School Reading By Grades: Fifth Year

As the people became more numerous, and there was more trade among them, the want of money caused much inconvenience. At last, the General Court of the colony passed a law providing for the coinage of small pieces of silver – shillings, sixpences, and threepences. They also appointed Captain John Hull to be mint-master for the colony, and gave him the exclusive right to make this money. It was agreed that for every twenty shillings coined by him, he was to keep one shilling to pay him for his work.

And now, all the old silver in the colony was hunted up and carried to Captain Hull’s mint. Battered silver cans and tankards, silver buckles, broken spoons, old sword hilts, and many other such curious old articles were doubtless thrown into the melting pot together. But by far the greater part of the silver consisted of bullion from the mines of South America, which the English buccaneers had taken from the Spaniards and brought to Massachusetts. All this old and new silver was melted down and coined; and the result was an immense amount of bright shillings, sixpences, and threepences. Each had the date, 1652, on one side, and the figure of a pine tree on the other; hence, the shillings were called pine-tree shillings.

When the members of the General Court saw what an immense number of coins had been made, and remembered that one shilling in every twenty was to go into the pockets of Captain John Hull, they began to think that the mint-master was having the best of the bargain. They offered him a large amount, if he would but give up his claim to that twentieth shilling. But the Captain declared that he was well satisfied to let things stand as they were. And so he might be, for in a few years his money bags and his strong box were all overflowing with pine-tree shillings.

Now, the rich mint-master had a daughter whose name I do not know, but whom I will call Betsey. This daughter was a fine, hearty damsel, by no means so slender as many young ladies of our own days. She had been fed on pumpkin pies, doughnuts, Indian puddings, and other Puritan dainties, and so had grown up to be as round and plump as any lass in the colony. With this round, rosy Miss Betsey, a worthy young man, Samuel Sewell by name, fell in love; and as he was diligent in business, and a member of the church, the mint-master did not object to his taking her as his wife. “Oh, yes, you may have her,” he said in his rough way; “but you will find her a heavy enough burden.”

On the wedding day we may suppose that honest John Hull dressed himself in a plum-colored coat, all the buttons of which were made of pine-tree shillings. The buttons of his waistcoat were sixpences, and the knees of his small clothes were buttoned with silver threepences. Thus attired, he sat with dignity in the huge armchair which had been brought from old England expressly for his comfort. On the other side of the room sat Miss Betsey. She was blushing with all her might, and looked like a full-blown peony or a great red apple.

There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine purple coat and gold-laced waistcoat. His hair was cropped close to his head, because Governor Endicott had forbidden any man to wear it below the ears. But he was a very personable young man; and so thought the bridesmaids and Miss Betsey herself.

When the marriage ceremony was over, Captain Hull whispered a word to two of his men servants, who immediately went out, and soon returned lugging in a large pair of scales. They were such a pair as wholesale merchants use for weighing bulky commodities; and quite a bulky commodity was now to be weighed in them.

“Daughter Betsey,” said the mint-master, “get into one side of these scales.” Miss Betsey – or Mrs. Sewell, as we must now call her – did as she was bid, like a dutiful child, without any question of why and wherefore. But what her father could mean, unless to make her husband pay for her by the pound (in which case she would have been a dear bargain), she had not the least idea.

“Now,” said honest John Hull to the servants, “bring that box hither.” The box to which the mint-master pointed was a huge, square, iron-bound, oaken chest; it was big enough, my children, for three or four of you to play at hide and seek in. The servants tugged with might and main, but could not lift this enormous receptacle, and were finally obliged to drag it across the floor. Captain Hull then took a key from his girdle, unlocked the chest, and lifted its ponderous lid.

Behold! it was full to the brim of bright pine-tree shillings fresh from the mint; and Samuel Sewell began to think that his father-in-law had got possession of all the money in the Massachusetts treasury. But it was only the mint-master’s honest share of the coinage.

Then the servants, at Captain Hull’s command, heaped double handfuls of shillings into one side of the scales, while Betsey remained in the other. Jingle, jingle went the shillings, as handful after handful was thrown in, till, plump and ponderous as she was, they fairly weighed the young lady from the floor.

“There, son Sewell!” cried the honest mint-master, “take these shillings for my daughter’s portion. It is not every wife that is worth her weight in silver.”

– Adapted from “Grandfather’s Chair” by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS

Among all the great poems that have ever been written none are grander or more famous than the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey,” of the old Greek poet Homer. They were composed and recited nearly three thousand years ago, and yet nothing that has been written in later times has so charmed and delighted mankind. In the “Iliad” the poet tells how the Greeks made war upon Troy, and how they did brave deeds around the walls of that famed city, and faltered not till they had won the stubborn fight. In the “Odyssey” he tells how the Greek hero Ulysses or Odysseus, when the war was ended, set sail for his distant home in Ithaca; how he was driven from his course by the wind and waves; and how he was carried against his will through unknown seas and to strange, mysterious shores where no man had been before.

One of the most famous passages in the “Odyssey” is that in which Ulysses relates the story of his meeting with the one-eyed giant, Polyphemus. He tells it in this manner:

When we had come to the land, we saw a cave not far from the sea. It was a lofty cave roofed over with laurels, and in it large herds of sheep and goats were used to rest. About it a high outer court was built with stones set deep in the ground, and with tall pines and oaks crowned with green leaves. In it was wont to sleep a man of monstrous size who shepherded his flocks alone and had no dealings with others, but dwelt apart in lawlessness of mind. Indeed, he was a monstrous thing, most strangely shaped; and he was unlike any man that lives by bread, but more like the wooded top of some towering hill that stands out apart and alone from others.

Then I bade the rest of my well-loved company stay close by the ship and guard it; but I chose out twelve of my bravest men and sallied forth. We bore with us a bag of corn and a great skin filled with dark sweet wine; for in my lordly heart I had a foreboding that we should meet a man, a strange, strong man who had little reason and cared nothing for the right.

Soon we came to the cave, but he was not within; he was shepherding his fat flocks in the pastures. So we went into the cave and looked around. There we saw many folds filled with lambs and kids. Each kind was penned by itself; in one fold were the spring lambs, in one were the summer lambs, and in one were the younglings of the flock. On one side of the cave were baskets well laden with cheeses; and the milk pails and the bowls and the well-wrought vessels into which he milked were filled with whey.

Then my men begged me to take the cheeses and return, and afterwards to make haste and drive off the kids and lambs to the swift ship and sail without delay over the salt waves. Far better would it have been had I done as they wished; but I bade them wait and see the giant himself, for perhaps he would give me gifts as a stranger’s due. Then we kindled a fire and made a burnt-offering; and we ate some of the cheeses, and sat waiting for him till he came back driving his flocks. In his arms he carried a huge load of dry wood to be used in cooking supper. This he threw down with a great noise inside the cave, and we in fear hid ourselves in the dark corners behind the rocks.

As for the giant, he drove into the wide cavern all those of his flock that he was wont to milk; but the males, both of the sheep and of the goats, he left outside in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted a huge door stone and set it in the mouth of the cave; it was a stone so weighty that two-and-twenty good, four-wheeled wagons could scarce have borne it off the ground. Then he sat down and milked the ewes and the bleating goats, each in its turn, and beneath each ewe he placed her young. After that he curdled half of the white milk and stored it in wicker baskets; and the other half he let stand in pails that he might have it for his supper.

Now, when he had done all his work busily, he kindled the fire, and as its light shone into all parts of the cave, he saw us. “Strangers, who are you?” he cried. “Whence sail you over the wet ways? Are you on some trading voyage, or do you rove as sea robbers over the briny deep?”

Such were his words, and so monstrous was he and so deep was his voice that our hearts were broken within us for terror. But, for all that, I stood up and answered him, saying:

“Lo, we are Greeks, driven by all manner of winds over the great gulf of the sea. We seek our homes, but have lost our way and know not where we go. Now we have landed on this shore, and we come to thy knees, thinking perhaps that thou wilt give us a stranger’s gift, or make any present, as is the due of strangers. Think upon thy duty to the gods; for we are thy suppliants. Have regard to Jupiter, the god of the sojourner and the friend of the stranger.”

This I said, and then the giant answered me out of his pitiless heart: “Thou art indeed a foolish fellow and a stranger in this land, to think of bidding me fear the gods. We Cyclops care nothing for Jupiter, nor for any other of the gods; for we are better men than they. The fear of them will never cause me to spare either thee or thy company, unless I choose to do so.”

Then the giant sprang up and caught two of my companions, and dashed them to the ground so hard that they died before my eyes; and the earth was wet with their blood. Then he cut them into pieces, and made ready his evening meal. So he ate, as a lion of the mountains; and we wept and raised our hands to Jupiter, and knew not what to do. And after the Cyclops had filled himself, he lay down among his sheep.

Then I considered in my great heart whether I should not draw my sharp sword, and stab him in the breast. But upon second thought, I held back. For I knew that we would not be able to roll away with our hands the heavy stone which the giant had set against the door, and we would then have perished in the cave. So, all night long, we crouched trembling in the darkness, and waited the coming of the day.

Now, when the rosy-fingered Dawn shone forth, the Cyclops arose and kindled the fire. Then he is milked his goodly flock, and beneath each ewe he set her lamb. When he had done all his work busily, he seized two others of my men, and made ready his morning meal. And after the meal, he moved away the great door stone, and drove his fat flocks forth from the cave; and when the last sheep had gone out, he set the stone in its place again, as one might set the lid of a quiver. Then, with a loud whoop, he turned his flocks toward the hills; but I was left shut up in the cave, and thinking what we should do to avenge ourselves.

And at last this plan seemed to me the best. Not far from the sheepfold there lay a great club of the Cyclops, a club of olive wood, yet green, which he had cut to carry with him when it should be fully seasoned. Now when we looked at this stick, it seemed to us as large as the mast of a black ship of twenty oars, a wide merchant vessel that sails the vast sea. I stood by it, and cut off from it a piece some six feet in length, and set it by my men, and bade them trim it down and make it smooth; and while they did this, I stood by and sharpened it to a point. Then I took it and hardened it in the bright fire; and after that, I laid it away and hid it. And I bade my men cast lots to determine which of them should help me, when the time came, to lift the sharp and heavy stick and turn it about in the Cyclops’ eye. And the lots fell upon those whom I would have chosen, and I appointed myself to be the fifth among them.

II

In the evening the Cyclops came home, bringing his well-fleeced flocks; and soon he drove the beasts, each and all, into the cave, and left not one outside in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted the huge door stone, and set it in the mouth of the cave; and after that he milked the ewes and the bleating goats, all in order, and beneath each ewe he placed her young.

Now when he had done all his work busily, he seized two others of my men, and made ready his supper. Then I stood before the Cyclops and spoke to him, holding in my hands a bowl of dark wine: “Cyclops, take this wine and drink it after thy feast, that thou mayest know what kind of wine it was that our good ship carried. For, indeed, I was bringing it to thee as a drink offering, if haply thou wouldst pity us and send us on our way home; but thy mad rage seems to have no bounds.”

So I spoke, and he took the cup and drank the wine; and so great was his delight that he asked me for yet a second draught.

“Kindly give me more, and tell me thy name, so that I may give thee a stranger’s gift and make thee glad.”

Thus he spoke, and again I handed him the dark wine. Three times did I hand it to him, and three times did he drink it to the dregs. But when the wine began to confuse his wits, then I spoke to him with soft words:

“O Cyclops, thou didst ask for my renowned name, and now I will tell it to thee; but do thou grant me a stranger’s gift, as thou hast promised. My name is No-man; my father and my mother and all my companions call me No-man.”

Thus I spoke, and he answered me out of his pitiless heart: “I will eat thee, No-man, after I have eaten all thy fellows: that shall be thy gift.”

Then he sank down upon the ground with his face upturned; and there he lay with his great neck bent round; and sleep, that conquers all men, overcame him. Then I thrust that stake under the burning coals until the sharpened end of it grew hot; and I spoke words of comfort to my men lest they should hang back with fear. But when the bar of olive wood began to glow and was about to catch fire, even then I came nigh and drew it from the coals, and my men stood around me, and some god filled our hearts with courage.

The men seized the bar of olive wood and thrust it into the Cyclops’ eye, while I from my place aloft turned it around. As when a man bores a ship’s beam with a drill while his fellows below spin it with a strap, which they hold at either end, and the auger runs round continually: even so did we seize the fiery-pointed brand and whirl it round in his eye. And the flames singed his eyelids and brows all about, as the ball of the eye was burned away. And the Cyclops raised a great and terrible cry that made the rocks around us ring, and we fled away in fear, while he plucked the brand from his bleeding eye.

Then, maddened with pain, he cast the bar from him, and called with a loud voice to the Cyclopes, his neighbors, who dwelt near him in the caves along the cliffs. And they heard his cry, and flocked together from every side, and standing outside, at the door of the cave, asked him what was the matter:

“What troubles thee, Polyphemus, that thou criest thus in the night, and wilt not let us sleep?”

The strong Cyclops whom they thus called Polyphemus, answered them from the cave: “My friends, No-man is killing me by guile, and not by force!”

And they spoke winged words to him: “If no man is mistreating thee in thy lonely cave, then it must be some sickness, sent by Jupiter, that is giving thee pain. Pray to thy father, great Neptune, and perhaps he will cure thee.”

And when they had said this they went away; and my heart within me laughed to see how my name and cunning counsel had deceived them. But the Cyclops, groaning with pain, groped with his hands, and lifted the stone from the door of the cave. Then he sat in the doorway, with arms outstretched, to lay hold of any one that might try to go out with the sheep; for he thought that I would be thus foolish. But I began to think of all kinds of plans by which we might escape; and this was the plan which seemed to me the best:

The rams of the flock were thick-fleeced, beautiful, and large; and their wool was dark as the violet. These I quietly lashed together with the strong withes which the Cyclops had laid in heaps to sleep upon. I tied them together in threes: the middle one of the three was to carry a man; but the sheep on either side went only as a shield to keep him from discovery. Thus, every three sheep carried their man. As for me, I laid hold of a young ram, the best and strongest of all the flock; and I clung beneath him, face upward, grasping the wondrous fleece.

As soon as the early Dawn shone forth, the rams of the flock hastened out to the pasture, but the ewes bleated about the pens and waited to be milked. As the rams passed through the doorway, their master, sore stricken with pain, felt along their backs, and guessed not in his folly that my men were bound beneath their wooly breasts. Last of all, came the young ram cumbered with his heavy fleece, and the weight of me and my cunning. The strong Cyclops laid his hands on him and spoke to him:

“Dear ram,” he said, “pray tell me why you are the last of all to go forth from the cave. You are not wont to lag behind. Hitherto you have always been the first to pluck the tender blossoms of the pasture, and you have been the first to go back to the fold at evening. But now you are the very last. Can it be that you are sorrowing for your master’s eye which a wicked man blinded when he had overcome me with wine?

“Ah, if you could feel as I – if you could speak and tell me where he is hiding to shun my wrath – then I would smite him, and my heart would be lightened of the sorrows that he has brought upon me.”

Then he sent the ram from him; and when we had gone a little way from the cave I loosed myself from under the ram, and then set my fellows free. Swiftly we drove the flock before us, and often is turned to look about, till at last we came to the ship.

Our companions greeted us with glad hearts, – us who had fled from death; and they were about to bemoan the others with tears when I forbade. I told them to make haste and take on board the well-fleeced sheep, and then sail away from that unfriendly shore. So they did as they were bidden, and when all was ready, they sat upon the benches, each man in his place, and smote the gray sea water with their oars.

But when we had not gone so far but that a man’s shout could be heard, I called to the Cyclops and taunted him:

“Cyclops, you will not eat us by main might in your hollow cave! Your evil deeds, O cruel monster, were sure to find you out; for you shamelessly ate the guests that were within your gates, and now Jupiter and the other gods have requited you as you deserved.”

Thus I spoke, and so great became his anger that he broke off the peak of a great hill and threw it at us, and it fell in front of the dark-prowed ship. And the sea rose in waves from the fall of the rock, and drove the ship quickly back to the shore. Then I caught up a long pole in my hands, and thrust the ship from off the land; and with a motion of the head, I bade them dash in with their oars, so that we might escape from our evil plight. So they bent to their oars and rowed on.

Such is the story which Ulysses told of his adventure with the giant Cyclops. Many and strange were the other adventures through which he passed before he reached his distant home; and all are related in that wonderful poem, the “Odyssey.” This poem has been often translated into the English language. Some of the translations are in the form of poetry, and of these the best are the versions by George Chapman, by Alexander Pope, and by our American poet William Cullen Bryant. The best prose translation is that by Butcher and Lang – and this I have followed quite closely in the story which you have just read.

THE BROOK

I come from haunts of coot and hern:I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down the valley;By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony waysIn little sharps and trebles.I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles;With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow;I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flake,Upon me as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers;I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows;I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars,I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.– Alfred Tennyson.

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

PART IOn either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky:And through the fields the road runs byTo many-towered Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThrough the wave that runs foreverBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot;Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.By the margin, willow-veiled,Slide the heavy barges, trailedBy slow horses; and unhailedThe shallop flitteth silken-sailed,Skimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to towered Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers, “ ’Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.”PART IIThere she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colors gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.And moving through a mirror clear,That hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village churls,And the red cloaks of market girlsPass onward from Shalott.Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd ladOr long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot;And sometimes through the mirror blue,The knights come riding two and two: —She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirrored magic sights,For often through the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot;Or, when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed.“I am half-sick of shadows,” saidThe Lady of Shalott.PART IIIA bowshot from her bower eaves,He rode between the barley sheaves,The sun came dazzling through the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight forever kneeledTo a lady in his shieldThat sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.The gemmy bridle glittered free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazoned baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armor rung,Beside remote Shalott.All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,The helmet and the helmet featherBurned like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often through the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;On burnished hooves his war horse trode;From underneath his helmet flowedHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flashed into the crystal mirror;“Tirra lirra,” by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces through the room,She saw the water lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She looked down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror cracked from side to side;“The curse is come upon me,” criedThe Lady of Shalott.PART IVIn the stormy east wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver towered Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wrote,The Lady of Shalott.And down the river’s dim expanse —Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance —With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right —The leaves upon her falling light —Through the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turned to towered Camelot;For ere she reached upon the tideThe first house by the waterside,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.Under tower and balcony,By garden wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,A corse between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they crossed themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot;But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, “She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.”

This poem, by Alfred Tennyson, was written in 1832. Considered as a picture, or as a series of pictures, its beauty is unsurpassed. The story which is here so briefly told is founded upon a touching legend connected with the romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Tennyson afterwards (in 1859) expanded it into the Idyll called “Elaine,” wherein he followed more closely the original narrative as related by Sir Thomas Malory.