Fourth Reader

During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do battle on foot instead of on horseback, and he finally resolved to fight on foot, fearing that his horse might take fright at the sight of the lions. He therefore sprang to the ground, flung his lance aside, braced his buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the cart. The keeper, seeing that the knight had taken up his position, and that it was impossible for him to avoid letting out the lions without getting into trouble, flung open the doors of the cage containing the lion, which was now seen to be of enormous size and grim and hideous mien.

The first thing the lion did was to turn round in the cage in which he lay, and protrude his claws and stretch himself thoroughly. He next opened his mouth and yawned very leisurely. When he had done this, he put his head out of the cage and looked all round with eyes like glowing coals. Don Quixote merely observed him steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and come to close quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him to pieces. But the noble beast turned about and very coolly and tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote ordered the keeper to take a stick to him and provoke him, to make him come out.

“That I will not,” said the keeper; “for if I anger him, the first he’ll tear in pieces will be myself. Be satisfied, Sir Knight, with what you have done, which leaves nothing more to be said on the score of courage, and do not seek to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the door open; he is free to come out or not to come out; but as he has not come out so far, he will not come out to-day. The greatness of your worship’s courage has been fully manifested already; no brave champion, so it strikes me, is bound to do more than challenge his enemy and wait for him on the field. If his adversary does not come, on him lies the disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off the crown of victory.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, my friend, and let me have by way of certificate in the best form thou canst what thou hast seen me do. Close the door, as I bade thee, while I make signals to the fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this exploit from thy lips.”

The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing his handkerchief on the point of his lance, proceeded to recall the others, who still continued to fly, looking back at every step. Sancho, however, happening to observe the signal, exclaimed: “May I die if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is calling to us.”

They stopped, and, perceiving that it was Don Quixote who was making signals, they approached slowly until they were near enough to hear him distinctly calling to them. They returned at length to the cart, and as they came up, Don Quixote said to the carter: “Put your mules to the cart once more, brother, and continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho, give him two gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to compensate them for the delay they have incurred through me.”

Sancho paid the crowns, the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s hands for the bounty bestowed on him, and promised to give an account of the valiant exploit to the king himself, as soon as he saw him at court. The cart went its way, and Don Quixote and Sancho went theirs.

– Miguel de Cervantes.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

It was a summer evening,Old Kaspar’s work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun,And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found;He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And with a natural sigh:“ ’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,“Who fell in the great victory.“I find them in the garden,For there’s many here about;And often when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out!For many thousand men,” said he,“Were slain in that great victory.”“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”Young Peterkin, he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks up,With wonder-waiting eyes;“Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for.”“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,“Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other for,I could not well make out;But everybody said,” quoth he,“That ’twas a famous victory.“My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.“With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a nursing mother thenAnd new-born baby died;But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.“They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory.“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,And our good Prince Eugene.”“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”Said little Wilhelmine.“Nay – nay – my little girl,” quoth he,“It was a famous victory.“And everybody praised the Duke,Who this great fight did win.”“But what good came of it at last?”Quoth little Peterkin.“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,“But ’twas a famous victory.”– Robert Southey.

A HURON MISSION HOUSE

By the ancient Huron custom, when a man or a family wanted a house, the whole village joined in building one. In the present case the neighboring town also took part in the work. Before October the task was finished.

The house was constructed after the Huron model. It was thirty-six feet long and about twenty feet wide, framed with strong sapling poles planted in the earth to form the sides, with the ends bent into an arch for the roof, – the whole lashed firmly together, braced with cross poles, and closely covered with overlapping sheets of bark.

Without, the structure was strictly Indian; but within, the priests, with the aid of their tools, made changes which were the astonishment of all the country. They divided their dwelling by transverse partitions into three apartments, each with its wooden door, – a wondrous novelty in the eyes of their visitors. The first served as a hall, an anteroom, and a place of storage for corn, beans, and dried fish. The second – the largest of the three – was at once kitchen, workshop, dining-room, drawing-room, school-room, and bedchamber. The third was the chapel. Here they made their altar, and here were their images, pictures, and sacred vessels.

Their fire was on the ground, in the middle of the second apartment, the smoke escaping by a hole in the roof. At the sides were placed two wide platforms, after the Huron fashion, four feet from the earthen floor. On these were chests in which they kept their clothing, and beneath them they slept, reclining on sheets of bark, and covered with skins and the garments they wore by day. Rude stools, a hand-mill, an Indian mortar for crushing corn, and a clock completed the furniture of the room.

There was no lack of visitors, for the house contained marvels the fame of which was noised abroad to the uttermost confines of the Huron nation. Chief among them was the clock. The guests would sit in expectant silence by the hour, squatted on the ground, waiting to hear it strike. They thought it was alive, and asked what it ate. As the last stroke sounded, one of the Frenchmen would cry “Stop!” – and to the admiration of the company the obedient clock was silent. The mill was another wonder, and they never tired of turning it. Besides these, there was a prism and a magnet; also a magnifying glass, wherein a flea was transformed to a frightful monster, and a multiplying lens which showed them the same object eleven times repeated.

“What does the Captain say?” was the frequent question; for by this title of honor they designated the clock.

“When he strikes twelve times he says, ‘Hang on the kettle’; and when he strikes four times he says, ‘Get up and go home.’ ”

Both interpretations were remembered. At noon visitors were never wanting; but at the stroke of four all arose and departed, leaving the missionaries for a time in peace. – Francis Parkman.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES

By Nebo’s lonely mountain,On this side Jordan’s wave,In a vale in the land of MoabThere lies a lonely grave;And no man knows that sepulchre,And no man saw it e’er,For the angels of God upturn’d the sod,And laid the dead man there.That was the grandest funeralThat ever pass’d on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth —Noiselessly as the daylightComes back when night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheekGrows into the great sun;Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves;So without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain’s crown,The great procession swept.Perchance the bald old eagleOn gray Beth-peor’s heightOut of his lonely eyrieLook’d on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalkingStill shuns that hallow’d spot,For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.But when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drum,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steed,While peals the minute gun.Amid the noblest of the land,We lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honor’d place,With costly marble dressed,In the great minster transept,Where lights like glories fall,And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings,Along the emblazon’d wall.This was the truest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth’s philosopherTraced with his golden penOn the deathless page truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.And had he not high honor —The hillside for a pall,To lie in state while angels waitWith stars for tapers tall,And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave,And God’s own hand in that lonely landTo lay him in the grave, —In that strange grave without a name,Whence his uncoffin’d clayShall break again, O wondrous thought,Before the judgment-day,And stand with glory wrapt aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our lifeWith the Incarnate Son of God?O lonely grave in Moab’s land!O dark Beth-peor’s hill!Speak to these curious hearts of oursAnd teach them to be still.God hath His mysteries of grace,Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep like the hidden sleepOf him He loved so well.– Cecil Frances Alexander.

THE CRUISE OF THE CORACLE

It was broad day when I awoke, and found myself tossing at the south-west end of Treasure Island. I was scarcely a quarter of a mile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land. But that notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers spouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and falling, succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself, if I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore, or spending my strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.

Nor was that all; for crawling together on flat tables of rock, or letting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports, I beheld huge slimy monsters, – soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness, – two or three score of them together, making the rocks to echo with their barkings. I have understood since that they were sea-lions, and entirely harmless. But the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the high running of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me with that landing-place. I felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront such perils.

There was a great, smooth swell upon the sea. The wind blowing steady and gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the current, and the billows rose and fell unbroken. Had it been otherwise, I must long ago have perished; but as it was, it is surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could ride. Often, as I still lay at the bottom, and kept no more than an eye above the gunwale, I would see a big blue summit heaving close above me; yet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and subside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.

I began after a little to grow very bold, and sat up to try my skill at paddling. But even a small change in the disposition of the weight will produce violent changes in the behavior of a coracle. And I had hardly moved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle dancing movement, ran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and stuck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next wave.

I was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old position, whereupon the coracle seemed to find her head again, and led me as softly as before among the billows. It was plain she was not to be interfered with, and at that rate, since I could in no way influence her course, what hope had I left of reaching land?

I began to be horribly frightened, but I kept my head, for all that. First, moving with all care, I gradually bailed out the coracle with my sea-cap; then getting my eye once more above the gunwale, I set myself to study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers. I found each wave, instead of the big, smooth, glossy mountain it looks from the shore, or from a vessel’s deck, was for all the world like any range of hills on the dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and valleys. The coracle, left to herself, turning from side to side, threaded, so to speak, her way through these lower parts, and avoided the steep slopes and higher toppling summits of the wave.

“Well, now,” thought I to myself, “it is plain I must lie where I am, and not disturb the balance; but it is plain, also, that I can put the paddle over the side, and from time to time, in smooth places, give her a shove or two towards land.”

No sooner thought upon than done. There I lay on my elbows, in the most trying attitude, and every now and again gave a weak stroke or two to turn her head to shore. It was very tiring, and slow work, yet I did visibly gain ground; and, as we drew near the Cape of the Woods, though I saw I must infallibly miss that point, I had still made some hundred yards of easting. I was, indeed, close in. I could see the cool, green tree-tops swaying together in the breeze, and I felt sure I should make the next promontory without fail.

It was high time, for I now began to be tortured with thirst. The glow of the sun from above, its thousand-fold reflection from the waves, the sea-water that fell and dried upon me, caking my very lips with salt, combined to make my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the trees so near at hand had almost made me sick with longing; but the current had soon carried me past the point; and, as the next reach of sea opened out, I beheld a sight that changed the nature of my thoughts.

Right in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld the Hispaniola under sail. I made sure, of course, that I should be taken; but I was so distressed for want of water that I scarce knew whether to be glad or sorry at the thought; and, long before I had come to a conclusion, surprise had taken entire possession of my mind, and I could do nothing but stare and wonder.

The Hispaniola was under her mainsail and two jibs, and the beautiful white canvas shone in the sun like snow or silver. When I first sighted her, all her sails were drawing, she was lying a course about north-west, and I presumed the men on board were going round the island on their way back to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more and more to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and were going about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the wind’s eye, was taken dead aback, and stood there awhile helpless, with her sails shivering.

Meanwhile, the schooner gradually fell off, and filled again upon another tack, sailed swiftly for a minute or so, and brought up once more dead in the wind’s eye. Again and again was this repeated. To and fro, up and down, north, south, east, and west, the Hispaniola sailed by swoops and dashes, and at each repetition ended as she had begun, with rapidly flapping canvas. It became plain to me that nobody was steering. And, if so, where were the men?

Either they were drunk, or had deserted her, I thought, and perhaps, if I could get on board, I might return the vessel to her captain.

The current was bearing coracle and schooner southwards at an equal rate. As for the latter’s sailing, it was so wild and intermittent, and she hung each time so long in irons, that she certainly gained nothing, if she did not even lose. If only I dared to sit up and paddle, I made sure that I could overhaul her. The scheme had an air of adventure that inspired me, and the thought of the water-breaker beside the fore-companion doubled my growing courage.

Up I got, was welcomed almost instantly by another cloud of spray, but this time stuck to my purpose; and set myself, with all my strength and caution, to paddle after the unsteered Hispaniola. Once I shipped a sea so heavy that I had to stop and bail, with my heart fluttering like a bird; but gradually I got into the way of the thing, and guided my coracle among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bows and a dash of foam in my face.

I was now gaining rapidly on the schooner; I could see the brass glisten on the tiller as it banged about; and still no soul appeared upon her decks. I could not choose but suppose she was deserted. If not, the men were lying helpless below, where I might batten them down, perhaps; and do what I chose with the ship.

For some time she had been doing the worst thing possible for me – standing still. She headed nearly due south, yawing, of course, all the time. Each time she fell off her sails partly filled, and these brought her, in a moment, right to the wind again. I have said this was the worst thing possible for me; for, helpless as she looked in this situation, with the canvas crackling like cannon, and the blocks trundling and banging on the deck, she still continued to run away from me, not only with the speed of the current, but by the whole amount of her leeway, which was naturally great.

But now, at last, I had my chance. The breeze fell, for some seconds, very low, and the current gradually turning her, the Hispaniola revolved slowly round her centre, and at last presented me her stern, with the cabin window still gaping open, and the lamp over the table still burning on into the day. The mainsail hung drooped like a banner. She was stock-still, but for the current.

For the last little while I had even lost; but now, redoubling my efforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase. I was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came again in a clap; she filled on the port tack, and was off again, stooping and skimming like a swallow.

My first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy. Round she came, till she was broadside on to me – round still till she had covered a half, and then two-thirds, and then three-quarters of the distance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under her forefoot. Immensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the coracle.

And then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to think – scarce time to act and save myself. I was on the summit of one swell when the schooner came stooping over the next. The bowsprit was over my head. I sprang to my feet, and leaped, stamping the coracle under water. With one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged between the stay and the brace; and as I still clung there panting, a dull blow told me that the schooner had charged down upon and struck the coracle, and that I was left without retreat on the Hispaniola.

– Robert Louis Stevenson.From “Treasure Island,” by permission.No man is born into the world whose workIs not born with him: there is always work,And tools to work withal, for those who will;And blesséd are the horny hands of toil. – Lowell.

THE SEA

The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth’s wide regions round;It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;Or like a cradled creature lies.I’m on the Sea! I’m on the Sea!I am where I would ever be,With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence whereso’er I go:If a storm should come, and awake the deep,What matter? I shall ride and sleep.I love, oh, how I love, to rideOn the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft its tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the south-west blasts do blow!I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great Sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest:And a mother she was and is to me;For I was born on the open Sea!The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the Ocean-child.I’ve lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor’s life,With wealth to spend, and power to range,But never have sought, nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he comes to me,Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!– Bryan Waller Procter.

THE WIND’S WORD

The wind charged every way, and fledAcross the meadows and the wheat;It whirled the swallows overhead,And swung the daisies at my feet.As if in mockery of me,And all the deadness of my thought,It mounted to the largest glee,And, like a lord that laughed and fought,Took all the maples by surprise,And made the poplars clash and shiver,And flung my hair about my eyes,And sprang and blackened on the river.And through the elm-tree tops, and roundThe city steeples wild and high,It floundered with a mighty sound,A buoyant voice that seemed to cry, —“Behold how grand I am, how free!And all the forest bends my way!I roam the earth, I stalk the sea,And make my labor but a play.”– Archibald Lampman.

GULLIVER AMONG THE GIANTS

It was about twelve at noon, and a servant brought in dinner. It was only one substantial meal of meat, fit for the plain condition of a husbandman, in a dish of about four-and-twenty feet diameter. The company consisted of the farmer and his wife, three children, and an old grandmother. When they were seated, the farmer placed me at some distance from him on the table, which was thirty feet high from the floor.

I was in a terrible fright, and kept as far as I could from the edge, for fear of falling. The wife minced a bit of meat, then crumbled some bread on a trencher, and placed it before me. I made her a low bow, took out my knife and fork, and fell to eating, which gave them exceeding delight. The mistress sent her maid for a small dram cup, which held about two gallons, and filled it with drink. I took up the vessel with much difficulty in both hands, and in a most respectful manner drank to her ladyship’s health, expressing the words as loudly as I could in English: which made the company laugh so heartily that I was almost deafened with the noise. This liquor tasted like cider, and was not unpleasant.

Then the master made me a sign to come to his side; but, as I walked on the table, being in great surprise all the time, I happened to stumble against a crust, and fell flat on my face, but received no hurt. I got up immediately, and, observing the good people to be in much concern, I took my hat, which I held under my arm, out of good manners, and, waving it over my head, gave three cheers to show I had received no mischief by my fall.

On advancing towards my master, his youngest son, who sat next to him, an arch boy of about ten years old, took me up by the legs, and held me so high in the air that I trembled in every limb; but his father snatched me from him, and at the same time gave him such a box on the left ear as would have felled a European troop of horse to the earth, and ordered him to be taken from the table. As I was afraid the boy might owe me a spite, I fell on my knees, and, pointing to him, made my master to understand as well as I could that I desired his son might be pardoned. The father complied, and the lad took his seat again; whereupon I went to him and kissed his hand, which my master took, and made him stroke me gently with it.