Fourth Reader

This time old Philemon took up the pitcher himself; for he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in what Baucis had whispered to him. On taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not so much as a single drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the brim. It was lucky that Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his hand. He quickly set it down and cried out, “Who are ye, wonder-working strangers?”

“Your guests, Philemon, and your friends!” replied the elder traveller, in his mild, deep voice. “We are your guests and friends, and may your pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, nor for the needy wayfarers!”

The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their place of repose. When left alone the good old couple spent some time in conversation about the events of the evening, and then lay down to sleep.

The old man and his wife were stirring betimes the next morning, and the strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to depart. They asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth with them a short distance and show them the road.

“Ah me!” exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little way from their door. “If our neighbors knew what a blessed thing it is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up their dogs, and never allow their children to fling another stone.”

“It is a sin and a shame for them to behave so!” cried good old Baucis.

“My dear friends,” cried Quicksilver, with the liveliest look of mischief in his eyes, “where is this village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie?”

Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where at sunset, only the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the street, the children playing in it. But what was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a village! Even the fertile valley in the hollow of which it lay had ceased to have existence. In its stead they beheld the broad blue surface of a lake which filled the great basin of the valley from brim to brim.

“Alas!” cried these kind-hearted old people, “what has become of our poor neighbors?”

“They exist no longer as men and women,” said the elder traveller, in his grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it in the distance. “There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; therefore the lake that was of old has spread itself forth again to reflect the sky.

“As for you, good Philemon,” continued the elder traveller, – “and you, kind Baucis, – you, with your scanty means, have done well, my dear old friends. Request whatever favor you have most at heart, and it is granted.” Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then one uttered the desire of both their hearts.

“Let us live together while we live, and leave the world at the same instant when we die!”

“Be it so!” replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. “Now look towards your cottage.”

They did so. What was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of white marble on the spot where their humble residence had stood.

“There is your home,” said the stranger, smiling on them both. “Show your kindness in yonder palace as freely as in the poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening.”

The astonished old people fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he nor Quicksilver was there.

So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and spent their time in making everybody happy and comfortable who happened to pass that way. They lived in their palace a very great while, and grew older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however, there came a summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make their appearance, as on other mornings. The guests searched everywhere, but all to no purpose. At last they espied in front of the door, two venerable trees, which no one had ever seen there before. One was an oak and the other a linden tree.

While the guests were marvelling how these trees could have come to be so tall in a single night, a breeze sprang up and set their boughs astir. Then there was a deep murmur in the air, as if the two trees were speaking.

“I am Philemon!” murmured the oak.

“I am Baucis!” murmured the linden tree.

And oh, what a hospitable shade did they fling around them! Whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he heard a whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how the sound could so much resemble words like these, —

“Welcome, welcome, dear traveller, welcome!”

– Nathaniel Hawthorne.

THE UNNAMED LAKE

It sleeps among the thousand hillsWhere no man ever trod,And only Nature’s music fillsThe silences of God.Great mountains tower above its shore,Green rushes fringe its brim,And o’er its breast forevermoreThe wanton breezes skim.Dark clouds that intercept the sunGo there in spring to weep,And there, when autumn days are done,White mists lie down to sleep.Sunrise and sunset crown with goldThe peaks of ageless stone,Where winds have thundered from of oldAnd storms have set their throne.No echoes of the world afarDisturb it night or day,But sun and shadow, moon and star,Pass and repass for aye.’Twas in the gray of early dawn,When first the lake we spied,And fragments of a cloud were drawnHalf down the mountain side.Along the shore a heron flew,And from a speck on high,That hovered in the deepening blue,We heard the fish-hawk’s cry.Among the cloud-capt solitudes,No sound the silence broke,Save when, in whispers down the woods,The guardian mountains spoke.Through tangled brush and dewy brake,Returning whence we came,We passed in silence, and the lakeWe left without a name.– Frederick George Scott.

THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES

Ay, this is freedom! these pure skiesWere never stained with village smoke:The fragrant wind, that through them flies,Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.Here, with my rifle and my steed,And her who left the world for me,I plant me, where the red deer feedIn the green desert – and am free.For here the fair savannas knowNo barriers in the bloomy grass;Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.In pastures, measureless as air,The bison is my noble game;The bounding elk, whose antlers tearThe branches, falls before my aim.Mine are the river-fowl that screamFrom the long strip of waving sedge;The bear that marks my weapon’s gleam.Hides vainly in the forest’s edge;In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;The brinded catamount, that liesHigh in the boughs to watch his prey,Even in the act of springing, dies.With what free growth the elm and planeFling their huge arms across my way,Gray, old, and cumbered with a trainOf vines, as huge, and old, and gray!Free stray the lucid streams, and findNo taint in these fresh lawns and shades;Free spring the flowers that scent the windWhere never scythe has swept the glades.Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sereThe heavy herbage of the ground,Gathers his annual harvest here,With roaring like the battle’s sound,And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:I meet the flames with flames again,And at my door they cower and die.Here, from dim woods, the aged pastSpeaks solemnly; and I beholdThe boundless future in the vastAnd lonely river, seawards rolled.Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,And trains the bordering vines, whose blueBright clusters tempt me as I pass?Broad are these streams – my steed obeys,Plunges, and bears me through the tide.Wide are these woods – I thread the mazeOf giant stems, nor ask a guide.I hunt till day’s last glimmer diesO’er woody vale and grassy height;And kind the voice and glad the eyesThat welcome my return at night.– William Cullen Bryant.

MOSES GOES TO THE FAIR

As we were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the world, my wife suggested that it would be proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighboring fair, and buy us a horse that would carry single or double upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly; but it was as stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last we agreed to part with him.

As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from home. “No, my dear,” said she, “our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very good advantage. You know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain.”

As I had some opinion of my son’s prudence, I was willing enough to intrust him with this commission; and the next morning I perceived his sisters very busy in fitting out Moses for the fair, – trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The business of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring home groceries in.

He had on a coat made of that cloth they call thunder and lightning, which, though grown too short, was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling-green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad black ribbon. We all followed him several paces from the door, bawling after him, “Good luck! good luck!” till we could see him no longer.

When it was almost nightfall, I began to wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair. “Never mind our son,” cried my wife; “depend upon it, he knows what he is about. I’ll warrant we’ll never see him sell his hen on a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I’ll tell you a good story about that, that will make you split your sides with laughing – But, as I live, yonder comes Moses without a horse, and the box at his back.”

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedler.

“Welcome, welcome, Moses! Well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?”

“I have brought you myself,” said Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the dresser.

“Ay, Moses,” cried my wife, “that we know; but where is the horse?”

“I have sold him,” replied Moses, “for three pounds five shillings and twopence.”

“Well done, my good boy,” returned she; “I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and twopence is no bad day’s work. Come, let us have it then.”

“I have brought back no money,” cried Moses, again; “I have laid it all out in a bargain, – and here it is,” pulling out a bundle from his breast; “here they are, – a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases.”

“A gross of green spectacles!” repeated my wife, in a faint voice. “And you have parted with the colt, and brought us back nothing but a gross of green paltry spectacles!”

“Dear mother,” cried the boy, “why won’t you listen to reason? I had them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought them. The silver rims alone will sell for double the money.”

“A fig for the silver rims!” cried my wife, in a passion; “I dare swear they won’t sell for above half the money at the rate of broken silver, five shillings an ounce.”

“You need be under no uneasiness,” said I, “about selling the rims, for they are not worth sixpence; for I perceive they are only copper varnished over.”

“What!” cried my wife; “not silver! the rims not silver!”

“No,” cried I; “no more silver than your saucepan.”

“And so,” returned she, “we have parted with the colt, and have got only a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases? A murrain take such trumpery! The blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have known his company better.”

“There, my dear,” cried I, “you are wrong; he should not have known them at all.”

“To bring me such stuff!” returned she; “if I had them, I would throw them into the fire.”

“There again you are wrong, my dear,” said I; “for though they are copper, we shall keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing.”

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under pretence of having one to sell.

“Here,” continued Moses, “we met another man, very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third of the value. The first gentleman whispered me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent to Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did me; and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us.”

Our family had now made several vain attempts to be fine. “You see, my children,” said I, “how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world. Those that are poor and will associate with none but the rich are hated by those they avoid, and despised by those they follow.” – Oliver Goldsmith.

COLUMBUS

Behind him lay the gray Azores,Behind, the Gates of Hercules,Before him not the ghost of shores,Before him only shoreless seas.The good mate said, “Now must we pray,For lo! the very stars are gone;Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?”“Why, say, ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’ ”“My men grow mutinous day by day,My men grow ghastly wan, and weak.”The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.“What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”“Why, you may say, at break of day,‘Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!’ ”They sailed and sailed as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:“Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.These very winds forget their way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say – ”He said, “Sail on! sail on! and on!”They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:“This mad sea shows his teeth to-night;He curls his lips, he lies in waitWith lifted teeth as if to bite;Brave Admiral, say but one good word,What shall we do when hope is gone?”The words leaped like a leaping sword,“Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,And peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! and then a speck,“A light! A light! A light! A light!”It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn.He gained a world; he gave that worldIts grandest lesson: “On! sail on!”– Joaquin Miller.

OPPORTUNITY

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: —There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;And underneath the cloud, or in it, ragedA furious battle, and men yelled, and swordsShocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s bannerWavered, then staggered backwards, hemmed by foes.A craven hung along the battle’s edge,And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel —That blue blade that the king’s son bears, – but thisBlunt thing – !” he snapt and flung it from his hand,And lowering crept away and left the field.Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shoutLifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,And saved a great cause that heroic day.– Edward Rowland Sill.

TO-DAY

So here hath been dawningAnother blue day;Think wilt thou let itSlip useless away?Out of eternityThis new day is born,Into eternity,At night, will return.Behold it aforetimeNo eye ever did;So soon it foreverFrom all eyes is hid!Here hath been dawningAnother blue day;Think, wilt thou let itSlip useless away?– Thomas Carlyle.

AN ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS

Many years ago there stood a town in Italy, at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, which was to Rome what Brighton or Hastings is to London – a very fashionable watering-place, at which Roman gentlemen and members of the senate built villas, to which they were in the habit of retiring from the fatigues of business or the broils of politics. The outsides of all the houses were adorned with frescoes, and every shop glittered with all the colors of the rainbow. At the end of each street there was a charming fountain, and any one who sat down beside it to cool himself had a delightful view of the Mediterranean, then as beautiful, as blue, and as sunny as it is now. On a fine day, crowds might be seen lounging here; some sauntering up and down in gala dresses of purple, while slaves passed to and fro, bearing on their heads splendid vases; others sat on marble benches, shaded from the sun by awnings, and having before them tables covered with wine, and fruit, and flowers. Every house in that town was a little palace, and every palace was like a temple, or one of our great public buildings.

On entering one of these mansions, the visitor passed through a vestibule decorated with rows of pillars, and then found himself in the room in which the household gods kept guard over the owner’s treasure, which was placed in a safe, or strong box, secured with brass or iron bands. Issuing thence, the visitor found himself in an apartment paved with mosaic, and decorated with paintings, in which were kept the family papers and archives. It contained a dining room and a supper room, and a number of sleeping rooms; a cabinet, filled with rare jewels and antiquities, and sometimes a fine collection of paintings; and, last of all, a pillared peristyle, opening out upon the garden, in which the finest fruit hung temptingly in the rich light of a golden sky, and fountains, which flung their waters aloft in every imaginable form and device, cooled the air and discoursed sweet music to the ear. On the gate there was always the image of a dog, and underneath it the inscription, “Beware the dog.”

The pillars in the peristyle were encircled with garlands of flowers, which were renewed every morning. The tables of citron-wood were inlaid with silver; the couches were of bronze, gilt and jewelled, and were furnished with thick cushions and tapestry, embroidered with marvellous skill. When the master gave a dinner party, the guests reclined upon these cushions, washed their hands in silver basins, and dried them with napkins fringed with purple. They ate oysters brought from the shores of Britain, kids which were carved to the sound of music, and fruits served up on ice in the hottest days of summer; and while the cup-bearers filled their golden cups with the rarest and most delicate wines, other attendants crowned them with flowers wet with dew, and dancers executed for their pleasure the most graceful movements.

One day, when such festivities as these were in full activity, Vesuvius sent up a tall and very black column of smoke, something like a pine-tree; and suddenly, in broad noonday, darkness black as pitch came over the scene! There was a frightful din of cries and groans, mingled confusedly together. The brother lost his sister, the husband his wife, the mother her child; for the darkness became so dense that nothing could be seen but the flashes which every now and then darted forth from the summit of the neighboring mountain. The earth trembled, the houses shook and began to fall, and the sea rolled back from the land as if terrified; the air became thick with dust; and then, amidst tremendous and awful noise, a shower of ashes and stones fell upon the town and blotted it out forever!

The inhabitants died just as the catastrophe found them – guests in their banqueting halls, soldiers at their posts, prisoners in their dungeons, thieves in their theft, maidens at the mirror, slaves at the fountain, traders in their shops, students at their books. Some attempted flight, guided by blind people, who had walked so long in darkness that no thicker shadows could ever come upon them; but of these many were struck down on the way. When, a few days afterwards, people came from the surrounding country to the place, they found naught but a black, level, smoking plain, sloping to the sea, and covered thickly with ashes! Down, down beneath, thousands and thousands were sleeping “the sleep that knows no waking,” with all their little pomps, and vanities, and pleasures, and luxuries buried with them.

This took place on the 23d of August, A.D. 79; and the name of the town, thus suddenly overwhelmed with ruin, was Pompeii. Sixteen hundred and seventeen years afterwards, curious persons began to dig and excavate on the spot, and lo! they found the city pretty much as it was when overwhelmed. The houses were standing, the paintings were fresh, and the skeletons stood in the very positions and the very places in which death had overtaken their owners so long ago! The researches are still going on, new wonders are every day coming to light, and we soon shall have almost as perfect an idea of a Roman town, in the first century of the Christian era, as if we had walked the streets and gossiped with the idle loungers at the fountains. Pompeii is the ghost of an extinct civilization rising up before us.

– Anonymous.

THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS

Up soared the lark into the air,A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer,As if a soul, released from pain,Were flying back to heaven again.St. Francis heard; it was to himAn emblem of the Seraphim;The upward motion of the fire,The light, the heat, the heart’s desire.Around Assisi’s convent gateThe birds, God’s poor who cannot wait,From moor and mere and darksome woodCame flocking for their dole of food.“O brother birds,” St. Francis said,“Ye come to me and ask for bread,But not with bread alone to-dayShall ye be fed and sent away.“Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,With manna of celestial words;Not mine, though mine they seem to be,Not mine, though they be spoken through me.“O, doubly are ye bound to praiseThe great Creator in your lays;He giveth you your plumes of down,Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.“He giveth you your wings to flyAnd breathe a purer air on high,And careth for you everywhere,Who for yourselves so little care!”With flutter of swift wings and songsTogether rose the feathered throngs,And singing scattered far apart;Deep peace was in St. Francis’ heart.He knew not if the brotherhoodHis homily had understood:He only knew that to one earThe meaning of his words was clear.– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE GREENWOOD TREE

Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird’s throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither;Here shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.Who doth ambition shun,And loves to lie in the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither;Here shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.– William Shakespeare.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused, “My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,”Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse’s mane, a boy;You hardly could suspect —(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through) —You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s graceWe’ve got you Ratisbon!The Marshal’s in the market-place,And you’ll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart’s desire,Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief’s eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle’s eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s prideTouched to the quick, he said:“I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.– Robert Browning.

ROBINSON CRUSOE

When I waked, it was broad day. The weather was clear, and the storm had abated, so that the sea did not rage and swell as before; but what surprised me most was, that by the swelling of the tide the ship was lifted off in the night from the sand where she lay, and was driven up almost as far as the rock where I had been so bruised by the waves dashing me against it. I saw that I could easily swim to the vessel, and accordingly I pulled off my clothes and took to the water. But when I reached the ship, my difficulty was still greater to know how to get on board; for, as she lay aground, and high out of the water, there was nothing within my reach by which to climb on board. I swam round her twice, and the second time I spied a small piece of rope, by the help of which I got into the forecastle of the ship.