Fourth Reader

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, upliftingTheir minarets of snow.The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, paintedThe ruddy tints of healthOn haggard face and form that drooped and faintedIn the fierce race for wealth;Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasureA hoarded volume drew,And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisureTo hear the tale anew;And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,And as the firelight fell,He read aloud the book wherein the MasterHad writ of “Little Nell.”Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy, – for the readerWas youngest of them all, —But as he read, from clustering pine and cedarA silence seemed to fall;The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,Listened in every spray,While the whole camp with “Nell” on English meadowsWandered, and lost their way.And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertakenAs by some spell divine —Their cares drop from them, like the needles shakenFrom 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 storyBlend with the breath that thrillsWith hop-vines’ incense all the pensive gloryThat fills the Kentish hills.And on that grave where English oak and hollyAnd 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 frownCan 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 handOn 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 bladeAs 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 painFor 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 joyIs to slay their fellow-man!”And for many a day old Tubal CainSat 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 ploughTo 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 wallsAnd 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 scarThe 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.

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