them a daisy-chain;
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow,
That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;
Sing, “Heart thou art wide, though the house be but narrow” —
Sing once, and sing it again.
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,
And haply one missing doth stand at her prow.
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters,
Maybe he thinks of you now!
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,
And fresh hearts, unconscious of sorrow and thrall;
Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure —
God that is over us all.
– Jean Ingelow.
THE LARK AT THE DIGGINGS
The house was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it and on every foot of ground round it. A furze bush had been planted by the door. Vertical oak palings were the fence, with a five-barred gate in the middle of them. From the little plantation all the magnificent trees and shrubs of Australia had been excluded, and oak and ash reigned safe from overtowering rivals. They passed to the back of the house, and there George’s countenance fell a little, for on the oval grass-plot and gravel-walk he found from thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them diggers.
“Ah, well,” said he, on reflection, “we could not expect to have it all to ourselves, and indeed it would be a sin to wish it, you know. Now, Tom, come this way; here it is, here it is – there!” Tom looked up, and in a gigantic cage was a light brown bird.
He was utterly confounded. “What, is it this we came twelve miles to see?”
“Ay! and twice twelve wouldn’t have been much to me.”
“Well, but what is the lark you talked of?”
“This is it!”
“This? This is a bird.”
“Well, and isn’t a lark a bird?”
“Oh, ay, I see! ha! ha! ha! ha!”
Robinson’s merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp.
“Hold your cackle,” cried one, “he is going to sing;” and the whole party had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird.
Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at noon, when the mistress of the house had warranted him to sing, the little feathered exile began, as it were, to tune his pipes. The savage men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the bird uttered some very uncertain chirps, but after a while he seemed to revive his memories, to call his ancient cadences back to him one by one, and to string them together.
And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more, till at last – amidst breathless silence and glistening eyes of the rough diggers hanging on his voice – out burst in that distant land his English song.
It swelled from his little throat and gushed from him with thrilling force and plenty, and every time he checked his song to think of its theme, the green meadows, the quiet stealing streams, the clover he first soared from and the spring he sang so well, a loud sigh from many a rough bosom, many a wild and wicked heart, told how tight the listeners had held their breath to hear him. And, when he swelled with song again, and poured with all his soul the green meadows, the quiet brooks, the honey-clover, and the English spring, the rugged mouths opened and so stayed, and the shaggy lips trembled, and more than one drop trickled from fierce unbridled hearts down bronzed and rugged cheeks.
Home! sweet home!
And these shaggy men, full of oaths and strife and cupidity, had once been white-headed boys, and had strolled about the English fields with little sisters and little brothers, and seen the lark rise, and heard him sing this very song. The little playmates lay in the churchyard, and they were full of oaths, and drink, and riot, and remorses; but no note was changed in this immortal song. And so, for a moment or two, years of vice rolled away like a dark cloud from the memory, and the past shone out in the sunshine; they came back, bright as the immortal notes that had lighted them, those faded pictures and those fleeted days; the cottage, the old mother’s tears, when he left her without one grain of sorrow; the village church and its simple chimes; the clover field hard by in which he lay and gambolled, while the lark praised God overhead; the chubby playmates that never grew to be wicked; the sweet hours of youth and innocence, and home!
“What will you take for him, mistress? I will give you five pounds for him!”
“No! no! I won’t take five pounds for my bird!”
“Of course she won’t,” cried another, “she wouldn’t be such a flat. Here, missus,” cried he, “I’ll give you that for him,” and he extended a brown hand with at least thirty new sovereigns glittering in it.
The woman trembled; she and her husband were just emerging from poverty after a hard fight.
“Oh!” she cried, “it is a shame to tempt a poor woman with so much gold. We had six brought over, and all died on the way but this one!” and she threw her white apron over her head, not to see the glittering bribe.
“Bother you, put the money up and don’t tempt the woman,” was the cry. Another added, “Why, you fool, it wouldn’t live a week if you had it,” and they all abused the man; but the woman turned to him kindly, and said: —
“You come to me every Sunday, and he shall sing to you. You will get more pleasure from him so,” said she sweetly, “than if he was always by you.”
“So I shall, old girl,” replied the rough, in a friendly tone.
George stayed till the lark gave up singing altogether, and then he said: “Now, I’m off. I don’t want to hear bad language after that: let us take the lark’s chirp home to bed with us.” And they made off; and true it was, the pure strains dwelt upon their spirits, and refreshed and purified these sojourners in an evil place.
– Charles Reade.
A good example is the best sermon.
THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS
’Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway
Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay;
’Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide
In ripples that reach to the forest side;
’Tis the fisherman’s boat, in a track of sheen,
Plying through tangled seaweed green
O’er the Baie des Chaleurs.
Who has not heard of the phantom light
That over the moaning waves, at night,
Dances and drifts in endless play,
Close to the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter light that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs?
They tell us that many a year ago,
From lands where the palm and the olive grow,
Where vines with their purple clusters creep
Over the hillsides gray and steep,
A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold,
Famed, in that chivalrous time of old,
For valorous deeds and courage rare,
Sailed with a princess wondrous fair
To the Baie des Chaleurs.
That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea,
A murderous band as e’er could be,
With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night,
That flaunted and flew in heaven’s sight,
Sailed in the wake of the lovers there,
And sank the ship and its freight so fair
In the Baie des Chaleurs.
Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell:
They say that a ball of fire fell
Straight from the sky, with crash and roar,
Lighting the bay from shore to shore;
Then the ship, with shudder and with groan,
Sank through the waves to the caverns lone
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.
That was the last of the pirate crew;
But many a night a black flag flew
From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed
By a spectre band that wept and wailed
For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land,
For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.
This is the tale of the phantom light
That fills the mariner’s heart, at night,
With dread as it gleams o’er his path on the bay,
Now by the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter moon that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs.
– Arthur Wentworth Eaton.
THE BEATITUDES
Blessed are the poor in spirit:
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they that mourn:
For they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek:
For they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness:
For they shall be filled.
Blessed are the merciful:
For they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart:
For they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers:
For they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake:
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
– From the Sermon on the Mount.
MAGGIE TULLIVER AND THE GYPSIES
The resolution that gathered in Maggie’s mind was not so simple as that of going home. No! she would run away and go to the gypsies, and Tom should never see her any more. That was by no means a new idea to Maggie. The gypsies, she considered, would gladly receive her, and pay her much respect on account of her superior knowledge. She had once mentioned her views on this point to her brother Tom and had suggested that he should stain his face brown, and they should run away together. But Tom had rejected the scheme with contempt, observing that gypsies were thieves, and that they hardly got anything to eat, and had nothing to drive but a donkey.
To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had reached a pitch at which gypsydom was her only refuge, and she rose from her seat on the roots of the tree with the sense that this was a great crisis in her life. She would run straight away till she came to Dunlow Common, where there would certainly be gypsies; and cruel Tom, and the rest of her relations who found fault with her, should never see her any more. She thought of her father, as she ran along, but determined that she would secretly send him a letter by a small gypsy, who would run away without telling where she was, and just let him know that she was well and happy and always loved him very much.
It seemed to Maggie that she had been running a very great distance indeed, and it was really surprising that the Common did not come within sight. At last, however, the green fields came to an end, and she found herself looking through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide margin of grass on each side of it. She crept through the bars and walked on with a new spirit. It was not, however, without a leaping of the heart that she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock. It was a boy asleep, and she trotted along faster and more lightly, lest she should wake him. It did not occur to her that he was one of her friends, the gypsies, who probably would have very kindly manners. But the fact was so, for at the next bend in the lane she really saw the little black tent with the blue smoke rising before it, which was to be her refuge. She even saw a tall female figure by the column of smoke, doubtless the gypsy mother, who provided the tea and other groceries.
It was plain she had attracted attention. For the tall figure, who proved to be a young woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet her.
“My little lady, where are you going?” the gypsy said, in a coaxing tone.
It was delightful, and just what she expected. The gypsies saw at once that she was a little lady, and were prepared to treat her accordingly.
“Not any farther,” said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what she had rehearsed in a dream. “I’m coming to stay with you, please.”
“That’s pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, to be sure!” said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought her very agreeable, but wished she had not been so dirty.
There was quite a group round the fire when they reached it. An old gypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, and poking a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth an odorous steam. Two small shock-headed children were lying prone and resting on their elbows; and a placid donkey was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her back, was scratching his nose and indulging him with a bite of excellent stolen hay.
The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scene was really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hoped they would soon set out the teacups.
At last the old woman said: “What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit down and tell us where you come from.”
It was just like a story. Maggie liked to be called pretty lady and treated in this way. She sat down, and said: —
“I’m come from home because I’m unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I’ll live with you if you like, and I can teach you a great many things.”
“Such a clever little lady,” said the woman with the baby, sitting down by Maggie, and allowing the baby to crawl. “And such a pretty bonnet and frock,” she added, taking off Maggie’s bonnet, and looking at it while she made a remark to the old woman, in an unknown language. The tall girl snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremost, with a grin. But Maggie was determined not to show any weakness on this subject.
“I don’t want to wear a bonnet,” she said; “I’d rather wear a red handkerchief, like yours.”
“Oh, what a nice little lady! – and rich, I’m sure,” said the old woman. “Didn’t you live in a beautiful house at home?”
“Yes; my home is pretty, and I’m very fond of the river, where we go fishing, but I’m often very unhappy. I should have liked to bring my books with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tell you almost everything there is in my books; I’ve read them so many times, and that will amuse you. And I can tell you something about geography, too, – that’s about the world we live in, – very useful and interesting. Did you ever hear about Columbus?”
“Is that where you live, my little lady?” said the old woman, at the mention of Columbus.
“Oh, no!” said Maggie, with some pity. “Columbus was a very wonderful man, who found out half the world, and they put chains on him and treated him very badly, you know. It’s in my geography, but perhaps it’s rather too long to tell before tea – I want my tea so.” The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself.
“Why, she’s hungry, poor little lady,” said the younger woman. “Give her some of the cold victuals. You’ve been walking a good way, I’ll be bound, my dear. Where’s your home?”
“It’s Dorlcote Mill, a long way off,” said Maggie. “My father is Mr. Tulliver, but we musn’t let him know where I am, or he will take me home again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?”
“What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?” said the younger woman. The tall girl, meanwhile, was constantly staring at Maggie and grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.
“No,” said Maggie; “I’m only thinking that if she isn’t a very good queen you might be glad when she died, and you could choose another. If I were a queen, I’d be a very good queen, and kind to everybody.”
“Here’s a bit of nice victuals, then,” said the old woman, handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread, which she had taken from a bag of scraps, and a piece of cold bacon.
“Thank you,” said Maggie, looking at the food without taking it; “but will you give me some bread and butter and tea, instead? I don’t like bacon.”
“We’ve got no tea or butter,” said the old woman, with something like a scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing.
“Oh, a little bread and treacle would do,” said Maggie.
“We’ve got no treacle,” said the old woman, crossly.
Then the old woman, seeming to forget Maggie’s hunger, poked the skewer into the pot with new vigor, and the younger crept under the tent and reached out some platters and spoons. Maggie trembled a little, and was afraid the tears would come into her eyes. But the springing tears were checked by new terror, when two men came up. The elder of the two carried a bag, which he flung down, addressing the women in a loud and scolding tone.
Both the men now seemed to be asking about Maggie, for they looked at her. At last the younger woman said in her coaxing tone, “This nice little lady’s come to live with us; aren’t you glad?”
“Ay, very glad,” said the younger man, who was looking at Maggie’s silver thimble and other small matters that had been taken from her pocket. He returned them all, except the thimble, to the younger woman, with some remark, and she put them again in Maggie’s pocket. The men seated themselves, and began to attack the contents of the kettle, – a stew of meat and potatoes, – which had been taken off the fire and turned out into a yellow platter.
Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the gypsies; they must certainly be thieves, unless the man meant to return her thimble by and by. She would willingly have given it to him, for she was not at all attached to her thimble. But the idea that she was among thieves prevented her from feeling any comfort. The women saw that she was frightened.
“We’ve nothing nice for a lady to eat,” said the old woman. “And she’s so hungry, sweet little lady.”
“Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit of this,” said the younger woman, handing some of the stew in a brown dish, with an iron spoon, to Maggie, who remembered that the old woman had seemed angry with her for not liking the bread and bacon, and dared not refuse the stew, though fear had chased away her appetite. If her father would only come by in the gig and take her up!
“What! you don’t like the smell of it, my dear,” said the young woman, observing that Maggie did not even take a spoonful of the stew. “Try a bit, come.”
“No, thank you,” said Maggie, trying to smile in a friendly way. “I haven’t time, I think; it seems getting darker. I think I must go home now, and come again another day, and then I can bring you a basket with some jam tarts and things.”
Maggie rose from her seat; but her hope sank when the old gypsy woman said, “Stop a bit, stop a bit, little lady; we’ll take you home, all safe, when we’ve done supper; you shall ride home, like a lady.”
Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though she presently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the donkey, and throwing a couple of bags on his back.
“Now, then, little missis,” said the younger man, rising, and leading the donkey forward, “tell us where you live; what’s the name of the place?”
“Dorlcote Mill is my home,” said Maggie, eagerly. “My father is Mr. Tulliver; he lives there.”
“What! a big mill a little way this side of St. Ogg’s?”
“Yes,” said Maggie. “Is it far off? I think I should like to walk there, if you please.”
“No, no, it’ll be getting dark; we must make haste. And the donkey’ll carry you as nice as can be; you’ll see.”
He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the donkey. She felt relieved that it was not the old man who was going with her, but she had only a trembling hope that she was really going home.
“Here’s your pretty bonnet,” said the younger woman, putting it on Maggie’s head; “and you’ll say we’ve been very good to you, won’t you? and what a nice little lady we said you were.”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Maggie; “I’m very much obliged to you. But I wish you’d go with me, too.” She thought that anything was better than going with one of the dreadful men alone.
“Ah, you’re fondest of me, aren’t you?” said the woman. “But I can’t go; you’ll go too fast for me.”
It now appeared that the man also was to be seated on the donkey, holding Maggie before him, and no nightmare had ever seemed to her more horrible. When the woman had patted her on the back, and said “Good-by,” the donkey set off at a rapid walk along the lane towards the point Maggie had come from an hour ago.
At last – oh, sight of joy! – this lane, the longest in the world, was coming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there was actually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at the corner, – she had surely seen that finger-post before, – “To St. Ogg’s, 2 miles.”
The gypsy really meant to take her home, then; he was probably a good man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought that she didn’t like coming with him alone. This idea became stronger as she felt more and more certain that she knew the road quite well. She was thinking how she might open a conversation with the injured gypsy, when, as they reached a cross-road, Maggie caught sight of some one coming on a white-faced horse.
“Oh, stop, stop!” she cried out. “There’s my father! Oh, father, father!”
The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father reached her, she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver’s wonder, for he had made a round from Basset, and had not yet been home.
“Why, what’s the meaning of this?” he said, checking his horse, while Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her father’s stirrup.
“The little miss lost herself, I reckon,” said the gypsy. “She’d come to our tent at the far end of Dunlow Lane, and I was bringing her where she said her home was. It’s a good way to come after being on the tramp all day.”
“Oh, yes, father, he’s been very good to bring me home,” said Maggie. “A very kind, good man!”
“Here, then, my man,” said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five shillings. “It’s the best day’s work you ever did. I couldn’t afford to lose the little lass; here, lift her up before me.”
“Why, Maggie, how’s this, how’s this?” he said, as they rode along, while she laid her head against her father and sobbed. “How came you to be rambling about and lose yourself?”