NYPL RESEARCH LIBRARIES
3 3433 06924403 0
NSTON
FIRMAN AND MALTBY

















THE l >
WINSTON READERS
FIFTH READER
SIDNEY G: FIRMAN
SUPERINTENDENT OF SCHOOLS, GLEN RIDGE, NEW JERSEY
ETHEL H. MALTBY
OF CORNING, NEW YORK
ILLUSTRATED BY
FREDERICK RICHARDSON
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
Chicago PHILADELPHIA Toronto XT'
ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO DALLAS < I


THENSWYORIT
WBUC UBRART
H6388A
-SSL
'fO.S
1M2%
Copyright, 1918, by
The John C. Winston Company
Copyright in Great Britain
The British Dominions and Possessions
Copyright. 1924. in the Philippine Islands
All rights reserved
••••••• • • • ••■•
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
• ••«. • • • • • • •
.....
• •
• •
• •
• • ••• • • ••• •••• •
• • ••♦••••♦• •
• • •• •< ••••-•••
P-l-28


CONTENTS
PAGH
William Tell, the Bowman of Altdorf . . George P. Upton 3
Tell's Punishment 6
King Arthur Thomas Malory 11
Charles Dickens 18
Alfred the Great Charles Dickens 19
The Arabian Nights 26
Ali Bab a and the Forty Thieves Arabian Nights 28
The Measure 32
The Cobbler 37
The Oil Merchant 44
The Merchant 50
Pandora Nathaniel Hawthorne 54
The Knot 59
Pandora Opens the Box 67
The Nightingale and the Glow-worm Cowper 74
The Sunken Treasure Nathaniel Hawthorne 76
The Pine-Tree Shillings Nathaniel Hawthorne 86
The Miraculous Pitcher Nathaniel Hawthorne 92
The Strange Question 99
The Pitcher 105
The Guests Depart 112
Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt 119
Ceres and Persephone Nathaniel Hawthorne 120
Persephone Is Carried Away 126
Pluto's Palace 132


PAGE
Hecate 140
The Barken Fields 148
The Pomegranate 154
Crocker's Hole Richard D. Blackmore 160
The Big Trout 164
Pike's First Attempt 171
Pike's Second Attempt 174
The Brook Alfred, Lord Tennyson 179
Washington Irving 182
Rip Van Winkle Washington Irving 184
Rip's Hunting in the Mountains 191
Rip's Long Sleep 197
Rip at the Inn 203
Christopher Columbus Washington Irving 211
Columbus Seeking Discoveries 215
Columbus Sets Out for the Indies 220
The Discovert of America 226
Columbus Joaquin Miller 229
Joan of Arc Charles Dickens 231
Joan Saves Orleans 236
Joan of Arc at Rheims 238
Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe 241
The Tempest Charles Dickens 243
The Wreck 248
The Coast Guard Emily Huntington Miller 253
The King of the Golden River John Ruskin 256
Gluck's Visitor 259
Southwest Wind, Esquire 267
The Black Stone 275
Two Black Stones 277


PAGE
The Pied Piper of Hamelin Robert Browning 283
The Alhambra Washington Irving 294
The Legend of the Enchanted Soldier,
Washington Irving 297
The Enchanted Soldier 302
The Scholar, the Priest and His Handmaid Visit
the Soldier 308
Legend of the Moor's Legacy Washington Irving 311
The Moor 314
The Judge 319
Peregil Visits the Moor 324
The Treasure 327
More Treasure 336
Word List 341
The thanks of the authors are due the following for the use of copy-
righted material: To Dodd, Mead and Co., for a selection by R. D. Black-
more; to A. C. McClurg and Co., for a selection from "William Tell," by
Frederick Schmidt, translated by George P. Upton; to Harr Wagner Pub-
lishing Co., for a poem by Joaquin Miller; and to Mr. Frederic C. Miller,
for a poem by his mother, Emily Huntington Miller.
The selections from Hawthorne are used by permission of, and by
special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin Company, the authorized pub-
lishers of his works.
S





WILLIAM TELL, THE BOWMAN OF
ALTDORF
In the days when Switzerland suffered under the
oppression of the Austrians, the Swiss people were
governed by a cruel tyrant named Gessler. Among
the patriots who tried to throw off the oppressor's
yoke was a famous bowman of Altdorf named William
Tell.
One day Tell and his son William went to the
market place at Altdorf, where there was a scene of
unusual activity. Gessler had also arrived to see how
the work on his castle was progressing. As soon as he
heard that Tell was there, he determined to carry out
his long-cherished scheme of compelling the people
to bow down to his cap.
The people in the market place were surprised at
the sight of an advancing troop of soldiers, the leader
of whom carried a pole upon which was a cap with the
governor's coat of arms. They halted in the center
of the square, and a soldier read in a harsh voice an
order requiring all the people to uncover their heads
and bow down before the governor's cap on pain of
death.
s
3


The people were astonished at this despotic order.
They had endured patiently until this time because
they knew the day was approaching when the banner
of freedom would be unfurled and lead them to victory.
Such an order as this was a severe strain upon their
patience; and they looked on indignantly as the
soldiers filed through the market place. The air was
filled with murmurs, eyes flashed with anger, and many
a fist was clenched.
Tell had intended to remain in Altdorf until eve-
ning, but now he decided to finish his business and
leave town as soon as possible, so that he should not
see the uplifted emblem of shame. At last, having
attended to his business, he took his son's hand, and
they walked along a side street in the direction of
their home. As they reached a corner, Tell suddenly
saw the pole and the cap with two guards near them.
For an instant he paused. He had supposed they
would set up the pole in the market place, but here »t
was right before him! What should he do? Should
he turn back, or should he steal through the gardens
on either hand? Whichever he might do would be
of little use, for he was so near the cap that he could
not go back or turn aside without giving offense.
The guards watched him with malicious smiles.
At last William said: "Look, father, there are soldiers
behind us, and Gessler is coming from the market place."
4


Tell quickly walked along and passed the cap as if he
did not see it. At this the guards sprang forward,
presented their swords and ordered him to halt.
They also told him he had incurred a penalty by not
obeying the governor's order.
"What is the penalty?" asked Tell.
"The governor will inform you," replied one of the
guards. "There he comes."
A number of armed attendants followed the gov-
ernor, and also a crowd of curious and idle people.
Gessler rode slowly up, his pale face betraying his
anger. Tell watched him unmoved.
"Why are you detaining Tell?" he asked the guards.
One of them answered, "This man passed the
emblem of authority without uncovering his head."
Gessler had been told that Tell had listened to the
reading of the order in the market place, so he cun-
ningly suggested, "He may not have heard the order.
Am I right, Tell?"
"I heard it, sir," he replied.
"You also are stubborn, I see," replied the governor.
"You must be aware that you owe respect to the
emblem of authority. Therefore you need not think
it strange if I impose a severe penalty upon you."
"Then tell me how much fine I must pay," replied
Tell.
"Who told you that you would be let off for money?"
5


said Gessler. "Am I not master here? I have
authority to fix all penalties." Then pointing to
Tell's crossbow, he added: "Why do you carry
weapons? The game in this country belongs to the
king; and when the land is threatened by forces, he
can protect it with his soldiers."
Tell answered, "I carry weapons because it is one
of the ancient privileges of my countrymen. Hunting
in the woods and among the mountains is also an
ancient right, of which no one had dared rob the Swiss."
Tell's bold words infuriated 'the governor. "We
will see about that," said he. "If you peasants carry
weapons, you must be prepared to use them."
Many were alarmed by these words and the manner
in which they were spoken. Gessler was silent for a
moment, and then he asked, "Is that your son?"
"Yes, my lord," replied Tell.
Tell's Punishment
"You are said to be the best shot in the mountains,"
said the governor. "So your penalty shall be to shoot
an apple from your son's head." Turning to a soldier,
he added: "Pick an apple from the branch of this
tree, and lead the boy to yonder lime tree."
Then again addressing Tell, the tyrant said, "Stand
where you are and shoot that apple from your son's
head. If you miss the apple, you shall die."
6


Had the earth suddenly opened under them and a
dragon appeared, the crowd could not have been more
terrified than they were by these words. Even the
faces of the soldiers around Tell grew pale.
Tell stood motionless for a moment, and then
looked at his son, who was regarding him appealingly,
as if he were not sure he had heard clearly.
"How long do you intend to wait?" asked Gessler.
"It seems to take you a long time to make up your
mind."
The soldier returned with an apple, which he had
knocked off with his spear. "My lord," said Tell,
"you cannot be in earnest in demanding such a terrible
thing of a father! Take all my property as a penalty,
but spare me from aiming an arrow at the head of my
own child."
Several women standing near by raised their hands,
and begged him to show mercy to Tell. The men
stood pale and motionless. A priest who chanced
to be passing that way, advanced and said: "0, my
lord, have pity on this poor man. If he deserves
punishment, he has already been punished a hundred-
fold by your words. My lord, do not cruelly jest with
a father's feelings any longer."
"Who says I am jesting?" answered Gessler, lay-
ing his hand upon his sword. "My order shall be
executed without delay. Drive the people to one
7


side with your spears, and lead the boy to the lime
tree."
The soldier who was holding the apple took the boy
by the hand, but Tell sprang forward and tore him
away. Then Gessler said, "Now hear my last words,
Tell, if you do not shoot, both you and your son shall
die."
Tell embraced his son, who looked up with innocent
eyes and said, "Shoot, father, I will stand still and you
will not miss the apple."
With that he released himself from his father's arms,
took the apple from the soldier's hand, ran to the lime
tree, placed himself in position, and put the apple on
his curly head himself. His father stood leaning on
his crossbow, more disturbed than he had ever been
before. The men, apparently, were thinking of the
possible results that might follow an attack upon the
soldiers.
Tell suddenly recovered his composure, and selected
two arrows from his quiver. He placed one in the
groove of the bow and the other in his belt. "Shoot,
father," said the boy, in a loud, firm voice. "I am not
afraid. I am standing still."
Tell raised his eyes for a moment toward heaven,
and then placed his bow in position. Almost in an
instant the string twanged and the arrow flew and
pierced the apple, which dropped to the ground. A
8


joyful exclamation arose when the boy picked up the
apple and the arrow. Tell stood pale and silent as his
son ran joyfully to him. He embraced the boy,
uttered a shrill exclamation, and then fell fainting.
William knelt over him, crying, "My father, 0 my
father! My father is dead!"
Men and women, with tears in their eyes, came
forward and consoled him. "He has only fainted,"
said a man. "Your father is not dead."
At last Tell opened his eyes and saw his weeping son
with the apple and the arrow in his hands. In a little
time he arose and said: "Take the apple to the gov-
ernor so he may see that the penalty has been paid."
William went to Gessler and gave him the apple.
Then Tell took his son by the hand and they started
for home. But Gessler found a pretext for imposing a
fresh penalty. He called after Tell, "Why did you take
two arrows from your quiver and hide one in your belt?"
"To shoot you, tyrant, had I killed my son,"
replied Tell.
"For doing that," replied the governor in a rage,
"I shall shut you up where your arrows will not harm
any one in the future. Here, soldiers, seize him and
bind him."
Tell's first thought was to grab the spear of the
soldier nearest him, and defend himself at the peril of
his life, but he thought better of it and let them bind
9


him without making any resistance. William clung to
him crying, but a soldier tore him away and pushed
him to one side.
There was a law at that time which forbade the
imprisonment of any Swiss citizen outside the section
of country where he belonged, but Gessler paid no
attention to it. He decided to take Tell across the
lake in a boat. They had not gone far when a great
storm arose and the boat was tossed about like a
nutshell. The sailors became alarmed and lost control
of the boat. Gessler was more alarmed than any of
them and called out, "What can be done? What
can be done?"
"Tell is a fine sailor and if anyone can save us, he
can," replied the pilot.
When Gessler heard this, he quickly unbound Tell
and bade him take charge of the boat.
Tell grasped the tiller and steered the boat near the
rocky shore and then seized his crossbow and leaped
from the boat. He landed safely on the shore and hid
himself in a defile of the mountains. Gessler also
escaped the storm, but as he was passing through
the defile, he was pierced by Tell's unerring arrow.
Thus was the country released from the most cruel of
tyrants.
—George P. Upton.
10



KING ARTHUR
In the days when Uther was king of England, there
was a mighty duke in Cornwall who made war against
him for a long time. This duke was named the Duke
of Tintagil, and he had a beautiful wife named Igraine.
At last the king sent for the duke to come to him
and bring his wife with him; but he replied that
neither he nor his wife would come. Then was the
king very angry, and sent word again, bidding the
duke be ready; for within forty days he would come
and drag him forth from his castle.
When the duke had this warning, he supplied and
strengthened two strong castles, one of which was
11


called Tintagil, and the other Terrabil. Then he shut
up his wife in Tintagil and himself in Terrabil, intending
thus to divide the king's forces; but soon King Uther
came in haste, with a great host, and laid siege to the
castle of Terrabil, and there was a great battle and
many people were slain. The duke thought to outwit
the king by stealing out of the castle at night to
distress the king's men; but the duke himself was
slain, and thus was the castle taken.
Then all the nobles begged the king to make peace
with Lady Igraine; wherefore the king sent a knight
named Ulfius to bring her from the castle of Tintagil;
and the next morning the fair Igraine and the king
were married in all haste, with great mirth and joy.
King,Uther and Queen Igraine lived happily for
many years, and at last a son was born to them.
On the day of his birth, Merlin wrapped the child in a
cloth of gold and took him to a brave knight named
Sir Ector. None knew what had become of the child;
and Sir Ector's wife brought him up as her own son and
named him Arthur.
Within two years of that time, King Uther fell
sick of a great disease and died. Then all the king's
enemies came to fight against the land and there was
none to protect it. So every great lord desired to be
king, and the nobles fought each other for many years.
At last Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury,
12


advising him to send for all the lords of the realm, and
all the gentlemen in arms, bidding them to come to
London by Christmas; for Christ, who was born on
that night, would show by some miracle who should be
king of the land. So the Archbishop of Canterbury sent
for the lords and gentlemen in arms, as Merlin had said.
On Christmas day those who had been bidden, went
to pray in the great church of London; and when
prayers were over, there was seen in the churchyard
a great square stone of marble. Fastened to the
stone was an anvil a foot high, and in the anvil was
stuck a sword on which was written in letters of gold:
"Whoso pulleth this sword out of the anvil, is by right
king born of England."
The people marveled and told the archbishop what
they had seen.
"I command you," said the archbishop, "to keep
within the church, and that no man touch the sword
until the services are over."
So when the services were over, all the lords went to
behold the stone and the sword. Then they read the
writing, and some who would be king, tried to pull out
the sword, but they could not move it.
"The one who shall remove the sword is not here,"
said the archbishop; "but, doubtless, God will make
him known." And the archbishop chose ten knights
to guard the stone and the sword.
a 13


On New Year's Day when the services were over,
the nobles rode to the fields to have some bouts of
arms. Among them was Sir Ector and Sir Kay, his
son, and young Arthur, who had been brought up as his
brother. It happened that Sir Kay had left his sword
at home, and begged Arthur to go and get it for him.
But when Arthur came to Sir Ector's house, Lady
Ector and all the other women had gone to see the
bouts, and he could not enter to get the sword.
Then was Arthur angry, and said to himself, "I
will ride to the churchyard and take the sword that is
stuck in the anvil, for my brother Kay shall not be
without a sword this day."
So when he came to the church, Arthur dismounted
and tied his horse to the stile. Then he went to the
stone and took the sword by the handle and easily
pulled it out of the anvil. With it he quickly rode
away until he came to his brother, Sir Kay, and gave
him the sword. As soon as Sir Kay saw it, he knew that
it was the sword that had been in the anvil; so he rode
to his father, Sir Ector, and said:
"See, here is the sword from the anvil, therefore I
must be king of this land."
When Sir Ector heard that, he took Sir Kay and
Arthur and hurried back to the church, and there
he made Sir Kay swear how he came by the
sword.
14


"My brother Arthur brought it to me," declared
Sir Kay.
"And how did you get this sword?" Sir Ector asked
of Arthur.
"Why, father," replied Arthur, "when I went home
for my brother's sword, I found nobody there, and as
I did not wish Sir Kay to be swordless, I came and
drew this sword out of the anvil."
"Now I know," said Sir Ector, "that you must be
king of this land."
"For what cause should I be king?" asked Arthur.
"God will have it so," answered Sir Ector, "for no
man could draw this sword out of the anvil unless he
should by right be king born of England. Now see
whether you can put back the sword as it was, and
pull it out again."
"That is easy," said Arthur as he put the sword
back in the anvil again.
Then Sir Ector tried to pull it out, but he could not;
so he said to Sir Kay, "Now you try." But he could
not move the sword.
"Now you may try," said Sir Ector to Arthur; and
Arthur pulled it out easily.
Then Sir Ector and Sir Kay kneeled down to the
earth; but Arthur said, "Alas, my own dear father
and brother, why do you kneel to me?"
• "I am not your father," said Sir Ector; and then
15


he told Arthur how Merlin had brought him as a babe,
to be brought up, but he did not know who was his
father or mother. Then was Arthur very sad when he
learned that Sir Ector was not his father.
On the twelfth day all the barons came to the
church again and attempted to draw out the sword;
but there was none who could pull it out. Therefore,
they used many harsh words and said it was a great
shame to be governed by a boy of no high birth. So
they put off the choosing of a king until Candlemas,
when all the barons should meet again. But ten
knights remained behind to watch the sword day and
night.
At Candlemas many great lords came again to try
for the sword; but they could do nothing. However,
as Arthur did at Christmas, so did he at Candlemas,
and pulled out the sword easily. Wherefore all the
barons were angry, and put off the choice until Easter;
but as Arthur did before, so did he at Easter. Where-
fore the lords put off the choice until Pentecost.
At the feast of Pentecost all manner of men tried to
pull out the sword; but no one except Arthur was
able to do it. Whereupon all the people, both rich
and poor, cried with one voice, "We will have Arthur
for our king!"
Thus was Arthur made king.
—Thomas Malory.
17


CHARLES DICKENS
Charles Dickens was born at Landport, near Ports-
mouth, England, in 1812. His parents died while he
was very young, and with practically no education, he
had to begin to support himself when but a mere child.
He studied shorthand at home and in the British
Museum and became a reporter for one of the leading
London newspapers. He soon earned the reputation
of being the most rapid stenographer of his time;
and was able to take every word of the addresses of
even the most rapid speakers in Parliament.
Dickens never forgot his own unhappy childhood,
and had great sympathy for the poor and unfortunate.
He labored constantly for reforms, and did more than
any one else to better the condition of prisoners in
England. Fortunately he lived long enough to see
some of the results of his labors.
Most of his books are about people who are poor
and unhappy. Much that he wrote was humorous,
and while some parts of his books will make you sad,
others will make you laugh. Among his best books
are "Pickwick Papers," "Oliver Twist," "David
Copperfield," "A Christmas Carol," and "A Child's
History of England," from the last of which the
following account is taken:
18


ALFRED THE GREAT
Alfred the Great was a young man, three-and-
twenty years of age, when he became king. Twice in
his childhood he had been taken to Rome, where the
Saxon nobles were in the habit of going on religious
journeys; and once he had stayed for some time in
Paris. Learning, however, was so little cared for then,
that when he was twelve years old he had not been
taught to read, although of the four sons of King
Ethelwulf he was the youngest and the favorite.
But Alfred had—as most men who grow up to be
good and great generally have—an excellent mother.
This lady, whose name happened to be Osburgha,
happened one day to read to her sons a book of Saxon
poetry. The art of printing was not known until
long and long after that time, and the book from which
she read was written by hand in beautiful, bright
letters. The brothers admired it very much and their
mother said, "I will give it to the one of you four
princes who first learns to read."
Alfred found a tutor that very day, and applied
himself to learning with such diligence that he soon
won the book. He was proud of it all his life.
The great king in the first year of his reign fought
nine battles with the Danes. He made some treaties
with them, too, by which the false Danes swore that
19


they would leave the country. They pretended to
take a very solemn oath, by swearing on the bracelets
which they wore, and which were always buried with
them when they died; but they cared little for oaths
and treaties, and cared nothing about breaking them,
and of coming back again, to fight, plunder, and burn
as usual.
One fatal winter, in the fourth year of King Alfred's
reign, they spread themselves over the whole of
England, and so routed the king's soldiers, that the
king was left alone and was obliged to disguise himself
as a common peasant, and take refuge in the cottage
of one of his cowherds who did not know his face.
Here, while the Danes sought him far and wide, King
Alfred was left alone one day by the cowherd's wife,
to watch some cakes which were baking upon the
hearth. But, being at work upon his bow and arrows,
with which he hoped to punish the false Danes by and
by, he forgot the cakes and they were burned. "What!"
said the cowherd's wife, when she came back, and little
thought she was scolding the king, "you will be ready
enough to eat them by and by, and yet you cannot
watch them for a few minutes!"
At length the Devonshire men overcame a new
host of Danes who landed on their coast; and killed
their chief and captured their flag. There was a like-
ness of a raven on the flag, which was a very fit flag for
20



21


a band of robbers like that. The loss of their flag
troubled the Danes greatly; for they believed it was
enchanted. King Alfred joined the Devonshire men,
and encamped with them on a piece of firm ground in
the midst of a swamp in Somersetshire, and prepared
to bring vengeance on the Danes and deliver his
oppressed people.
But first it was important to know how numerous
those wicked Danes were, and how they were fortified.
King Alfred, being a good musician, disguised himself
as a gleeman or minstrel, and went with his harp to the
Danish camp. He played and sang in the very tent
of Guthrum, the Danish leader, and entertained the
Danes as they caroused. While he seemed to be
thinking of nothing but his music, he was watchful of
their tents, their arms, and everything that he desired
to know; and he soon entertained them with a different
tune.
He summoned all his true followers to meet him at
an appointed place, where they received him with
joyful shouts and tears, as their king whom they had
given up as lost or dead. He put himself at their
head, marched to the Danish camp and defeated the
Danes with great slaughter. But, being as merciful
as he was good and brave, instead of killing them, he
proposed peace, on the condition that they should
depart from the western part of England and settle
22


in the eastern, and that Guthrum should become a
Christian, in remembrance of the true religion, which
now taught his conqueror to forgive the enemy who
had so often injured him.
This Guthrum did. At his baptism, King Alfred
was his godfather. Guthrum was an honorable chief,
who well deserved mercy; for ever afterwards he was
loyal and faithful to the king. The Danes under him
were faithful, too. They plundered and burned no
more, but worked like honest men. They plowed and
sowed and reaped, and led good honest lives. And I
hope the children of these Danes played many times
with Saxon children in the sunny fields; and that
Danish young men fell in love with Saxon girls, and
married them; and that English travelers benighted
at the doors of Danish cottages, often went in for
shelter until morning; and that Danes and Saxons sat
around the red fire, talking of good King Alfred.
All the Danes were not like those under Guthrum.
After some years, more of them came over to plunder
and burn in the old way. Among them was a fierce
pirate named Hastings, who had the boldness to sail
up the Thames to Gravesend, with eighty ships. For
three years there was a war with these Danes; and
there was a famine in the country and a plague upon
human creatures and beasts. King Alfred's strong
heart never failed him. He built large ships with
23


which to pursue the pirates on the sea; and encouraged
his soldiers to fight bravely against them on shore.
At last he drove them all away, and there was peace in
England.
King Alfred was as great and good in peace as he was
great and good in war, and he never rested from his
labors to improve his people. He liked to talk with
clever men, and with travelers from foreign countries,
and to write down what they told him for his people to
read. He had studied Latin after learning to read
English, and it was one of his labors to translate Latin
books into the English-Saxon tongue.
He made just laws that his people might live happily
and freely; and removed from office all unjust judges,
so that no wrong might be done. He was so careful
of their property and punished robbers so severely
that it was commonly said that, under the great King
Alfred, garlands of golden chains and jewels might have
hung across the streets, and no man would have
touched them.
He founded schools; and it was the great desire of
his heart to do right to all his subjects, and to leave
England better, wiser, and happier than he had found
it. His industry in behalf of his people was quite
astonishing. Every day he divided into certain
portions, and in each portion devoted himself to a
certain pursuit. That he might divide his time
24


exactly, he had wax torches or candles made, which
were all of the same size, were notched across at
regular distances, and were always kept burning.
Thus, as the candles burned down, he divided the day
into notches, almost as accurately as we now divide
it into hours by the clock. But when the candles were
first made, it was found that the wind and draughts
of air caused them to gutter and burn unevenly. To
prevent this, the king had them put into cases made of
wood and white horn; and these were the first lan-
terns, or light-horns, ever made in England.
All this time he was afflicted with a terrible unknown
disease, which caused him violent and frequent pain
that nothing could relieve. He bore it as he had
borne all the troubles of his life, like a brave good man,
until he was fifty-three years old; and then, having
reigned thirty years, he died. He died in the year
nine hundred and one; but, long ago as that is, his
fame and the love and gratitude with which his subjects
regarded him, are well remembered to the present
hour.
This noble king possessed all the Saxon virtues. He
was hopeful in defeat and generous in success; and
in his care to instruct his people, probably did more
to preserve the beautiful old Saxon language than
any one else in England.
—Charles Dickens.
25


THE ARABIAN NIGHTS
The Arabian Nights are wonderful tales of adventure
and enchantment that, after being told for many
generations, were finally collected and named "The
Thousand and One Nights." A Frenchman named
Gulland found them written in Arabic, in Constan-
tinople, several hundred years ago, and translated
them into French, from which they have been trans-
lated into almost every known language. Doubtless
many of the stories were first told in Bagdad when
Haroun al-Roschid was caliph.
The story is told that there was once a sultan who
married a wife one day and tired of her so quickly that
he cut off her head the next day and married another.
This went on from day to day for a long time. At last a
brave and good maiden, the daughter of the sultan's
chief minister, begged her father to allow her to marry
the sultan, saying that she would die in the attempt
or save the rest of her countrywomen from such an
awful fate.
Her father was shocked at her strange request and
entreated her to drive the thought from her mind; but
nothing could shake her determination to be the
sultan's bride.
Accordingly, she married the sultan, and on the
evening of her marriage entertained him with an inter-
26


esting story that was so long that she could not reach
the end of it that night. The sultan liked the story so
much that he offered to spare her life the next day, on
condition that she should continue the story the
following evening. You may readily understand that
there was no difficulty in securing her consent to
this.
This went on from evening to evening. She always
ended a story and began a new one early in the evening
and left off in the most interesting place, so that the
sultan would be sure to insist upon hearing the rest of
it the following evening. For one thousand and one
nights the story-telling continued, and by the end of
that time the sultan had grown so fond of his wife that
he could not think of parting with her.
Among the best of the stories are: "Aladdin,"
"Sinbad the Sailor," and "All Baba,"—the last of
which is given here for you to read. When you have
finished reading "Ali Baba," try to suggest another
title for the story.
Since the earliest of these stories were first known
in Europe, many others have been found. Strange as
it may seem "Aladdin," now one of the best-known
of the tales, was one of the last to be found.
27


ALI BABA AND THE FORTY THIEVES
In an old town of Persia there lived two brothers
named Cassim and Ali Baba.
Cassim married a wife who owned a fine shop and
some land, and he became one of the richest men in the
whole town.
Ali Baba married a wife who was as poor as himself,
and lived in a very humble house. He earned his
living by cutting wood in the forest, and carrying it
about the town on three donkeys to sell.
One day Ali Baba went to the forest, and had nearly
finished cutting as much wood as his donkeys could
carry, when he saw a thick cloud of dust rising high in
the air, and which seemed to be coming towards him.
He looked at it until he saw a great company of men
on horseback, who were riding rapidly into the woods.
Ali Baba thought the horsemen looked like robbers, so
without stopping to think what might become of his
donkeys, his first and only thought was to save himself.
So he quickly climbed up into a large tree with thick
leafy branches. Here he could see everything that
passed without being seen.
The robbers rode swiftly up to this very tree, and
there dismounted. Ali Baba counted forty of them.
Each horseman took the bridle off his horse and tied
it to a tree. Then they took their traveling bags,
28


which were so heavy that Ali Baba thought they must
be filled with gold and silver.
The Captain of the thieves, with a bag on his shoul-
der, came close to a rock, at the roots of the tree in
which Ali Baba had hidden himself.
Then he called out, "Open, Sesame!" and a door in
the rock opened; and the Captain and all his men
quickly passed in, and the door closed again. They
stayed there for a long time. Meanwhile, Ali Baba
was compelled to wait in the tree, as he was afraid
some of them might see him if he left his hiding-place.
At length the door opened, and the forty thieves
came out. The Captain stood at the door until all his
men had passed out. Then Ali Baba heard him say,
"Shut, Sesame!" Each man then bridled his horse and
rode away.
Ali Baba did not come down from the tree at once,
because he thought the robbers might have forgotten
something, and come back. He watched them as long as
he could, and did not leave the tree for a long time after
he had lost sight of them. Then, remembering the
words the Captain had used to open and shut the door,
he made his way to it, and called out, "Open, Sesame!"
Instantly the door flew wide open!
Ali Baba expected to find only a dark cave, and he
was much astonished at seeing a fine large room, dug
out of the rock, and higher than .a man could reach.


It received its light from a hole in the top of the rock.
In it were all sorts of rare fruits, bales of rich merchan-
dise, silks and velvets, and great heaps of money, both
silver and gold, some loose and some in large leather
bags. The sight of all these things almost took Ali
Baba's breath away.
But it did not take him long to decide what he should
do. He went boldly into the cave, and as soon as he
was there the door shut; but he knew the secret by
which to open it, and this gave him no fear. Leaving
the silver, he turned to the gold, which was in the bags.
When he had gathered enough to load his three donkeys,
he brought them to the rock, loaded them, and covered
the sacks of gold with wood so that no one would
suspect anything. Before he left, he said, "Shut
Sesame!" and the door closed.
Ali Baba took the road to the town, and when he
reached home, drove his donkeys into the yard, and
shut the gate with great care. Then he threw off the
wood, and carried the gold into the house and piled it
up before his wife, who was sitting upon the couch.
When he told the whole story of the cave and the
forty thieves, his wife rejoiced with him, and began to
count the money, piece by piece.
"What are you doing?" said Ali Baba. "You never
could count all of it. I will dig a pit to bury it in. It
is not safe to leave it here."
31


The Measure
"However, we should know nearly how much there
is," replied his wife. "I will go and borrow a small
corn measure, and while you are digging the pit, I will
find how much there is."
So the wife of Ali Baba went to the home of her
brother-in-law, Cassim, who lived but a short distance
away. Cassim was not at home, so she begged his wife
to lend her a measure for a few minutes. "I will with
pleasure," said Cassim's wife.
She went to find a measure, but knowing how poor
Ali Baba was, she was curious to know what kind of
grain his wife wanted to measure. So she put some
tallow under the measure where she was sure it would
not be seen.
The wife of Ali Baba returned home, and placing the
measure on the heap of gold, filled it over and over
again until she had measured the whole of it. By this
time Ali Baba had dug the pit for it, and while he was
burying the gold, his wife went back with the measure
to her sister-in-law, but without noticing that a piece
of gold had stuck to the bottom of it.
As soon as the measure had been returned, Cassim's
wife looked at the bottom of it, and was astonished to
see a piece of gold sticking to it. "What!" said she,
"Ali Baba measures his gold! Where did he get so
much?"
32


When her husband came home, she said, "Cassim,
you think you are rich, but Ali Baba must have far
more wealth than you. He does not count his gold as
you do. He measures it." Then she showed him the
piece of money she had found sticking to the bottom
of the measure.
Far from feeling glad at the good fortune of his
brother, Cassim grew so jealous of Ali Baba that he
passed almost the whole night without closing his eyes.
Next morning before sunrise he went to see his brother.
"Ali Baba," said he, harshly, "you pretend to be a poor
beggar, and yet you measure your money in a corn
measure." Then Cassim showed him the piece of gold
his wife had given him, and added, "How many pieces
have you like this one that my wife found sticking to
the bottom of the measure yesterday?"
From this speech Ali Baba knew that Cassim and
his wife must suspect what had happened. So, with-
out showing the least sign of surprise, he told Cassim
by what chance he had found the den of thieves.
He also told him where it was, and offered to share
the treasure with him.
"I certainly expect this," replied Cassim in a
haughty tone, "otherwise I will go and inform the
police of it."
Ali Baba even told him the words he must say to
open and close the door of the cave. Cassim made
33


no further inquiries of Ali Baba. However, he
determined to seize the whole treasure, and set off
next morning before break of day with ten mules
carrying large hampers which he intended to fill. He
took the road that Aii Baba had pointed out, and soon
found the rock and the tree.
Having cried, "Open, Sesame!" the door opened.
He entered, and it closed again. The greedy Cassim
spent the whole day in feasting his eyes with the sight
of so much gold; but he remembered that he had
come to take away as much as his ten mules could
carry. Therefore, he filled his sacks, and coming to
the door, he found that he had forgotten the secret words,
and instead of saying, "Open, Sesame," he said, "Open,
barley." But the door, instead of flying open, re-
mained closed. He named various other kinds of grain,
but he could not think of the right one, and the door
did not move.
Cassim was not prepared for this. He threw the
sacks he had collected on the ground and paced back-
ward and forward in the cave.
The thieves returned to their cave a little before
noon; and when they were within a short distance of
it, and saw the mules with the hampers. standing about
the rock, they were much surprised. They drove
away the ten mules, which fled into the forest. Then
the Captain and his men dismounted and went towards
34


the door, with their sabres in their hands. The Cap-
tain said, "Open, Sesame!" and the door opened.
From the inside of the cave, Cassim heard the
horses trampling on the ground and did not doubt
that the thieves had come, and that his death was
near. Resolving to make an effort to escape, he
placed himself near the door, ready to run out as.
soon as it should open. The words, "Open, Sesame,"
were scarcely pronounced before it opened and he
rushed out with such violence that he threw the Cap-
tain to the ground. However, he could not escape the
other thieves, who slew him with their sabres.
On entering the cave the thieves found the sacks
that Cassim had left near the door, but they could
not imagine how he had been able to get in.
They decided to divide the body of Cassim into
four parts, and place them in the cave to frighten away
anyone else who might have the boldness to break in.
Then, leaving it well secured, they mounted their
horses, and rode away.
In the meantime, the wife of Cassim was in the
greatest uneasiness. When night came, and her hus-
band did not return, she went in the utmost alarm to
Ali Baba, and said, "Brother, I believe that Cassim
has gone to the forest. He has not come back, and
I fear some accident may have befallen him."
Ali Baba did not wait to be urged to go and seek for
35


Cassim. He immediately set out with his three
donkeys, and went to the forest. As he drew near the
rock he was astonished to see that blood had been
shed near the cave. When he reached the door, he
said, "Open, Sesame!" and it opened. He was struck
with horror to find the body of his brother near the
entrance. He decided to carry it home, and wrapped
it up and placed it on one of his donkeys, covering it
with sticks to conceal it. He quickly loaded the other
two donkeys with sacks of gold, putting wood over
them as before. Then he commanded the door to close.
After waiting in the forest until nightfall, he
took the road to the city and returned without
being seen. When he reached home, he left the two
donkeys that were laden with gold for his wife to
unload. Then, having told her what had happened
to Cassim, he led the other donkey to his sister-in-law.
Ali Baba knocked at the door, which was opened
by Morgiana, who was a clever female slave. When
he had entered the court, he took from the back of the
donkey the wood and the body, and said, "Morgiana,
I have to ask you to keep a deep secret! Here is the
body of your master. We must bury him as if he had died
a natural death. Now let me speak to your mistress."
Morgiana went to call her mistress, and Ali Baba
told her all that had happened. "Sister," added he,
"here is a sad affliction for you, but we must contrive
36


to bury my brother as if he had died a natural death;
and then we shall be glad to offer you a shelter under
our own roof."
The widow of Cassim decided that she could not do
better than consent. She therefore dried her tears
and thanked Ali Baba for his kindness.
Ali Baba and Morgiana went to a druggist and
asked for a particular kind of medicine to be used
in dangerous illness. The druggist gave her the
medicine and asked who was ill in her master's family.
"Ah!" exclaimed she with a deep sigh, "it is my worthy
master, Cassim himself. He can neither speak nor
eat!"
Meanwhile, as Ali Baba and his wife were seen in
the course of the day going backwards and forwards
to the house of Cassim, no one was surprised on hearing
in the evening the piercing cries of his widow and
Morgiana, which announced his death. At a very
early hour the next morning, Morgiana, knowing that
a good old cobbler lived near, who was one of the
first to open his shop, went out in search of him.
Coming up to him, she wished him a good day, and
put a piece of gold into his hand.
The Cobbler
Baba Mustapha, the cobbler, always had some-
thing laughable to say. Looking at the money,
37


and seeing it was gold, he said, "A good hansel,
what's to be done? I am ready to do what I am
told."
"Baba Mustapha," said Morgiana, "take all you
want for sewing, and come directly with me. But
you must let me put a bandage over your eyes when
we come to a certain street."
At these words Baba Mustapha began to shake his
head. "No," said he, "you want me to do something
wrong."
But putting another piece of gold into his hand,
Morgiana said, "I want you to do nothing wrong.
Only come with me, and fear nothing."
Baba Mustapha then followed Morgiana, and when
they reached the street she had mentioned, she bound
a handkerchief over his eyes, and led him to Cassim's
house. She did not remove the bandage until he was
in the chamber where the body lay. Then taking it
off, she said, "Baba Mustapha, I have brought you
here, that you might sew these pieces together. Lose
no time, and when you have finished, I will give you
another piece of gold."
When Baba Mustapha had finished his work,
Morgiana blindfolded his eyes again before he left
the chamber, and having given him a third piece
of money, she led him to the place where she had
first put on the handkerchief. Then she left him
38


only one shop was open, and that was the shop of Baba
Mustapha, the cobbler.
Baba Mustapha was seated on his stool, with his
awl in his hand, ready to begin his work. The thief
went up to him and wished him good morning. "My
good man," said he, "you rise early to your work.
You must find it hard to see clearly at this early
hour."
"Whoever you are," replied Baba Mustapha, "you
do not know much of me. Old as I am, I have good
eyes; and so you would have said if you had known
that not long ago I sewed up a dead body in a place
where there was no more light than we have now."
The thief felt great satisfaction at having so soon
found a man to give him the very news he wanted.
"A body?" said he, with attempted surprise. "Why
sew up a dead body?"
"Oh!" replied Baba Mustapha, "I know; you
want me to tell you all about it, but you shall not
know another word."
Thereupon the thief drew out a piece of gold, and
putting it into Baba Mustapha's hand, said, "I have
no desire to know any secret. The only thing I ask
of you is to come with me and show me the house
where you sewed up the dead body."
"I cannot," replied Baba Mustapha, "and I will
tell you why. They took me to a certain street and
40


there blindfolded my eyes, and then led me to the house.
When I had finished I was led back the same way."
"But," said the thief, "you must remember the
way you went after your eyes were covered. Come
with me, I will put a bandage over your eyes, and we
will walk together along the same streets, and follow
the same turnings. Come, here is another piece of gold."
The two pieces of gold tempted the cobbler. "I
cannot say," said he, "that I exactly remember the way
they took me, but since you insist, I will do my best!"
So Baba Mustapha got up to go with him, and,
without shutting up his shop, he led the thief to the
spot where Morgiana had put the bandage over his
eyes. Here the thief, who had a handkerchief ready,
tied it over the cobbler's eyes, and walked by his side,
partly leading him and partly being led by him, till
he stopped.
The cobbler was exactly in front of the house which
formerly belonged to Cassim, and where Ali Baba now
lived. Before he took the bandage from his eyes, the
thief quickly made a mark on the door with some
chalk he had for the purpose. When he had taken
it off, he asked him if he knew to whom the house
belonged. Baba Mustapha replied that he did not
live in that part of the town, and could not tell him.
As the thief found he could learn nothing more from
Baba Mustapha, he thanked him for the trouble he
41


had taken, and left him to return to his shop, while
he himself took the road to the forest.
Soon after this, Morgiana had occasion to go into
the street, and saw the mark which the thief had
made on the door of Ali Baba's house. "What can
this mark mean?" thought she; "has anyone a
spite against my master, or has it been done only for
fun? In any case, it will be well to guard against the
worst that may happen."
Several of the doors, both above and below her
master's, were alike, so she took some chalk and marked
them in the same manner. Then she went in without
saying anything of what she had done either to her
master or mistress.
The thief in the meantime arrived at the forest, and
told the success of his journey. They all listened to
him with great delight, and the Captain, after praising
him, said, "Comrades, we have no time to lose. Let
us arm ourselves and depart. We will enter the city
separately and meet in the great square before we go to
find the house with the chalk mark."
Thus the thieves went to the city in parties of two
or three without causing any suspicion. The thief
who had been there in the morning then led the Cap-
tain to the street in which he had marked the house of
Ali Baba. When they reached the first house that
had been marked by Morgiana, he pointed it out,
42


saying that was the one. But as they continued
walking on, the Captain saw that the next door was
marked in the same manner. At this the thief was
quite confused, and knew not what to say. And they
found four or five other doors with the same mark.
The Captain, in great anger, returned to the square,
and told the first of his men he met to tell the rest
that they had lost their labor, and that nothing
remained but to return to the forest.
When they had reached the forest, the Captain
declared that the mistaken thief deserved death, and
his head was at once cut off by his companions.
Next day another thief went to the city, found the
cobbler, who led him to Ali Baba's house, whose door
he marked with red. But a short time afterwards,
Morgiana went out and saw the red mark, and did not
fail to make a similar red mark on all the neighboring
doors.
The thief, when he returned to the forest, boasted
of his success, and the Captain and the rest repaired
to the city with as much care as before. The Captain
and his guide then went to the street where Ali Baba
resided, but the same thing occurred as before.
Thus they were obliged to return again to the
forest, where the second thief had his head cut off.
The next day the Captain himself went to the city,
and, with the help of Baba Mustapha, found the house
43


of Ali Baba. But he did not waste any time in making
marks on it. He examined it so well, by looking at
it, and by passing before it several times, that at last
he was certain he could not mistake it.
Thereupon he returned to the forest, and told the
thieves he had made sure of the house, and had made
a plan that they must help him to carry out.
First he sent them into the neighboring towns and
villages to buy nineteen mules and thirty-eight large
leather jars for carrying oil. One of the jars must be
full of oil, and all the others empty.
In two or three days the thieves returned, and the
Captain made an armed man enter each jar and then
closed the lid. Thus they appeared full of oil. And
he also rubbed the oil on the outside of the jars.
The Oil Merchant
The mules were soon loaded with the thirty-eight
jars and then the Captain led the way to the city. He
arrived there about an hour after sunset, and went
straight to the house of Ali Baba. He found Ali Baba
at the door, enjoying the cool evening air. He stopped
his mules. "Sir," said he, "I have brought this oil
from a great distance to sell to-morrow in the market.
I do not know where to go to pass the night. If it
will not cause you too much trouble, do me the favor
to take me under your roof."
44


Although Ali Baba had seen the man who now spoke
to him in the forest, and had heard his voice, yet he
had no idea that this was the Captain of the forty
robbers disguised as an oil merchant. "You are
welcome," said he, and immediately made room for
him and his mules. Then Ali Baba called a slave, and
ordered him to put the mules in the stable and to give
them some hay and corn. He also took the trouble
of going into the kitchen to ask Morgiana to get supper
for his guest, and to prepare his room and bed.
When Ali Baba went into the kitchen to speak to Mor-
giana, the Captain of the thieves went into the court
as if he were going to the stable to look after his mules.
Having told Morgiana to look to his guest, and see
that he wanted nothing, Ali Baba added, "To-morrow
before daybreak I shall go to the bath. Take care that
my bathing linen is ready, and have some good broth
for me when I return." After giving these orders
he went to bed.
In the meantime, the Captain of the thieves went
to give his people orders. Beginning with the first
jar, and going to the whole number, he said, "When
I shall throw some pebbles from my chamber, do not fail
to rip open the jar from top to bottom with your knife."
Having done this, he returned to the house, ate his
supper, and was shown to his chamber. To avoid
any suspicion, he put out the light, and lay down in
45


his clothes, ready to rise as soon as he had taken his
first sleep.
Morgiana did not forget Ali Baba's orders. She
prepared his linen for the bath and gave it to a slave,
who was not yet gone to bed. Then she put the pot
on the fire to make the broth, but while she was skim-
ming it, the lamp went out. There was no more oil
in the house, and she had no candles. At last she went
to take some oil out of one of the jars in the court.
As she drew near to the first jar, the thief who was
concealed within, said in a low voice, "Is it time?"
Although he spoke softly, Morgiana beard him.
Any other slave except her would have made a great
uproar at finding a man in the jar instead of some
oil. But Morgiana imitated the voice of the Captain,
and answei-ed, "Not yet." She approached the next
jar, and the same question was asked. She went on to
them all in turn, making the same answer to the same
question, until she came to the last, which was full
of oil.
By this means, Morgiana discovered that her
master, who supposed he was giving a night's lodging
to an oil merchant, had given shelter to thirty-eight
robbers. She quickly filled her oil-can from the last
jar, and returned to the kitchen. After putting some
oil in her lamp and lighting it, she took a large kettle,
and went again into the court to fill it with oil from the
46



47


joyed at the success of her plan. Then she returned to
her room and soon fell asleep.
Ali Baba went to the bath before daybreak followed
by his slave. He was totally unaware of the events
which had taken place in his house during his sleep.
When he returned from the bath, he was surprised
to see the jars of oil still standing in the court. He
asked Morgiana why the oil merchant had not gone
to the market.
"My good master," said Morgiana, "may God
preserve you and all your family. You will soon know
the reason, if you will take the trouble to come with
me.
Ali Baba followed Morgiana, and when she had
shut the door, she took him to the first jar and bade
him look in and see if it contained oil. He did as she
desired, and seeing a man in the jar, he hastily drew
back and uttered a cry of surprise.
"Do not be afraid," said she, "the man you see
there will not do you any harm. He has attempted
it, but he will never hurt you or any one else."
"Morgiana!" exclaimed Ali Baba, "what does all
this mean?"
"I will explain," replied Morgiana, "but be careful
not to arouse the curiosity of your neighbors. It is
very important that you should keep the matter
secret. Now come and look in all the other jars."
49


Ali Baba examined all the rest of the jars until he
came to the last, which contained the oil, and he
noticed that its oil was nearly all gone. At last he
said, "And what is become of the merchant?"
"The merchant," replied Morgiana, "is no more a
merchant than I am." Then she described the marks
made upon the door, and the way in which she had
copied them. "You see," said she, "that a plot has
been made by the thieves of the forest. There are not
more than three of them left, but you will do well to
be on your guard against them, so long as even one
remains."
Ali Baba was full of gratitude and replied, "I will
reward you as you deserve before I die. I owe my
life to you, and from this moment give you your
liberty, and will soon do still more for you."
Meanwhile the Captain of the forty thieves had
returned to the forest full of rage, and determined to
revenge himself on Ali Baba.
The Merchant
Next morning he awoke at an early hour, put on a
merchant's dress, and returned to the city. He took
a shop and brought some wares to sell in it. This
shop was exactly opposite that which had belonged
to Cassim, and was now occupied by the son of Ali
Baba.
50


The Captain of the thieves soon made friends with
the son of Ali Baba, who was young and good-natured.
He often invited the young man to sup with him and
gave him many rich gifts. When Ali Baba heard of
it, he decided to make some return for this kindness of
the merchant. He little thought that the pretended
merchant was really the Captain of the thieves.
So one day he asked the merchant to do him the
honor of supping, and spending the evening at his
house.
"Sir," replied he, "I am grateful for your kindness;
but I must beg you to excuse me. I never eat of any
dish that has salt in it, so I could not eat at your
table."
"If this is your only reason," replied Ali Baba,
"it need not prevent you from coming to supper with
me. The bread which is eaten in my house does not
contain any salt; and I promise you there shall be
none in the meat which is served to you."
So Ali Baba went into the kitchen, and asked
Morgiana not to put any salt into the meat she was
going to serve for supper. Morgiana could not help
being annoyed at this, and asked, "Who is this man
who cannot eat salt? Your supper will be good for
nothing without it."
"Do not be angry," replied Ali Baba. "He is a
good man; do what I wish."
s
51


and the Captain of the forty thieves! Do you now
see why he refused to eat salt with you?"
Ali Baba now saw that he owed Morgiana for thus
saving his life a second time. He cried out, "Morgiana,
some time ago I gave you your liberty, and at the
same time promised to do more for you at some future
time. That time has now arrived, and I present
you to my son as his wife and welcome you as a
daughter."
A few days after this, Ali Baba's son and Morgiana
were married. After the marriage, Ali Baba decided
to again visit the cave of the forty thieves. On reach-
ing it, he dismounted, and went up to the door, and
repeated the words, "Open, Sesame." At once the
door opened, and he entered the cave. He found that
no one had been in it from the time that the pretended
merchant had opened his shop in the city. He there-
fore knew that the whole band of thieves had been
killed, and that he was the only person in the whole
world who knew the secret of the cave.
From that time Ali Baba and his son, whom he took
to the cave and taught the secret, enjoyed its riches
and lived in great happiness and comfort to the end
of their lives.
—Arabian Nights.
53


PANDORA
Long, long ago, when this old world was in its
infancy, there was a child named Epimetheus, who
never had either father or mother. In order that he
might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and
motherless like himself, was sent from a far country,
to live with him and be his playmate and companion.
Her name was Pandora.
The first thing that Pandora saw when she entered
the cottage where Epimetheus dwelt, was a great
box; and almost the first question she asked after
crossing the threshold, was this:
"Epimetheus, what have you in that box?"
"My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus,
"that is a secret, and you must be kind enough not
to ask any questions about it. The box was left here
to be kept safely, and I do not know what it contains."
"But who gave it to you?" asked Pandora. "And
where did it come from?"
"That is a secret, too," replied Epimetheus.
"How provoking!" exclaimed Pandora, poutingly.
"I wish the great ugly box were out of the way!"
"Oh, come, don't think of it any more," cried
Epimetheus. "Let us run out of doors and play with
the other children."
It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and
54


Pandora were alive, and the world is very different
from what it was in their time. Then everybody was
a child. There was no need of fathers and mothers to
take care of the children; because there was no danger
or trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended,
and there was always plenty to eat and drink.
When a child wanted his dinner, he found it growing
on a tree; and if he looked at a tree in the morning, he
could see the bursting blossoms of that night's supper.
It was a very pleasant life, indeed. No work to be
done, no lessons to be studied; nothing but games
and dances. The sweet voices of children could be
heard talking or caroling like birds, or gushing out in
merry laughter, throughout the livelong day.
What was most wonderful of all was that the children
never quarreled among themselves. Oh, what a good
time that was to live in! The fact is that those ugly
little winged imps called Troubles, which are now
almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet
been heard of. It is probable that the greatest unhap-
piness that a child had ever experienced was Pandora's
vexation at not being able to discover the secret of
the mysterious box.
This was at first only the faint shadow of trouble;
but every day it grew more and more, until, in a
little while the cottage of Epimetheus and Pandora
was less sunshiny than those of the other children.
55


"What a dull boy he is!" muttered Pandora, as
Epimetheus left the cottage. "I do wish he had a
little more interest in things!"
For the first time since Pandora's arrival, Epimetheus
had gone out without asking her to accompany him.
He went to gather figs and grapes by himself, or to seek
whatever amusement he could find. He was tired to
death of hearing about the box, and heartily wished
that Mercury, or whoever the messenger was, had
left it at some other child's door, where Pandora would
never have set eyes on it. It seemed as if the box were
bewitched, and as if the cottage were not big enough
to hold it without Pandora continually stumbling
over it and making trouble for herself and Epimetheus.
After Epimetheus had gone, Pandora stood gazing
at the box. She had said that it was ugly more than
a hundred times; but in spite of all that she had said
against it, it was positively a very handsome article
of furniture, and would have been an ornament to
any room in which it should be placed. It was made
of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich veins
spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished
that little Pandora could see her face in it. As the
child had no other mirror, it is a wonder that she did
not value the box merely on this account.
The edges and the corners of the box were carved
with most wonderful skill. Around the margin there
58


were figures of graceful men and women, and the
prettiest children ever seen. But here and there,
peeping forth from behind the carved foliage, Pandora
once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so lovely,
which stole the beauty from all the rest. Neverthe-
less, on looking more closely, and touching the spot
with her finger, she could discover nothing of the
kind.
The most beautiful face of all was in the center of
the lid. There was nothing else, save the smooth
polished wood, and this one face in the center, with a
garland of flowers about its brow. Pandora had
looked at the face a great many times, and imagined
that the mouth could smile if it liked, or be sad when
it chose, the same as any living mouth. The face had
a very mischievous expression, which looked almost
as if it must speak. If the mouth had spoken, it
probably would have said something like this:
"Do not be afraid, Pandora. What harm can there
be in opening the box? Never mind that poor, simple
Epimetheus! You are wiser than he is, and have ten
times as much spirit. Open the box and see if you do
not find something very pretty!"
The Knot
I had forgotten to say that the box was fastened,
not by a lock, but by a very complicated knot of gold
59


cord. There appeared to be no end to this knot, and
no beginning. Never was a knot so cunningly
twisted, and it defied the most skilful fingers to untie
it. And yet, this very difficulty made Pandora all the
more anxious to examine the knot to see how it was
made. Two or three times she had stooped over the
box and taken the knot between her thumb and
forefinger, but without trying to undo it.
"I really believe," she said to herself at last, "that
I see how it can be done. Perhaps I could tie it up
again after undoing it. There would be no harm in
that, I am sure. I need not open the box, and I should
not, without the foolish boy's consent, even if the
knot were untied."
It might have been better for Pandora if she had had
a little work to do, or anything to employ her mind,
so she would not be constantly thinking of this one
subject. But children led so easy a life before any
troubles came into the world, that they really had a
great deal too much leisure. They could not be for-
ever playing hide and seek among the flowers, or
blindman's buff, or whatever games had been found
out, while mother earth was in her babyhood.
But, after all, I am not sure but the box was some-
thing of a blessing to her. It supplied her with so
many things to think of and talk about, whenever
she had anybody to listen. When she was in good
60


humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides,
and the rich border of beautiful faces that ran all
around it. If she chanced to be ill-tempered, she
could give it a push, or kick it with her naughty little
foot. And many a kick did the box get—and it
deserved all it got. But certain it is that if it had not
been for the box, our active-minded little Pandora
would not have known half so well how to spend her
time as she now did.
It was an endless employment to guess what was
inside. What could it be? Just imagine how busy
your wits would be if there was a great box in the
house which you might have reason to suppose con-
tained something new and pretty for your Christmas
present. Do you think you would be less curious
than Pandora? If you were left alone with the box,
might you not feel a little tempted to lift the lid?
But you would not do it. Oh, no! Only, if you
thought there were toys in it, it would be very hard
to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep.
I do not think Pandora expected any toys; for none
had yet begun to be made. But Pandora was con-
vinced that there was something very beautiful and
valuable in the box, and therefore she was very anxious
to take a peep.
On this particular day, which we have been so long
talking about, her curiosity grew so much greater
* 61


than it usually was that at last she approached the
box. She was more than half determined to open it,
if she could.
First, however, she tried to lift it. It was heavy,
quite too heavy for the slight strength of a child like
Pandora. She raised ono end of the box a few inches
from the floor, and let it fall again with a pretty loud
thump. A moment afterwards she almost fancied
she heard something stir inside the box. She held
her ear as closely as possible and listened. Really
there did seem to be a kind of murmur within. Or,1
could it be the beating of her heart? The child could
not quite satisfy herself whether she had heard any-
thing or not. But, at all events, her curiosity was
stronger than ever.
As she drew back her head, her eyes fell upon the
knot of gold cord.
"It must have been a very ingenious person who
tied this knot," said Pandora to herself, "but I think
I could untie it. I am resolved to at least find the
two ends of the cord."
So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and
pried into its mysteries as much as she could. Almost
without intending it, or knowing what she was about,
she was soon busily engaged in attempting to untie it.
Meanwhile, the bright sunshine came through the
open window, as did likewise the merry voices of the
62



63


children playing at a distance. Pandora stopped to
listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not
be wiser if she were to let the troublesome knot alone
and think no more about the box, but run and join
her little playmates and be happy?
All this time, however, her fingers were busy with
the knot; and, happening to glance at the flower-
wreathed face on the lid of the enchanted box, she
seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at her.
"That face looks very mischievous," thought Pan-
dora. "I wonder whether it smiles because I am
doing wrong? I have the greatest mind in the world
to run away."
But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the
knot a kind of twist which produced a wonderful
result. The gold cord untwined itself, as if by magic,
and left the box without a fastening.
"This is the strangest thing I ever saw!" said
Pandora. "What will Epimetheus say? And how
can I possibly tie it up again?"
She made one or two attempts to restore the knot,
but soon found it quite beyond her skill. It had
disentangled itself so suddenly that she could not in
the least remember how the strings had been fastened
to one another; and when she tried to recall the
shape and appearance of the knot, it seemed to have
gone entirely out of her mind. Nothing was to be
64


done, therefore, but to let the box remain as it was
until Epimetheus should come in.
"But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot
untied, he will know that I have done it. How shall
I make him believe that I have not done it. How
shall I make him believe that I have not looked into
the box?"
Then the thought came into her naughty little
heart, that, since she would be suspected of having
looked into the box, she might just as well do so at
once. She could not tell whether it was fancy, or not;
but there was quite a tumult of whispers in her ear
that said, "Let us out, dear Pandora, let us out!
We will be such nice little playfellows for you! Only
let us out!"
"What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there
anything alive in the box? Well, yes, I am resolved
to take just one peep! Only one peep! And then
the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever. There
cannot possibly be any harm in just one little peep!"
But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus
was doing.
This was the first time since his little playmate had
come to dwell with him, that he had attempted to
enjoy any pleasure in which she did not partake. But
nothing went right, nor was he nearly as happy as
on other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a
65


ripe fig; or, if ripe at all, they were over ripe and
unfit to eat. There was no mirth in his heart; and
he grew so uneasy and discontented that the other
children could not imagine what was the matter with
Epimetheus. Neither did he himself know what ailed
him any better than they did. For you must remem-
ber that, at the time we are speaking of, it was every-
body's nature and habit to be happy. The world
had not yet learned to be otherwise. Not a single
one of these children had ever been sick or out of sorts.
At length, discovering that something or other was
wrong, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pan-
dora. With the hope of giving her pleasure, he gathered
some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which he
meant to put upon her head. The flowers were very
lovely—roses and lilies, and a great many more, which
left a trail of fragrance behind as Epimetheus carried
them along.
And here I must mention that a great black cloud
had been gathering in the sky for some time, although
it had not yet overspread the sun. But just as Epi-
metheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to
intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden
dim light.
He entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to
steal behind Pandora, and fling the wreath of flowers
over her head before she should be aware of his
66


approach. But, as it happened, there was no need
of his treading so very lightly. He might have trod
as heavily as he pleased—as heavily as a grown man,
as heavily as an elephant—without Pandora's hearing
his footsteps. She was too intent upon her purpose.
At the moment of his entering the cottage, the
naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and was
on the point of opening the mysterious box.
Epimetheus saw her. If he had cried out, Pandora
would probably have withdrawn her hand, and the
fatal mystery of the box might never have been known.
But Epimetheus himself, although he said very
little about it, had his own share of curiosity to know
what was inside. Perceiving that Pandora was
determined to find out the secret, he determined
that she should not be the only wise person in the
cottage. If there was anything pretty or valuable
in the box, he meant to take half of it for himself.
Thus, after all his wise speeches to Pandora about
restraining her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be
quite as foolish and nearly as much at fault as she.
Pandora Opens the Box
As Pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very
dark and dismal; for the black cloud had now swept
quite over the sun, and seemed to have buried it alive.
There had also been a low grumbling and muttering,
s
67


which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder.
But Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the
lid nearly upright, and looked inside. It seemed as
if a sudden swarm of winged creatures brushed past
her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same
instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, as if he
were in pain.
"Oh, I am stung!" cried he. "I am stung!
Naughty Pandora, why have you opened this wicked
box?"
Pandora let the lid fall, and, starting up, looked
about her to see what had happened to Epimetheus.
The cloud over the sun had so darkened the room
that she could not see very distinctly what was in it;
but she heard a disagreeable buzzing, as if a great
many huge flies or mosquitoes were buzzing about.
As her eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light,
she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats' wings,
looking very wicked, and armed with terribly long
stings in their tails. It was one of these that had
stung Epimetheus. Nor was it a great while before
Pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain and
fright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal
more noise about it. An odious little monster had
settled on her forehead, and would have stung her if
Epimetheus had not run and brushed it away.
Now if you wish to know what those ugly things


were which had made their escape out of the box, I
must tell you they were the whole family of earthly
troubles. There were evil tempers; there were a
great many kinds of cares; there were more than a
hundred sorrows; there were diseases; and more
kinds of naughtiness than it would be of any use to
talk about. In short, everything that has harmed
the souls and bodies of mankind ever since, had been
shut up in that mysterious box, and given to Epime-
theus and Pandora to keep safely, in order that the
happy children of the world might never be molested
by them. Had they been faithful to their trust, all
would have gone well. No grown person would ever
have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed
a single tear from that hour until this moment.
It was impossible, as you will easily guess, for the
two children to keep the ugly troubles in their cottage.
On the contrary, the first thing they did was to fling
open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid
of them. Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and
hardly less naughty Epimetheus, remained in their
cottage. Both of them had been severely stung and
were in a great deal of pain. Of course, they were
entirely unaccustomed to it, and could have no idea
what it meant.
Suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside
of the lid.
70


"What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her
head,
But either Epimetheus did not hear the tap, or was
too much out of humor to notice it. At any rate, he
made no answer.
"You are very unkind," said Pandora, sobbing,
"not to speak to me!"
Again came the tap. It sounded like the tiny
knuckles of a fairy's hand, knocking lightly and
playfully on the inside of the box.
"Who are you?" asked Pandora, with a little of her
former curiosity. "Who is inside this naughty box?"
A sweet little voice spoke from within: "Only lift
the lid and you shall see."
"No, no," answered Pandora, again beginning to
sob, "I have had enough of lifting the lid. You are
inside the box, naughty creature, and there you shall
stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and
sisters flying about the world already. You need not
think I shall be so foolish as to let you out!" She
looked towards Epimetheus as she spoke, perhaps
expecting that he praise her for her wisdom; but the
sullen boy only muttered that she was wise a little too
late.
"You had better let me out," said the sweet little
voice again. "I am not like those naughty creatures
that have stings in their tails. They are no brothers
71


and sisters of mine, as you would see at once, if you
could only get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my
pretty Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!"
Indeed, there was a kind of cheerfulness in the tone
that made it almost impossible to refuse anything that
the little voice asked. Pandora's heart had grown
lighter at every word which came from the box. Epi-
metheus, too, had turned half around, and seemed
to be in better spirits than before.
"My dear Epimetheus," cried Pandora, "have you
heard this little voice?"
"Yes, I have," answered he in no very good humor,
?'butwhatof it?"
"Shall I lift the lid again?" asked Pandora.
"Just as you please," replied Epimetheus. "You
have done so much mischief already that perhaps
you may as well do a little more. One other trouble
in such a swarm as you have set adrift about the world
can make no very great difference."
"You might speak a little more kindly!" murmured
Pandora, wiping her eyes.
"Oh, the naughty boy!" cried the voice within the
box, with a laughing voice. "He knows he is longing
to see me. Come, my dear Pandora, lift up the lid,
for I am in a great hurry to comfort you.
"And as the lid seems very heavy, I will help you,"
cried Epimetheus, as he ran across the room.
72


So, with one consent, the two children lifted the
lid. Out flew a sunny and smiling little creature, and
hovered about the room, throwing brightness wherever
she went. Have you never made the sunshine dance
in dark corners by reflecting it from a bit of looking-
glass? Well, just so looked the fairy stranger amid
the gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus and
laid the least touch of her finger on the spot where
trouble had stung him, and immediately the pain was
gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the forehead, and
her hurt was cured likewise.
After performing these good deeds, the bright
stranger fluttered over the children's heads and looked
so sweetly at them that they both began to think it
was not such a very great mistake to have opened the
box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have
been kept a prisoner among those naughty imps with
stings in their tails.
"Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?" inquired
Pandora.
"I am called Hope!" answered the sunshiny figure.
"Because I am such a cheery little body. I was
packed in the box to make amends to the human
race for that swarm of ugly troubles, which was sure
to be let loose among them. Never fear! We shall
get along pretty well in spite of them all."
—Nathaniel Hawthorne.
73


When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the Glow-worm by his spark;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
"As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song:
For 'twas the selfsame Power Divine
Taught you to sing and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night."
The songster heard this short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
—Cawpet.
75


Massachusetts. Truly, there was need that the old
chair should be varnished and decorated with a crim-
son cushion in order to make it suitable for such a
magnificent looking person.
But Sir William Phips had not always worn a gold-
embroidered coat, nor always sat so much at his ease
in Grandfather's chair. He was a poor man's son
and was born in the province of Maine, where he used
to tend sheep upon the hills, in his boyhood and
youth. Until he had grown to be a man, he did not
even know how to read and write. Tired of tending
sheep, he next apprenticed himself to a ship carpenter,
and spent about four years in hewing the crooked
limbs of oak trees into knees for vessels.
In 1673, when he was twenty-two years old, he
came to Boston, and soon afterwards was married
to a widow, who had property enough to set him up
in business. It was not long, however, before he lost
all the money that he had acquired by marriage and
became a poor man again. Still he was not discouraged.
He often told his wife that, some time or other, he
should be very rich, and would build a "fair brick
house," in the Green Lane of Boston.
Do not suppose that he had been to a fortune teller to
ask what would happen to him. It was his own energy,
and his resolution to lead an industrious life, that made
him look forward with so much confidence to better days.
77


Several years passed away, and William Phips had
not yet gained the riches which he promised himself.
During this time he had begun to follow the sea for a
living. In the year 1684 he happened to hear of a
Spanish ship which had been cast away near the
Bahama Islands, and which was supposed to contain
a great deal of gold and silver. Phips went to the
place m a small vessel, hoping that he should be able
to recover some of the treasure from the wreck. He
did not succeed, however, in fishing up enough gold
and silver to pay the expenses of his voyage.
But before he returned he was told of another
Spanish ship or galleon, which had been cast away
near Porto de la Plata. She had now lain as much
as fifty years beneath the waves. This old ship had
been laden with immense wealth; and hitherto nobody
had thought of the possibility of recovering any part
of it from the deep sea which was rolling and tossing
it about. But though it was now an old story, and
the most aged people had almost forgotten that such
a vessel had been wrecked, William Phips resolved
that the sunken treasure should again be brought to
light.
He went to London and obtained admittance to
King James, who had not yet been driven from his
throne. He told the king of the vast wealth that
was lying at the bottom of the sea. King James
78


listened with attention, and thought this a fine oppor-
tunity to fill his treasury with Spanish gold. pe
appointed William Phips to be captain of a vessel called
the Rose Algier, carrying eighteen guns and ninety-five
men. So now he was Captain Phips of the English
Navy.
Captain Phips sailed from England in the Rose
Algier, and cruised for nearly two years in the West
Indies, endeavoring to find the wreck of the Spanish
ship. But the sea is so wide and deep that it is no
easy matter to discover the exact spot where a sunken
vessel lies. The prospect of success seemed very
small; and most people would have thought that
Captain Phips was as far from having money enough to
build a "fair brick house" as while he tended sheep.
The seamen of the Rose Algier became discouraged,
and gave up all hope of making their fortune by
discovering the Spanish wreck. They wanted to
compel Captain Phips to turn pirate. There was a
much better prospect, they thought, of growing rich
by plundering vessels which still sailed in the sea, than
by seeking for a ship that had lain beneath the waves
full half a century. They broke out in open mutiny,
but were finally mastered by Phips and compelled
to obey his orders. It would have been dangerous,
however, to continue much longer at sea with such a
crew of mutinous sailors, and besides, the Rose Algier
79


was leaky and unseaworthy. So Captain Phipa
judged it best to return to England.
Before leaving the West Indies, he met a Spaniard,
an old man, who remembered the wreck of the Spanish
ship, and gave him directions how to find the very spot.
It was on a reef of rocks, a few leagues from Porto de
la Plata.
On his arrival in England, therefore, Captain Phips
begged the king to let him have another vessel and send
him back to the West Indies. But King James, who
had probably expected that the Rose Algier would
return laden with gold, refused to have anything
more to do with the affair. Phips might never have
been able to renew the search if the Duke of Albemarle
and some other noblemen had not lent their assistance.
They fitted out a ship, and gave the command to
Captain Phips. He sailed from England, and arrived
safely at Porto de la Plata, where he took an adz and
assisted his men to build a large boat.
The boat was intended for the purpose of going
closer to the reef of rocks than a large vessel could
safely venture. When it was finished, the captain
sent several men in it to examine the spot where the
Spanish ship was said to have been wrecked. They
were accompanied by some Indians, who were skilful
divers, and could go down a great way into the depths
of the sea.
80


The boat's crew proceeded to the reef of rocks, and
rowed around and around it a great many times.
They gazed into the water, which was so transparent
that it seemed as if they could have seen the gold and
silver at the bottom, had there been any of those
precious metals there. Nothing, however, could they
see; nothing more valuable than a curious sea shrub,
which was growing beneath the water, in a crevice
of the reef of rocks. It flaunted to and fro with the
swell and reflux of the waves, and looked as bright and
beautiful as if its leaves were gold.
"We won't go back empty-handed," cried an
English sailor; and then he spoke to one of the Indian
divers. "Dive down and bring me that pretty sea
shrub there. That's the only treasure we shall find."
Down plunged the diver, and soon rose dripping
from the water, holding the sea shrub in his hands.
But he had learnt some news at the bottom of the sea.
"There are some ship's guns," said he, the moment
he had drawn his breath, "some great cannon, among
the rocks, near where the shrub was growing."
No sooner had he spoken than the English sailors
knew that they had found the very spot where the
Spanish galleon had been wrecked so many years
before. The other Indian divers immediately plunged
over the boat's side and swam headlong down, groping
among the rocks and sunken cannon. In a few minutes
81





one of them rose above the water with a heavy lump
of silver in his arms. That single lump was worth more
than a thousand dollars. The sailors took it into the
boat, and then rowed back as speedily as they could,
being in haste to inform Captain Phips of their good
luck.
But, confidently as the captain had hoped to find
the Spanish wreck, yet now that it was really found,
the news seemed too good to be true. He could not
believe it till the sailors showed him the lump of
silver.
"Thanks be to God!" then cried Captain Phips.
"We shall every man of us make our fortunes!"
Hereupon the captain and all the crew set to work,
with iron rakes and great hooks and lines, for fishing
gold and silver at the bottom of the sea. Up came
the treasure in abundance. Now they beheld a table
of solid silver, once the property of an old Spanish
grandee. Now they found a costly vessel, which
had been destined as a gift to some Catholic church.
Now they drew up a golden cup, fit for the king of
Spain to drink his wine out of. Perhaps the bony
hand of its former owner had been grasping the
precious cup, and was drawn up along with it. Now
their rakes of fishing lines were loaded with masses
of silver bullion. There were also precious stones
among the treasure, glittering and sparkling, so that
83


afterwards, still raving about the treasures that lie
at the bottom of the sea. It would have been better
for this man if he had left the skeletons of the ship-
wrecked Spaniards in quiet possession of their wealth.
Captain Phips and his men continued to fish up
plate, bullion, and dollars as plentifully as ever, till
their provisions grew short. Then, as they could
not feed upon gold and silver any more than old King
Midas could, they found it necessary to go in search
of better sustenance. Phips resolved to return to
England. He arrived there in 1687, and was received
with great joy by the Duke of Albemarle and other
English lords who had fitted out the vessel.
Well they might rejoice; for they took by far the
greater part of the treasure to themselves.
The captain's share, however, was enough to make
him comfortable for the rest of his days. It also
enabled him to fulfil his promise to his wife, by building
a "fair brick house" in the Green Lane of Boston.
The Duke of Albemarle sent Mrs. Phips a magnificent
gold cup, worth at least five thousand dollars. Before
Captain Phips left London, King James made him a
knight; so that, instead of the obscure ship carpenter
who had formerly dwelt among them, the inhabitants
of Boston welcomed him on his return as the rich and
famous Sir William Phips.
—Nathaniel Hawthorne.
85


THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS
Captain John Hull was the mint-master of Massa-
chusetts, and coined all the money that was made
there. This was a new line of business; for, in the-
earlier days of the colony, the current coinage consisted
of gold and silver money of England, Portugal, and
Spain. These coins being scarce, the people were
often forced to barter their commodities instead of
selling them.
For instance, if a man wanted to buy a coat, he
perhaps exchanged a bearskin for it. If he wished for
a barrel of molasses, he might purchase it with a pile
of pine boards. Musket bullets were used instead of
farthings. The Indians had a sort of money, called
wampum, which was made of clam shells: and this
strange sort of specie was likewise taken in payment of
debts by the English settlers. Bank bills had never
been heard of. There was not money enough of any
kind, in many parts of the country, to pay the salaries
of the ministers; so that they sometimes had to take
quintals of fish, bushels of corn, or cords of wood instead
of silver or gold.
As the people grew more numerous, and their trade
one with another increased, the want of current money
was still more sensibly felt. To supply the demand,
the General Court passed a law establishing a coinage
86


of shillings, sixpences, And threepences. Captain John
Hull was appointed to manufacture this money, and
he was to have about one shilling out of every twenty
to pay him for the trouble of making them.
Hereupon all the old silver in the colony was handed
over to Captain John Hull. The battered silver cans
and tankards, I suppose, and silver buckles, and
broken spoons, and silver buttons of worn-out coats,
and silver hilts of swords that had figured at court,—
all 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—who were little
better than pirates—had taken from the Spaniards,
and brought to Massachusetts.
All this old and new silver being melted down and
coined, the result was an immense amount of splendid
shillings, sixpences, and threepences. Each had the
date 1652 on the one side, and the figure of a pine tree
on the other. Hence they were called pine-tree shil-
lings. And for every twenty shillings that he coined,
you will remember, Captain Hull was entitled to put
one shilling into his own pocket.
The magistrates soon began to suspect that the
mint-master would have the best of the bargain.
They offered him a large sum of money if he would
give up that twentieth shilling that he was continually
87


dropping into his own pocket. But Captain Hull
declared himself perfectly satisfied with the shilling.
And well he might be; for so diligently did he labor,
that, in a few years his pockets, his money bags, and his
strong box were overflowing with pine-tree shillings.
When the mint-master had grown very rich, a
young man, Samuel Sewell by name, came a-courting
to his only daughter. His daughter—whom we will call
Betsy—was a fine, hearty damsel, by no means so
slender as some young ladies of our own days. On the
contrary, having always fed heartily on pumpkin pies,
doughnuts, Indian pudding, and other Puritan dainties,
she was as round and plump as a pudding herself.
With this round, rosy Miss Betsy did Samuel Sewell
fall in love. As he was a young man of good character,
industrious in his business and a member of the church,
the mint-master very readily gave his consent.
"Yes, you may take her," said he, in his rough way,
"and you'll find her a heavy burden enough!"
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 great dignity in
Grandfather's chair; and, being a portly old gentle-
man, he completely filled it from elbow to elbow.
88


On the opposite side of the room, between her brides-
maids, sat Miss Betsy. She was blushing with all her
might, and looked like a full-blown peony. There,
too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine purple coat
and gold-lace waistcoat, with as much other finery as
the Puritan laws would allow him to put on. 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 personal young man; and
so thought the bridesmaids and Miss Betsy herself.
The mint-master also was pleased with his new
son-in-law: especially as he had courted Miss Betsy
out of pure love, and had said nothing at all about
her portion. So, when the marriage ceremony was over,
Captain Hull whispered a word or two to two of his
menservants, 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 Betsy," said the mint-master, "get into
one side of these scales."
Miss Betsy—or Mrs. Sewell, as we must now call
her—did as she was bid, like a dutiful child, without
any question of the why and wherefore. But what her
father could mean, unless to make her husband pay
for her by the pound, she had not the least idea.
89



90


"And now," said honest John Hull to the servants,
""bring that box hither."
The box to which the mint-master pointed was a
liuge, square, iron-bound, oaken chest. 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 Betsy 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,
resuming his seat in Grandfather's chair, "take these
shillings for my daughter's portion. Use her kindly,
and thank Heaven for her. It is not every wife that's
worth her weight in silver!"
—Nathaniel Hawthorne.
91


THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER
One evening, a long time ago, old Philemon and
his old wife Baucis sat at their cottage door, enjoying
the calm and beautiful sunset. They had already
eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend
a quiet hour or two before bedtime. So they talked
together about their garden, and their cow, and their
bees and their grapevine, which clambered over the
cottage wall, and on which the grapes were beginning
to turn purple. But the rude shouts of children, and
the fierce barking of dogs in the village near at hand
grew louder and louder until, at last, it was hardly
possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other
speak.
"Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor
traveler is seeking shelter among our neighbors yonder,
and, instead of giving him food and lodging, they have
set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"
"Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis, "I do wish
our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their
fellow creatures. To think of bringing up their
children in this way, and patting them on the head
when they fling stones at strangers!"
"Those children will never come to any good," said
Philemon, shaking his white head. "To tell you the
truth, wife, I should not wonder if some terrible thing
92


should happen to all the people in the village, unless
they mend their manners. As for you and me, so long
as Providence affords us a crust of bread, let us be
ready to give half to any poor, homeless stranger that
may come along."
"That's right, husband!" said Baucis. "So we
will!"
These old folks, you must know, were quite poor,
and had to work hard for a living. Old Philemon
toiled diligently in his garden, while Baucis was always
busy with her spinning or making a little butter and
cheese from the cow's milk, or doing one thing or
another about the cottage. Their food was seldom
anything but bread and milk, with vegetables and
sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and
now and then a bunch of grapes that had ripened
against the cottage wall.
But they were two of the kindest old people in the
world, and would cheerfully have gone without their
dinners any day, rather than refuse a slice of their
own brown loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of
honey to the weary traveler who might pass before
their door. They felt as if such guests had a sort of
holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them
better and more generously than their own selves.
Their cottage stood on rising ground, at a short
distance from a village, which lay in a valley that was


about half a mile in breadth. This valley, in past ages,
when the world was new, had probably been the bed
of a lake. There fishes had glided to and fro in the
depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin,
and trees and hills had seen their reflected images in
the broad and peaceful mirror. But as the waters
subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses
on it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and boreoio
traces of the ancient lake, except a small brook, which
flowed through the midst of the village and supplied
the inhabitants with water.
The valley had been dry land so long that oaks had
sprung up, had grown great and tall and had perished
with old age and been succeeded by others as tall and
stately as the first. Never was there a prettier or
more fruitful valley. The very sight of the plenty
around them should have made the inhabitants kind
and gentle and ready to show their gratitude to Provi-
dence by doing good to their fellow creatures.
But, we are sorry to say, the people of this village
were not worthy to dwell in a spot on which heaven
had smiled so kindly. They were very selfish and
hard-hearted, and had no pity for the poor nor sym-
pathy with the homeless. You will hardly believe
what I am going to tell you. These naughty people
taught their children to be no better than themselves,
and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement,
94


when they saw the little boys and girls run after some
poor stranger, shouting at his heels and pelting him
with stones.
They kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a
traveler ventured to show himself in the village street,
this pack of curs scampered to meet him, barking,
snarling, and showing their teeth. Then they would
seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it hap-
pened; and if he were ragged when he came, he was
generally a pitiable object before he had time to run
away.
This was a terrible way to treat poor travelers, as
you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be
sick, or feeble, or lame, or old. Such persons, when
they once knew how badly these unkind people and
their unkind children and curs were in the habit of
behaving, would go miles out of their way, rather
than try to pass through the village again.
What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was
that when rich persons came in their chariots, or
riding on beautiful horses, nobody could be more
civil and polite than the inhabitants of the village.
They would take off their hats and make the humblest
bows you ever saw. If the children were rude, they
were pretty certain to have their ears boxed; and, as
for the dogs, if a single cur presumed to yelp, his master
instantly beat him with a club, and let him go without
95


any supper. This would have been all very well,
only it proved that the villagers cared much more
about the money that a stranger had in his pocket
than they did for the stranger himself.
So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke
so sorrowfully when he heard the shouts of the children
and the barking of the dogs at the farther end of the
village street. There was a confused din, which lasted
a long while and seemed to pass quite through the
breadth of the valley.
"I never heard the dogs bark so loudly," said the
good old man.
"Nor the children act so rudely!" answered his good
old wife.
They sat shaking their heads, one to another, while
the noise came nearer and nearer; until they saw two
travelers approaching the little hill on which their
cottage stood. Close behind them came the dogs,
snarling at their heels. A little farther off ran a crowd
of children who sent up shrill cries and flung stones at
the two strangers with all their might.
Once or twice, the younger of the two men, who was
very slender, turned about and drove back the dogs
with a staff that he carried in his hand. His com-
panion, who was very tall, walked calmly along as if
unwilling to notice either the naughty children or the
pack of curs.
96


Both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and
looked as if they might not have enough money in
their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. This, I am
afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed
their children and dogs to treat them so rudely.
"Come, wife," said Philemon to Baucis, "let us go
and meet these poor people. No doubt, they feel too
heavy-hearted to climb the hill."
"You go and meet them," answered Baucis, "while
I make haste to see whether we can find anything for
their supper. A good bowl of bread and milk would
help to raise their spirits."
Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Phile-
mon went forward and extended his hand so heartily
in welcome that there was no need of his saying:
"Welcome, strangers! welcome!"
"Thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a
lively kind of way, in spite of his weariness and trouble.
"This is quite another kind of welcome than we met
with in yonder village. Pray, why do you live in such
a bad neighborhood?"
"Ah!" observed old Philemon, with a sad smile,
"Providence put me here, I hope, among other reasons,
in order that I may do what I can to make up for the
unkindness of my neighbors."
"Well said, old father!" cried the traveler, laughing;
"and if the truth must be told, my companion and
97


myself need your help. Those children have bespat-
tered us finely with mud and one of the curs has
torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already.
But I hit him across the muzzle with my staff, and I
think you may have heard him yelp, even thus far off."
Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits, nor
would you have imagined, by the traveler's look and
manner, that he was weary with a long day's journey.
He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of
cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both
ears. Though it was a summer evening, he wore a
coat, which he kept wrapped closely about him, per-
haps because his under garments were shabby. Phile-
mon noticed, too, that he had on a singular pair of
shoes; but it was now growing dark and the old man
could not see very well. One thing certainly seemed
queer. The traveler was so wonderfully light and
active, that it appeared as if his feet sometimes rose
from the ground of their own accord, or could only be
kept down by an effort.
"I used to be light-footed in my youth," said Phile-
mon to the traveler, "but I always found that my
feet grew heavier towards nightfall."
"There is nothing like a good staff to help one
along," answered the stranger; "and I happen to
have an excellent one, as you see."
This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that
98


Philemon had ever beheld. It was made of olive-wood,
and had something like a little pair of wings near the top.
"A curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "A
staff with wings! It would be an excellent kind of stick
for a little boy to ride."
By this time, Philemon and his two m guests had
reached the cottage door. "Friends," said the old man,
"sit down and rest yourselves here on this bench. My
good wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for
supper. We are poor folks, but you will be welcome to
whatever we have in the cupboard."
The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the
bench, letting his staff fall, as he did so. And then
something happened that was remarkable, though tri-
fling enough. The staff seemed to get up from the
ground of its own accord, and spreading its little pair
of wings, it half hopped, half flew, and leaned itself
against the wall of the cottage.
Before Philemon could ask any questions, the elder
stranger drew his attention from the wonderful staff by
speaking to him.
"Was there once a lake," asked the stranger,
"covering the spot where yonder village now stands?"
"Not in my day, friend," answered Philemon, "and
yet I am an old man, as you see. There were always
The Strange Question

99


the fields and meadows, just as they are now, and the
old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the
midst of the valley. My father, nor his father before
him, ever saw it otherwise, so far as I know, and doubt-
less it will still be the same when old Philemon shall be
gone and forgotten!"
"That is more than can be safely foretold," said the
stranger. "Since the inhabitants of yonder village
have forgotten the affections and sympathies of their
nature, it would be better if the lake were rippling over
their dwellings again!"
The travelers looked so stern that Philemon was
really almost frightened; the more so because at his
frown the twilight seemed suddenly to grow darker,
and there was a roll as of thunder in the air.
But a moment afterwards the stranger's face became
so kindly and mild that the old man quite forgot his
terror. Nevertheless, he could not help feeling that
this elder traveler must be no ordinary person, although
he happened now to be dressed so humbly and to be
journeying on foot.
Not that Philemon fancied him a prince in disguise,
or any character of that sort, but rather some exceed-
ingly wise man, who went about the world in this poor
garb seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom.
This idea appeared the more probable because when
Philemon raised his eyes to the stranger's face, he
100


seemed to see more thought there in one look than
he could have studied out in a lifetime.
While Baucis was getting the supper, the travelers
both began to talk very sociably with Philemon. The
younger, indeed, was extremely talkative, and made
such shrewd and witty remarks that the good old man
burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest
fellow whom he had seen for many a day.
"Pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew more
familiar, "what may I call your name?"
"Why, I am very nimble, as you see," answered the
traveler. "So if you call me Quicksilver or Mercury,
either name will fit me well enough."
"Mercury? Mercury?" repeated Philemon, looking
in the traveler's face to see if he were making fun of him.
"It is a very odd name! Has your companion as
strange a name?"
"You must ask the thunder to tell it to you!"
replied Mercury, putting on a mysterious look. "No
other voice is loud enough."
This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, caused
Philemon to have a very great awe of the elder stranger.
Undoubtledly, here was the grandest figure that ever
sat so humbly beside a cottage door. When the
stranger conversed, it was in such a way that Philemon
felt moved to tell him everything which he had most at
heart. This is always the feeling that people have when
101


they meet with any one wise enough to understand all
their good and evil.
But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that
he was, had not many secrets to tell. However, he
talked quite freely about the events of his past life, in
the whole course of which he had never been a score of
miles from this very spot. His wife Baucis and himself
had dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earn-
ing their bread by honest labor, always poor, but still
contented.
He told what excellent butter and cheese Baucis made,
and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in his
garden. He said, too, that because they loved one
another so very much, it was the wish of both that
death might not separate them, but that they should
die, as they had lived, together.
As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his face
and made its expression as sweet as it was grand.
"You are a good old man," said he to Philemon, "and
you have a good old wife to be your helpmate. It is
fair that your wish be granted."
And it seemed to Philemon just then as if the sunset
clouds threw up a bright flash from the west and
kindled a sudden light in the sky.
Baucis now had the supper ready, and, coming to the
door, began to make apologies for the poor fare which
she was forced to set before her guests.
102


"Had we known that you were coming," said she,
"my good man and myself would have gone without a
morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper.
But I took the greater part of to-day's milk to make
cheese, and our last loaf is already half eaten. Ah me!
I never feel the sorrow of being poor except when a poor
traveler knocks at our door."
"All will be well; do not trouble yourself, my good
dame," replied the elder stranger, kindly. "An honest
hearty welcome to a guest works miracles and is capable
of turning the coarsest food into the finest fare."
"A welcome you shall have," cried Baucis, "and
likewise a little honey that we happen to have left, and
a bunch of purple grapes besides."
"Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed
Mercury, laughing, "an absolute feast! You shall see
how bravely I will play my part at it! I think I never
felt hungrier in my life."
"Mercy on us!" whispered Baucis to her husband.
"If the young man has such a terrible appetite, I am
afraid there will not be half enough supper!"
Then they all went into the cottage.
And now shall I tell you something that will make
you open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the
oddest circumstances in the whole story. Mercury's
staff, you will remember, had set itself up against the
wall of the cottage. Well, when its master entered the
103


door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should
it do but immediately spread its wings, and go hopping
and fluttering up the door steps! Tap, tap, went the
staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it had
stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity, beside
Mercury's chair. Old Philemon, however, as well as
his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests,
that no notice was taken of what the staff had been
doing.
As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for
two hungry travelers. In the middle of the table was
the remnant of a brown loaf, with a piece of cheese on
one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the other.
There was also a good bunch of grapes for each of the
guests.
A moderately sized earthen pitcher nearly full of
milk, stood at a corner of the board; and when Baucis
had filled two bowls and set them before the strangers,
only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher.
Alas! it is a very sad business when a bountiful heart
finds itself pinched by poverty. Poor Baucis kept
wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it
were possible, by so doing, to provide these hungry
folks a more plentiful supper.
And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she
could not help wishing that their appetities were not
quite so large. Why, as soon as they sat down, the
104


travelers both drank off all the milk in their bowls at
a draught.
"A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you
please," said Mercury. "The day has been hot, and
I am very thirsty."
"Now, my dear people," answered Baucis in great
confusion, "I am sorry and ashamed! But the truth is,
there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher. 0 hus-
band! husband! why didn't we go without our supper?"
The Pitcher
"Why, it appears to me," cried Mercury, starting up
from the table and taking the pitcher by the handle,
"it really appears to me that matters are not quite so
bad as you think. Here is certainly more milk in the
pitcher."
So saying, and to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he
proceeded to fill from the pitcher not only his own bowl,
but his companion's likewise.
The good woman could scarcely believe her eyes.
She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and
had peeped in afterwards, and had seen the bottom of
the pitcher as she set it down upon the table.
"But I am old," thought Baucis to herself, "and apt
to be forgetful. I suppose I must have made a mistake.
At all events, the pitcher cannot help being empty now,
after filling the bowls twice over."
105


rKinfwD¥\ir^nuj.
nTFr.'-'''n 'I

106


"What excellent milk!" said Mercury, after quaffing
the contents of the second bowl. "Excuse me, my
kind hostess, but I must really ask you for a little more."
Now Baucis had seen as plainly as she could see any-
thing, that Mercury had turned the pitcher upside
down, and consequently had poured out every drop of
milk, in filling the last bowl. Of course, there could
not possibly be any left.
However, in order to let him know how the case was,
she lifted the pitcher and made a movement as if pour-
ing the milk into Mercury's bowl, but without the least
idea that any milk would stream forth. What was her
surprise, therefore, when such an abundant cascade fell
bubbling into the bowl that it was immediately filled
to the brim and overflowed upon the table!
And then what a delicious fragrance the milk had!
It seemed as if Philemon's cow must have pastured that
day on the sweetest plants that could be found any-
where in the world. I only wish that each of you could
have a bowl of such nice milk at supper time!
"And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis,"
said Mercury, "and a little of that honey!"
Baucis cut a slice accordingly, and although the loaf,
when she and her husband had eaten of it, had been
rather too dry and crusty, was now as light and moist
as if it had recently come out of the oven. Tasting a
crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it more
107


delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly
believe that it was a loaf of her own kneading and
baking.
But, oh, the honey! I may just as well let it alone,
without trying to describe how wonderfully it smelt and
looked. Its color was that of the purest gold, and it
had the odor of a thousand flowers. But they were
flowers as never grew in an earthly garden and to seek
which the bees must have flown high above the clouds.
Never was such honey tasted, seen or smelt. The
perfume floated around the kitchen and made it so
delightful that if you had closed your eyes, you would
have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and
have fancied yourself in an arbor with honeysuckles
creeping over it.
Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame,
she could not help thinking that there was something
rather out of the common in all that had been going on.
So, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and
laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat
by Philemon and told him what she had seen, in a
whisper.
"Did you ever hear the like?" asked she.
"No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile.
"And I rather think, my dear wife, you have been walk-
ing in a sort of a dream. If I had poured out the milk,
I should have seen through the business at once. There
108


happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you
thought, that is all."
"Ah, husband," said Baucis, "say what you will,
these are very uncommon people."
"Well, well," said Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps
they are. They certainly do look as if they had seen
better days, and I am heartily glad to see them making
so comfortable a supper."
Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes
upon his plate. Baucis, rubbed her eyes in order to see
more clearly and was of the opinion that the clusters
had grown larger and richer. Each separate grape
seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice.
It was a mystery to her how such grapes could ever
have been produced from the old stunted vine that
climbed over the cottage wall.
"Very wonderful grapes, these!" said Mercury, as he
swallowed one after another, without apparently
diminishing his cluster. "Pray, my good host, whence
did you gather them?"
"From my own vine," answered Philemon. "You
may see one of its branches twisting across the window,
yonder. But wife and I never thought the grapes very
fine ones."
"I never tasted better," said the guest. "Another
cup of this delicious milk, if you please and I shall then
have supped better than a prince."
• 109


This time, old Philemon stirred himself and took up
the pitcher; for he was curious to discover whether
there was any reality in the marvels which Baucis had
whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was
incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mis-
taken; but this was so singular a case that he wanted
to look into it with his own eyes.
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 with
foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. It was lucky
that Philemon in his surprise did not let the miraculous
pitcher fall from his hand.
"Who are you, wonder-working strangers?" cried he,
even more astonished than his wife had been.
"Your guests, good Philemon, and your friends,"
replied the elder traveler, in his mild, deep voice.
"Give me, likewise, a cup of milk, and may your pitcher
never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more
than for the needy wayfarer!"
The supper being now over, the strangers asked to be
shown to the place where they were to sleep. The old
people would gladly have talked with them a little
longer to express the wonder which they had seen, but
they dared not ask any questions. When Philemon
no


drew Mercury aside and inquired how under the sun a
fountain of milk could have gotten into the old earthen
pitcher, the latter pointed to his staff.
"There is the whole mystery of the affair," replied
Mercury, "and if you can make it out, I'll thank you
to let me know. I can't tell what to make of my staff.
It is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes
getting me a supper, and quite as often stealing it away.
If I had any faith in such nonsense, I should say the
stick was bewitched!"
He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces
that they rather fancied he was laughing at them. The
magic staff went hopping at his heels as Mercury left
the room. When left alone the good old couple spent
some time talking about the events of the evening and
then lay down on the floor and fell fast asleep. They
had given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had
no other bed for themselves, save these planks, which
I wish had been as soft as their own hearts.
The old man and his wife were stirring early in the
morning, and the strangers likewise rose with the sun
and prepared to depart. Philemon urged them to
remain a little longer, until Baucis could milk the cow,
bake a cake upon the hearth, and perhaps find them a
few fresh eggs for breakfast. The guests, however,
seemed to think it better to complete a good part of
their journey before the heat of the day should come on.
ill


The Guests Depart
They, therefore, persisted in setting out immediately,
but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth with them
a short distance and show them the road.
So they all four set out from the cottage, chatting
together like old friends. It was very remarkable,
indeed, how familiar the old couple grew with the elder
traveler. As for Mercury, with his keen, quick wits,
he appeared to discover every little thought that had
peeped into their minds before they suspected it them-
selves. He showed himself so very good-humored that
they would have been glad to keep him in their cottage,
staff and all, every day the whole year long.
"Ah me! Well-a-day!" exclaimed Philemon, when
they had walked a little way from their door. "If our
neighbors only 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 shame for them to behave so," cried
good old Baucis. "And I mean to go this very day and
tell some of them what wicked people they are!"
"I fear," remarked Mercury, slyly smiling, "that you
will find none of them at home."
The elder traveler's face just then looked so stern
that neither Baucis nor Philemon dared to speak a word.
They gazed into his face as if they had been gazing at
the sky.
112


"When men do not feel towards the humblest
stranger as if he were a brother," said the traveler,
"they are unworthy to exist on earth."
"By the by, my dear old people," cried Mercury,
with a look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is
the village that you talk about? On which side of us
does it lie? I do not see it anywhere."
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 clumps of trees,
the wide street, with children playing in it. What was
their astonishment! There was no longer any appear-
ance of a village! Even the fertile valley in which it
lay had ceased to exist.
In its stead they beheld the broad, blue surface of a
lake which filled the great basin of the valley from brim
to brim and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom
as if it had been there ever since the creation of the
world. For an instant the lake remained perfectly
smooth. Then a little breeze sprang up and caused
the water to dance, glitter and sparkle in the early
sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling mur-
mur, against the shore.
The lake seemed so strangely familiar that the old
couple were greatly perplexed, and felt as if they must
have been dreaming about a village having been there.
But the next moment they remembered the vanished
113


dwellings and the faces of the inhabitants far too dis-
tinctly for a dream. The village had been there
yesterday, and now it was gone!
"Alas!" cried these kind-hearted old people, "what
has become of our neighbors?"
"They exist no longer as men and women," said the
older traveler, in his grand, deep voice, while a roll of
thunder echoed at a distance. "There was neither use
nor beauty in such a life as theirs. They never softened
or sweetened the hard lot of mankind by kindly affec-
tions between man and man. They retained no image
of the better life, and, therefore, the lake that was there
of old, has again spread itself to reflect the sky!"
"And as for those foolish people," said Mercury with
his mischievous smile, "they have all been transformed
into fishes. They needed but little change, for they
were already a scaly set of rascals, and the coldest-
blooded beings in existence. So, kind Mother Baucis,
whenever you have an appetite for a dish of broiled
trout, your husband can throw in a line and pull out
half a dozen of your old neighbors!"
"Ah," cried Baucis, shuddering, "I would not for the
world, put one of them on the gridiron!"
"No," added Philemon, "we could never relish
them!"
"As for you, good Philemon." continued the older
traveler—"and you, kind Baucis—you, with your
114


scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt hospi-
tality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger,
that the milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar,
and the brown loaf and the honey were ambrosia. Thus
the gods have feasted at your table with the same foods
that supply their banquets at Olympus. You have
done well, my dear friends. Therefore, request what-
ever favor you have most at heart, and it shall be
granted."
Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and I
do not know which one of the two it was that spoke, but
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! For we have
always loved one another!"
"Be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kind-
ness. "Now, look towards your cottage!"
They did so. But what was their surprise on behold-
ing a tall building of white marble, with a wide portal,
occupying the very spot where their humble residence
had so lately stood!
"There is your home," said the stranger, smiling at
them. "Show your hospitality in yonder palace as
freely as in the poor hovel to which you welcomed us
last evening."
The old folks fell on their knees to thank him, but,
behold! neither he nor Mercury was there any more.
115



116


So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the
marble palace and spent their time in making comfort-
able everybody who happened to pass that way. The
milk pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its
marvelous quality of being never empty. Whenever
an honest, good-humored and free-hearted guest took a
draught from this pitcher, he invariably found it the
sweetest and most refreshing fluid that ever ran down
his throat. But, if a cross and disagreeable person
happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his face
into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk!
Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great,
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, with a smile on
their faces, to invite the guests of over-night to break-
fast. The guests searched everywhere, from top to
bottom of the palace, and all to no purpose.
After a great deal of searching they espied, in front of
the entrance, two venerable trees, which nobody could
remember to have seen there the day before. Yet there
they stood, with their roots fastened deep into the soil,
and a huge breadth of foliage overshadowing the whole
front of the palace. One was an oak, and the other a
linden tree.
While the guests were wondering how these trees,
117


that must have required at least a century to grow,
could have come to be so tall in a single night, a breeze
sprung up and set their intermingled boughs astir.
Then there was a deep murmur in the air, as if the£two
mysterious trees were speaking.
"I am old Philemon!" murmured the oak.
"I am old Baucis!" murmured the linden tree.
But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke
at once—"Philemon! Baucis! Baucis! Philemon!"
—as if one were both and both were one. It was plain
enough to see that the good old couple had renewed
their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful
hundred years or so, Philemon as an oak, and Baucis as
a linden tree. And oh, what a comfortable shade did
they fling around them. Whenever a wayfarer paused
beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves
above his head, and wondered how the sound should so
much resemble words like these:
"Welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!"
And some kind soul that knew what would have
pleased old Baucis and old Philemon best, built a
circular seat around both their trunks where, for a
great while afterwards, the weary, the hungry and the
thirsty used to rest themselves, and drink the milk from
the miraculous pitcher.
And I wish, for all our sake, that we had the pitcher
now! —Xatkanid Hawthorne.
118


ABOU BEN ADHEM
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold:
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And with a look made all of sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
—Leigh Hunt.
119


CERES AND PERSEPHONE
Mother Ceres was exceedingly fond of her daughter
Persephone, and seldom let her go into the fields alone.
But, just at the time when my story begins, the good
lady was very busy, because she had the care of the
wheat, and the Indian corn, and the rye, and the barley,
and, in short, the crops of every kind, all over the
earth. As the season had been very backward, it
was necessary to make the harvest ripen more speedily
than usual. So she put a wreath of poppies on her
head and got into her car, which was drawn by a
pair of winged dragons, and was just ready to set off.
"Dear mother," said Persephone, "I shall be very
lonely while you are away. May I not run down to
the shore and ask some of the sea-nymphs to come
up out of the waves and play with me?"
"Yes, child," answered Mother Ceres. "The sea-
nymphs are good creatures, and will never lead you
into any harm. But you must take care not to stray
away from them, nor go wandering about the fields
by yourself. Young girls, without their mothers to
take care of them, are very apt to get into mischief."
The child promised to be as prudent as if she were a
grown-up woman, and by the time the winged dragons
had whirled the car out of sight, she was already on the
shore, calling to the sea-nymphs to come and play
120


bank of soft sponge, under the water. The air is a
little too dry to-day for our comfort. But we will
pop up our heads every few minutes to see if you are
coming."
Persephone ran quickly to a spot where, only the
day before, she had seen a great many flowers. These,
however, were withered a little, and wishing to give her
friends the freshest and loveliest blossoms, she strayed
farther into the fields, and found some that made her
scream with delight. Never had she seen such wonder-
ful flowers before—violets so large and fragrant, roses
with so rich and delicate a blush, such superb hya-
cinths and such aromatic pinks, and many others,
some of which seemed to be of new shapes and colors.
Two or three times, moreover, she could not help
thinking that a tuft of most splendid flowers had sud-
denly sprouted out of the earth before her very eyes,
as if on purpose to tempt her a few steps farther.
Persephone's apron was soon filled and brimming over
with delightful blossoms. She was on the point of
turning back in order to rejoin the sea-nymphs, and
sit with them on the moist sands; but a little farther
on, what should she behold? It was a large shrub,
completely covered with the most beautiful flowers
in the world.
"The darlings!" cried Persephone; and then she
thought to herself, "I was looking at that spot only a
122


moment ago. How strange it is that I did not see the
flowers!"
The nearer she approached the shrub, the more
attractive it looked, until she came quite close to it;
and then, although its beauty was richer than words
can tell, she hardly knew whether to like it or not.
It bore about a hundred flowers of the most brilliant
hues, but there was a deep, glossy lustre on the leaves
of the shrub, and on the petals of the flowers, that
made Persephone doubt whether they might not be
poisonous. To tell you the truth, foolish as it may
seem, she was half inclined to turn around and run away.
"What a silly child I am!" thought she, taking
courage. "It is really the most beautiful shrub that
ever sprang out of the earth. I will pull it up by the
roots, and carry it home, and plant it in my mother's
garden."
Holding up her apron full of flowers with her left
hand, Persephone seized the large shrub with the other,
and pulled and pulled, but was hardly able to loosen
the soil about its roots. What a deep-rooted plant
it was! Again the girl pulled with all her might,
and observed that the earth began to stir and crack
to some distance around the stem. She gave another
pull, but relaxed her hold, fancying that there was a
rumbling sound right beneath her feet. Did the
roots extend down into some enchanted cavern?
123


Then, laughing at herself for so childish a notion,
she made another effort. Up came the shrub, and
Persephone staggered back, holding the stem tri-
umphantly in her hand, and gazing at the deep hole
which its roots had left in the soil.
Much to her astonishment, this hole kept spreading
wider and wider, and growing deeper and deeper, until
it really seemed to have no bottom; and all the while,
there came a rumbling noise out of its depths, louder
and louder, and nearer and nearer, and sounding like
the tramp of horses' hoofs and the rattling of wheels.
Too much frightened to run away, she stood straining
her eyes into this wonderful cavity, and soon saw a
team of four sable horses, tearing their way out of
the earth with a splendid golden chariot at their
heels. They leaped out of the bottomless hole, chariot
and all; and there they were, tossing their black
manes, close by the spot where Persephone stood.
In the chariot sat a man, richly dressed, with a
crown on his head, all flaming with diamonds. He
had a noble appearance and was rather handsome, but
looked sullen and discontented; and he kept rubbing
his eyes and shading them with his hand, as if he did
not live enough in the sunshine to be iond of its light.
As soon as this person saw the frightened Perse-
phone, he beckoned her to come a little nearer.
"Do not be afraid," said he, with as cheerful a
124









9
125


smile as he knew how to put on. "Come! Would
you not like to ride a little way with me in my chariot?"
But Persephone was so alarmed that she wished for
nothing but to get out of his reach. And no wonder.
The stranger did not look remarkably good-natured,
in spite of his smile; and as for his voice, its tones
were deep and stern, and sounded as much like the
rumbling of an earthquake as anything else. As is
always the case with children in trouble, Persephone's
first thought was to call for her mother.
"Mother! Mother Ceres!" she cried, all in a
tremble. "Come quickly and save me!"
Persephone Is Carried Away
But her voice was far too faint for her mother to
hear. Indeed, it is most probable that Ceres was
then a thousand miles off, making the corn grow in
some far-distant country. Nor could she have helped
her poor daughter^ even if she had been within hearing;
for no sooner did Persephone begin to cry out, than
the stranger leaped to the ground, caught the child
in his arms, mounted the chariot, and shouted to the
four black horses to set off. They immediately broke
into so swift a gallop that it seemed rather like flying
through the air than running along the earth.
As they rode on, the stranger did his best to soothe
Persephone.
126


"Why are you so frightened, my pretty child?"
said he, trying to soften his rough voice. "I promise
not to do you any harm. I see you have been gathering
flowers. Wait till we come to my palace, and I will
give you a garden full of prettier flowers than those, all
made of pearls and diamonds and rubies. Can you
guess who I am? They call my name Pluto, and I am
king of diamonds and all other precious stones. Every
bit of the gold and silver that lies under the earth
belongs to me, to say nothing of the copper, the iron,
and the coal. Do you see this splendid crown upon
my head? You may have it for a plaything. Oh, we
shall be very good friends, and you will find me more
agreeable than you expect, when once we get out of
this troublesome sunshine."
"Let me go home!" cried Persephone. "Let me
go home!"
"My home is better than your mother's," answered
King Pluto. "It is a palace, all made of gold, with
crystal windows; and because there is little or no
sunshine there, the rooms are lighted with diamonds
instead of lamps. You never saw anything half so mag-
nificent as my throne. If you like, you may sit down on
it, and be my little queen, and I will sit on the footstool."
"I don't care for golden palaces and thrones,"
sobbed Persephone. "Oh, my mother, my mother!
Carry me back to my mother!"
127


But King Pluto, as he called himself, only shouted
to his steeds to go faster.
"Pray, do not be foolish, Persephone," said he, in a
rather sullen tone. "I offer you my palace and my
crown, and all the riches that are under the earth;
and you treat me as if I were doing you an injury.
The one thing which my palace needs is a merry little
maid, to run upstairs and down, and cheer up the
rooms with her smile. And that is what you must
do for me."
"Never!" answered Persephone, looking as mis-
erable as she could. "I shall never smile again till
you set me down at my mother's door."
But she might just as well have talked to the wind,
for Pluto urged on his horses, and went faster than
ever. Persephone continued to cry out, and screamed
so long and so loudly that her poor little voice was
almost screamed away; and when it was nothing but a
whisper she happened to cast her eyes over a great
broad field of waving grain—and whom do you think
she saw? Who, but Mother Ceres, making the corn
grow, and too busy to notice the golden chariot as it
went rattling along. The child mustered all her
strength and gave one more scream, but was out of
sight before Ceres had time to turn her head.
King Pluto had taken a road which now began to
grow exceedingly gloomy. It was bordered on each
128


side by rocks and precipices, between which the
chariot wheels rattled with a noise like rolling
thunder. But the darker it grew, the more did Pluto's
face have a look of satisfaction. After all, he was not
an ill-looking person, especially when he left off trying
to smile. Persephone peeped at his face through the
gathering dusk, and hoped that he might not be so
very wicked as she at first thought him.
"Ah, this twilight is truly refreshing," said King
Pluto, "after being so tormented with that ugly glare of
the sun. How much more agreeable is lamplight or torch-
light, more particularly when reflected from diamonds!
It will be a wonderful sight when we get to my palace."
"Is it much farther?" asked Persephone. "And will
you carry me back home when I have seen it?"
"We will talk of that by and by," answered Pluto.
"We are just entering my dominions. Do you see
that tall gateway before us? When we pass those
gates, we are at home. And there lies my faithful
mastiff at the threshold. Cerberus! Cerberus! Come
hither, my good dog!"
So saying, Pluto pulled at the reins, and stopped
the chariot right between the tall, massive pillars of
the gateway. The mastiff of which he had spoken
got up from the threshold, and stood on his hind legs,
so as to put his fore paws on the chariot wheel. But
what a strange dog it was.
129


Why, he was a big, rough, ugly-looking monster
with three separate heads, and each of them fiercer
than the other two; but, fierce as they were, King
Pluto patted all of them. He seemed as fond of his
three-headed dog as if it had been a sweet little spaniel
with silken ears and curly hair. Cerberus, on the
other hand, was evidently rejoiced to see his master,
and expressed his attachment, as other dogs do, by
wagging his tail at a great rate.
"Will the dog bite me?" asked Persephone, shrinking
closer to Pluto. "What an ugly creature he is!"
"Oh, never fear," answered her companion. "He
never harms people unless they try to enter my king-
dom without being sent for, or to get away when I
wish to keep them here. Down, Cerberus! Now,
my pretty Persephone, we will drive on."
On went the chariot, and King Pluto seemed greatly
pleased to find himself once more in his own kingdom.
He drew Persephone's attention to the rich veins of
gold there were to be seen among the rocks, and pointed
to several places where one stroke of a pickaxe would
loosen a bushel of diamonds. All along the road,
indeed, there were sparkling gems, which would have
been of untold value above ground, but which here
were hardly worth a beggar's stooping for.
Not far from the gateway, they came to a bridge,
which seemed to be built of iron. Pluto stopped the
130


chariot, and bade Persephone look at the stream which
was gliding so lazily beneath it. Never in her life
had she beheld such a black, muddy-looking stream.
Its waters reflected no images of anything that was on
the banks, and it moved as sluggishly as if it had
quite forgotten which way it ought to flow, and had
rather stay still than flow either one way or the other.
"This is the river Lethe," observed King Pluto.
"Is it not a very pleasant stream?"
"I think it is a very dismal one," said Persephone.
"It suits my taste, however," answered Pluto, who
was apt to be sullen when anybody disagreed with
him. "At all events, its water has one excellent
quality; for a single draught of it makes people forget
every care and sorrow. Only a little sip of it, my
dear Persephone, and you will instantly cease to
grieve for your mother and will have nothing in your
memory that can prevent your being perfectly happy
in my palace. I will send for some, in a golden goblet
the moment we arrive."
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Persephone, weeping afresh.
"I had a thousand times rather be miserable with
remembering my mother than be happy in forgetting
her. That dear, dear mother! I never, never will
forget her!"
"We shall see," said King Pluto. "You do not
know what fine times we shall have in my palace.
131


Here we are just at the entrance. These pillars are
solid gold, I assure you."
Pluto's Palace
He alighted from the chariot, and taking Persephone
in his arms, carried her up a lofty flight of steps into
the great hall of the palace. It was splendidly lighted
by means of large precious stones of various hues,
which seemed to burn like so many lamps and glowed
with radiance all through the vast apartment. And
yet there was a kind of gloom in the midst of the
light; nor was there a single object in the hall that
was agreeable to behold, except the little Persephone
herself, with one earthly flower which she had not let
fall from her hand. It is my opinion that even King
Pluto had never been happy in his palace, and this
was the reason why he had stolen Persephone, in order
that he might have something to love, instead of
cheating his heart any longer with his tiresome riches.
Pluto now summoned his servants and bade them
lose no time in preparing a most sumptuous banquet
and, above all things, not to fail of setting a golden
goblet of the water of Lethe by Persephone's plate.
"I will neither drink that nor anything else," said
Persephone. "Nor will I taste a morsel of food, even
if you keep me forever in your palace."
"I should be sorry for that," replied King Pluto,
132


patting her cheek; for he really wished to be kind.
"I see you are a spoiled child, my little Persephone;
but when you see the nice things which my cook will
make for you, your appetite will quickly come again."
Then, sending for the head cook, he gave strict
orders that all sorts of delicacies, such as young people
are usually fond of, should be set before Persephone.
He had a secret motive in this; for, you are to under-
stand, it is a fixed law that, when persons are carried
off to the land of magic, if they once taste any food
there, they can never get back to their friends. Now, if
King Pluto had been cunning enough to offer Persephone
some fruit, or bread and milk (which was the simple
fare to which the child had always been accustomed),
it is probable that she would soon have been tempted
to eat it. But he left the matter entirely to the cook.
But we must now come out of King Pluto's domin-
ions, and see what Mother Ceres has been about since
she was bereft of her daughter. We had a glimpse of
her, as you remember, half hidden among the waving
grain, while the four black steeds were swiftly whirling
along the chariot in which her beloved Persephone
was so unwillingly borne away. You recollect, too,
the loud screams which Persephone gave just when
the chariot was out of sight.
Of all the child's cries, this last shriek was the only
one that reached the ears of Mother Ceres. She had
133


mistaken the rumbling of the chariot wheels for a peal
of thunder, and imagined that a shower was coming up,
and that it would assist her in making the corn grow.
But at the sound of Persephone's shriek, she started
and looked about in every direction, not knowing
whence it came, but feeling almost certain it was her
daughter's voice.
It seemed so unaccountable, however, that the
girl should have strayed over so many lands and
seas that the good Ceres tried to believe that it
must be the child of some other good parent, and
not her own darling Persephone who had uttered
this lamentable cry. Nevertheless, it troubled her
Very much. So she quickly left the field in which she
had been so busy; and, as her work was not half done,
the grain looked, next day, as if it needed both sun and
rain, and as if it were blighted.
The pair of dragons must have had very nimble
wings; for, in less than an hour, Mother Ceres had
alighted at the door of her home, and found it empty.
Knowing, however, that the child was fond of sporting
on the seashore, she hastened thither as fast as she
could, and there beheld the wet faces of the poor sea-
nymphs peeping over a wave. All this while the
good creatures had been waiting on the bank of sponge
and, once every half minute or so, had popped up
their heads above water, to see if their playmate were
134


yet coming back. When they saw Mother Ceres, they
sat down on the crest of the surf wave, and let it toss
them ashore at her feet.
"Where is Persephone?" cried Ceres. "Where is
my child? Tell me, you naughty sea-nymphs, have
you enticed her under the sea?"
"Oh no, good Mother Ceres," said the innocent
sea-nymphs, tossing back their green ringlets and
looking her in the face. "We never should dream
of such a thing. Persephone has been playing with us,
it is true, but she left us a long while ago, meaning
only to run a little way upon the dry land and gather
some flowers for a wreath. This was early in the day,
and we have seen nothing of her since."
Ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs
had to say, before she hurried off to make inquiries
all through the neighborhood. But nobody told her
anything that could enable the poor mother to guess
what had become of Persephone. A fisherman, it is
true, had noticed her little footprints in the sand, as
he went homeward along the beach with a basket of fish.
A farmer had seen the child stooping to gather
flowers; several persons had heard either the rattling
of chariot wheels or the rumbling of distant thunder;
and one old woman, while picking catnip, had heard a
scream, but supposed it to be some childish nonsense
and therefore did not take the trouble to look up.
135


It took them such a tedious while to tell the nothing
that they knew, that it was dark before Mother Ceres
found out that she must seek her daughter elsewhere.
So she lighted a torch, and set out, resolving never to
come back until Persephone was found.
In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her
car and the winged dragons; or, it may be, she thought
that she could follow up the search more thoroughly
on foot. At all events, this was the way in which she
began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before
her, and looking carefully at every object along the
path. And as it happened, she had not gone far
before she found one of the wonderful flowers which
grew on the shrub that Persephone had pulled up.
"Ha!" thought Mother Ceres, examining it by
torchlight. "Here is mischief in this flower! The
earth did not produce it by any help of mine, nor of its
own accord. It is the work of enchantment, and is
therefore poisonous; and perhaps it has poisoned my
poor child."
But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not
knowing whether she might ever find any other
memorial of Persephone.
All night long, at the door of every cottage and
farmhouse, Ceres knocked, and called up the weary
laborers to inquire if they had seen the child; and
they stood, gaping and half asleep, at the threshold
136


and answered her pityingly, and besought her to come
in and rest. At the portal of every palace, too, she
made so loud a summons that the guards hurried to
throw open the gate, thinking that it must be some
great king or queen, who would demand a banquet
for supper and a stately chamber to repose in.
And when they saw only a sad and anxious woman
with a torch in her hand and a wreath of withered
poppies on her head they spoke rudely, and sometimes
threatened to set the dogs upon her. But nobody
had seen Persephone, nor could give Mother Ceres the
least hint which way to seek her.
Thus passed the night; and still she continued her
search without sitting down to rest or stopping to
take food, or even remembering to put out the torch;
although first the rosy dawn and then the glad light of
the morning sun made its red flame look thin and
pale. But I wonder what sort of stuff this torch was
made of, for it burned dimly through the day, and at
night was as bright as ever, and never was extinguished
by the rain or the wind in all the weary days and
nights while Ceres was seeking for Persephone.
It was not merely of human beings that she asked
tidings of her daughter. In the woods and by the
streams, she met creatures of another nature, who used,
in those old times, to haunt the pleasant and solitary
places, and were very sociable with persons who
137


understood their languages and customs as Mother
Ceres did. Sometimes, for instance, she tapped with
her finger against the knotted trunk of a majestic oak;
and immediately its rude bark would cleave apart,
and forth would step a beautiful maiden who was the
dryad of the oak, dwelling inside of it, and sharing its
long life, and rejoicing when its green leaves sported
with the breeze. But not one of these leafy damsels
had seen Persephone.
Then, going a little farther, Ceres would, perhaps,
come to a fountain out of a pebbly hollow in the earth,
and would dabble with her hand in the water. Behold,
up through its sandy and pebbly bed, along with the
fountain's gush, a young woman with dripping hair
would arise and stand gazing at Mother Ceres, half
out of the water, rising and falling with its restless
motion. But when the mother asked whether her
poor lost child had stopped to drink out of the fountain,
the naiad, with weeping eyes, would answer, "No,"
in a murmuring voice, which was just like the murmur
of the stream.
Often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked
like sunburnt country people, except that they had
hairy ears and little horns upon their foreheads, and
the legs of goats, on which they gamboled merrily
about the woods and fields. They were a frolicsome
kind of creature, but grew as sad as their dispositions
138


would allow when Ceres inquired for her daughter
and they had no good news to tell. And once, while
crossing a solitary sheep pasture, she saw a personage
named Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock and making
music on a shepherd's flute. He, too, had horns and
hairy ears and goat's feet; but, being acquainted
with Mother Ceres, he answered her question as civilly
as he knew how, and invited her to taste some milk and
honey out of a wooden bowl. But neither could Pan
tell her what had become of Persephone, any better
than the rest of these wild people.
And thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for
nine long days and nights, finding no trace of Perse-
phone. All day she traveled onward through the hot
sun; and at night, again; the flame of the torch would
redden and gleam along the pathway, and then she
would continue her search by its light, without ever
sitting down to rest.
On the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of
a cavern within which (though it was bright noon
everywhere else) there would have been only a dusky
twilight; but it so happened that a torch was burning
there. It flickered and struggled with the duskiness,
but could not half light up the gloomy cavern with
all its glimmer.
Ceres was resolved to leave no spot without a
search; so she peeped into the entrance of the cave
139


and lighted it up a little more by holding her own
torch before her. In so doing she caught a glimpse
of what seemed to be a woman, sitting on the brown
leaves of the last autumn, a great heap of which had
been swept into the cave by the wind. This woman
was by no means beautiful, as many of her sex, for
her head was shaped very much like a dog's, and by
way of ornament she wore a wreath of snakes around
it. But Mother Ceres, the moment she saw her, knew
that this was an:odd kind of person, who put all her
enjoyment in being miserable, and never would have a
word to say to other people, unless they were as mel-
ancholy and wretched as she herself delighted to be.
Hecate
"I am wretched enough now," thought poor Ceres,
"without talking with this melancholy Hecate."
But she stepped into the cave and sat down by the
dog-headed woman's side. In all the world, since the
loss of her daughter, she had found no other companion.
"0 Hecate," said she, "if you ever lose a daughter,
you will know what sorrow is. Tell me, for pity's
sake, have you seen my poor child, Persephone, pass
by the mouth of your cavern?"
"No," answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and
sighing after every word or two. "No, Mother Ceres,
I have seen nothing of your daughter. But my ears,
140


you must know, are made in such a way that all cries
of distress and fright all over the world are pretty
sure to find their way to them. Nine days ago, as I
sat in my cave, making myself very miserable, I heard
the voice of a young girl shrieking as if in great distress.
Something terrible has happened to the child, you
may rest assured. As well as I could judge, a dragon
or some other cruel monster was carrying her away."
"You kill me by saying so!" cried Ceres, almost
ready to faint. "Where was the sound, and which
way did it seem to go?"
"It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and
at the same time there was a heavy rumbling of
wheels towards the eastward. I can tell you nothing
more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will
never see your daughter again. The best advice I can
give you is to take up your abode in this cavern, where
we will be the two most wretched women in the world."
"Not yet, dark Hecate," replied Ceres. "First
come with your torch and help me to seek for my lost
child. And when there shall be no more hope of
finding her, then, if you will give me room to fling
myself down, either on these withered leaves or on
the naked rock, I will show you what it is to be mis-
erable. But until I know that she has perished from
the face of the earth, I will not allow myself time even
to grieve."


The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of
going abroad into the sunny world. But then she
reflected that the sorrow of the unhappy Ceres would
be like a gloomy twilight around them, let the sun
shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might
enjoy her bad spirits quite as well as if she were to
stay in the cave. So she finally consented to go, and
they set out together, both carrying torches, although
it was broad daylight and clear sunshine.
The torchlight seemed to make a gloom; so that
the people whom they met along the road could not
see their figures very distinctly, and, indeed, if they
once caught a glimpse of Hecate, with the wreath
of snakes round her forehead, they generally thought it
prudent to run away without waiting for a second glance.
As the pair traveled along in this woe-begone
manner, a thought struck Ceres.
"There is one person," she exclaimed, "who must
have seen my poor child, and can doubtless tell what
has become of her. Why did I not think of him
before? It is Phoebus."
"What," said Hecate, "the young man that always
sits in the sunshine? Oh, pray, do not think of going
near him. He is a gay young fellow, and will only
smile in your face. And, besides, there is such a glare
of the sun about him that he will quite blind my poor
eyes, which I have almost wept out already."
142


Ceres, she was too earnest in her grief either to know or
care whether Phoebus smiled or frowned.
"Phoebus," exclaimed she, "I am in great trouble,
and have come to you for assistance. Can you tell
me what has become of my dear child, Persephone?"
"Persephone! Persephone, did you call her name?"
answered Phoebus, endeavoring to recollect; for there
was such a continual flow of pleasant ideas in his
mind that he was apt to forget what had happened
no longer ago than yesterday. "Ah, yes, I remember
her now. A very lovely child, indeed. I am happy
to tell you, my dear madam, that I did see the little
Persephone not many days ago. You may make
yourself perfectly easy about her. She is safe and in
excellent hands."
"Oh, where is my dear child?" cried Ceres, clasping
her hands and flinging herself at his feet.
"Why," said Phoebus—and as he spoke, he kept
touching his lyre so as to make a thread of music run
in and out among his words—"as the little damsel
was gathering flowers, she was suddenly snatched up
by King Pluto, and carried off to his dominions. I
have never been in that part of the universe; but the
royal palace, I am told, is built of the most splendid
materials. Gold, diamonds, pearls, and all manner of
precious stones will be your daughter's ordinary
playthings. I recommend to you, my dear lady, to
144


give yourself no uneasiness. Persephone's sense of
beauty will be duly gratified, and, even in spite of the
lack of sunshine, she will lead a very enviable life."

"Hush! Say not such a word!" answered Ceres,
indignantly. "What is there to gratify her heart?
What are the splendors you speak of, without affection?
145


I must have her back again. Will you go with me,
Phoebus, to demand my daughter of this wicked
Pluto?"
"Pray, excuse me," replied Phoebus, with an ele-
gant bow. "I certainly wish you success, and regret
that my own affairs are so pressing that I cannot have
the pleasure of attending you. Besides, I am not upon
the best of terms with King Pluto. To tell the truth,
his three-headed mastiff would never let me pass the
gateway; for I should be compelled to take a sheaf of
sunbeams along with me, and those, you know, are
forbidden in Pluto's kingdom."
"Ah, Phcebus," said Ceres, with bitter meaning in
her words, "you have a harp instead of a heart.
Farewell."
"Will you not stay a moment," asked Phcebus,
"and hear me turn the pretty and touching story of
Persephone into verse?"
But Ceres shook her head and hastened away along
with Hecate. Poor Mother Ceres had now found out
what had become of her daughter, but she was not a
whit happier than before. Her case, on the contrary,
looked more desperate than ever. As long as Perse-
phone was above ground there might have been hopes
of regaining her. But now that the poor child was shut
up within the iron gates of the king of the mines, there
seemed no possibility of her ever making her escape.
146


The dismal Hecate, who loved to take the darkest
view of things, told Ceres that she had better come
with her to the cavern and spend the rest of her
life in being miserable. Ceres answered that Hecate
was welcome to go back there herself, but that, for
her part, she would wander about the earth in quest
of the entrance to King Pluto's dominions. And
Hecate took her at her word and hurried back to her
beloved cave, frightening a great many little children
with a glimpse of her dog's face as she went.
Poor Mother Ceres! It is sad to think of her, pur-
suing her toilsome way all alone, and holding up the
never-dying torch, the flame of which seemed an
emblem of the grief and hope that burned together
in her heart. She suffered so much that, although
her appearance had been quite youthful when her
troubles began, she grew to look like an elderly person
in a very brief time. She cared not how she was dressed,
nor had she ever thought of flinging away the wreath
of withered poppies, which she put on the morning of
Persephone's disappearance. She roamed about in
so wild a way, and with her hair so unkempt, that
people took her for some distracted creature, and never
dreamed that this was Mother Ceres, who had the
oversight of every seed that the husbandman planted.
Nowadays, however, she gave herself no trouble
about seed-time nor harvest, but left the farmers to
147


take care of their own affaii-s, and the crops to fade or
flourish, as the case might be. There was nothing,
now, in which Ceres seemed to feel an interest, unless
when she saw children at play or gathering flowers
along the wayside. Then, indeed, she would stand
and gaze at them with tears in her eyes. The children,
too, would cluster themselves in a little group about
her knees, and look up wistfully in her face; and Ceres,
after giving them a kiss all round, would lead them to
their homes, and advise their mothers never to let
them stray out of sight.
The Barren Fields
But now, having nothing else to busy herself about,
she became just as wretched as before. At length, in
her despair, Ceres came to the dreadful resolution
that not a stalk of grain, nor a blade of grass, nor a
potato, nor a turnip, nor any other vegetable that
was good for man or beast to eat, should be suffered to
grow until her daughter were restored. She even for-
bade the flowers to bloom, lest somebody's heart should
be cheered by their beauty.
Now, as not so much as a stalk of asparagus ever
presumed to poke itself out of the ground, without the
especial permission of Ceres, you may understand
what a terrible calamity had here fallen upon the
earth. The husbandmen ploughed and planted as
148


usual; but there lay the rich black furrows, all as
barren as a desert of sand. The pastures looked as
brown in the sweet month of June as they ever did in
chill November. The rich man's broad acres and the
cottager's small garden patch were equally blighted.
Every little girl's flower bed was filled with dry stalks.
The old people shook their white heads and said
that the earth had grown aged like themselves and
was no longer capable of wearing the warm smile of
summer on its face. It was really piteous to see the
poor, starving cattle and sheep, how they followed
behind Ceres, lowing and bleating, as if their instinct
taught them to expect help from her; and everybody
that was acquainted with her power besought her to
have mercy on the human race and at all events to let
the grass grow.
"Never!" said she. "If the earth is ever again to
see any verdure, it must first grow along the path
which my daughter will tread in coming back to me."
Finally, as there seemed to be no other remedy, our
old friend Mercury was sent posthaste to King Pluto,
in hopes that he might be persuaded to undo the mis-
chief he had done, by giving up Persephone. Mercury
accordingly made the best of his way to the great
gate, took a flying leap right over the three-headed
mastiff and stood at the door of the palace in a remark-
ably short time.
i
149


The servants knew him by his face and cloak, and
his winged cap and shoes, for they had often seen him
in times gone by. He requested to be shown immedi-
ately into the king's presence; and Pluto, who heard
his voice from the top of the stairs, and who loved to
refresh himself with Mercury's merry talk, called out to
him to come up. And while they settle their business
together, we must inquire what Persephone has been
doing ever since we saw her last.
The child had declared, as you remember, that she
would not taste a mouthful of food as long as she was
compelled to remain in King Pluto's palace. How she
contrived to maintain her resolution and at the same
time to keep herself fairly plump and rosy is more
than I can explain; but some young ladies, I am given
to understand, possess the faculty of living on air, and
Persephone seems to have possessed it, too. At any rate,
it is now six months since she left the outside of the earth;
and not a morsel had yet passed between her teeth.
This was the more to the credit of Persephone,
because King Pluto had caused her to be tempted day
after day, with all kinds of sweetmeats and richly
preserved fruits and delicacies of every sort, such as
young people are generally fond of. But her good
mother had often told her of the harmfulness of these
things; and for that reason alone, if there had been no
other, she would have refused to taste them.
150


All this time, being of a cheerful and active dis-
position, the little damsel was not quite so unhappy
as you may have supposed. The immense palace had
a thousand rooms, and was full of beautiful and
wonderful objects. There was a never-ceasing gloom,
it is true, which half hid itself among the pillars, but
wherever the girl went among those gilded halls and
chambers it seemed as if she scattered sunshine along
with her and as if she scattered dewy blossoms on her
right hand and on her left.
"My own little Persephone," he used to say, "I
wish you could like me a little better. We gloomy
and cloudy-natured persons have often as warm hearts
as those who are more cheerful. If you would only
stay with me of your own accord, it would make me
happier than the possession of a hundred such palaces
as this."
"Ah," said Persephone, "you should have tried to
make me like you before carrying me off. And the
best thing you can do now is to let me go again. Then
I might remember you sometimes, and think that you
were as kind as you knew how to be. Perhaps, too,
one day or other, I might come back and pay you a
visit."
"No, no," answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile,
"I will not trust you for that. You are too fond of
living in the broad daylight, and gathering flowers.
151


What an idle and childish taste that is! . Are not
these gems prettier than violets?"
"Not half so pretty," said Persephone, snatching
the gems from Pluto's hand and flinging them to the
other end of the hall. "Oh, my sweet violets, shall
I never see you again?"
And then she burst into tears. But young people's
tears have very little saltness in them, and do not
inflame the eyes so much as those of grown persons,
so that it is not to be wondered at if, a few moments
afterwards, Persephone was sporting through the
halls almost as merrily as she and the four sea-nymphs
had sported along the side of the surf wave. King
Pluto gazed after her and wished that he, too, was a
child. And little Persephone, when she turned about
and beheld this great king standing in his splendid
hall and looking so grand and so lonesome, was filled
with a kind of pity. She ran back to him and, for the
first time in all her life, put her small soft hand in his.
"I love you a little," whispered she, looking up in
his face.
"Do you, indeed, my dear child?" cried Pluto,
bending his dark face down to kiss her; but Persephone
shrank away from the kiss, for though his features
were noble, they were very dusky and grim.
"Well, I have not deserved it of you, after keeping
you a prisoner for so many months, and starving you,
152


besides. Are you not terribly hungry? Is there
nothing which I can get you to eat?"
In asking this question, the king of the mines had a
very cunning purpose; for, you will recollect, if
Persephone tasted a morsel of food in his dominions,
she would never afterwards be at liberty to quit them.
"No, indeed," said Persephone. "Your head cook
is always baking and stewing and roasting and rolling
out pastry, and making one dish after another which
he imagines may be to my liking. But he might just
as well save himself the trouble. I have no appetite
for anything in the world, unless it were a slice of
bread of my mother's own baking, or a little fruit out
of her garden."
When Pluto heard this, he began to see that he had
mistaken the best method of tempting Persephone to
eat. The cook's dishes and artificial dainties were
not half so delicious, in the good child's opinion, as the
simple fare to which Mother Ceres had accustomed her.
Wondering that he had never thought of it before,
the king now sent one of his trusty attendants, with
a large basket to get some of the finest and juiciest
pears, peaches and plums which could be found any-
where in the upper world. Unfortunately, however,
this was during the time when Ceres had forbidden
any fruits or vegetables to grow; and, after seeking
all over the earth, King Pluto's servant found only a
153


single pomegranate, and that so dried up as to be not
worth eating. Nevertheless, since there was no
better to be had, he brought this dry, old withered
pomegranate home to the palace, put it on a golden
salver and carried it to Persephone. Now it happened,
curiously enough, that just as the servant was bring-
ing the pomegranate in the back door of the palace,
our friend Mercury had gone up the front steps, on
his errand to get Persephone away from King Pluto,
The Pomegranate
As soon as Persephone saw the pomegranate on the
golden salver, she told the servant he had better
take it away again.
"I shall not touch it, I assure you," said she. "If
I were ever so hungry, I should never think of eating
such a miserable dry pomegranate as that."
"It is the only one in the world," said the servant.
He set down the golden salver, with the shriveled
pomegranate upon it, and left the room. When he
had gone, Persephone could not help coming close
to the table and looking at this poor specimen of dried
fruit with a great deal of eagerness, for, to say the
truth, on seeing something that suited her taste, she
felt all the six months' appetite taking possession of
her at once. To be sure, it was a very wretched looking
pomegranate and seemed to have no more juice in it
154


than an oyster shell. But there was no choice of such
things in King Pluto's palace. This was the first
fruit she had seen there, and the last she was ever
likely to see; and unless she ate it up immediately,
it would grow dryer than it already was and be wholly
unfit to eat.
"At least, I may smell it," thought Persephone.
So she took up the pomegranate and held it to her
nose; and, somehow or other, being in such a close
neighborhood to her mouth, the fruit found its way
into that little red cave. Dear me! what an ever-
lasting pity! Before Persephone knew what she was
about, her teeth had actually bitten it of their own
accord.
Just as this fatal deed was done, the door of the
apartment opened, and in came King Pluto, followed
by Mercury, who had been urging him to let his little
prisoner go. At the first notice of their entrance,
Persephone withdrew the pomegranate from her mouth.
But Mercury, whose eyes were very keen, perceived
that the child was a little confused; and seeing the
empty salver, he suspected that she had been taking a
sly nibble of something or other. As for honest Pluto,
he never guessed the secret.
"My little Persephone," said the king, sitting down
and affectionately drawing her near his knees, "here is
Mercury, who tells me that a great many misfortunes
155


have befallen innocent people on account of my keeping
you in my dominions. To confess the truth, I myself
had already thought that it was an unjust act to take
you away from your good mother. But then, you
must consider, my dear child, that this vast palace is
apt to be gloomy and that therefore it was a natural
thing for me to seek for the society of some merrier
creature than myself. I hoped you would take my
crown for a plaything.
"Not so extremely silly," whispered Persephone.
"You have really amused me very much, sometimes."
"Thank you," said King Pluto, rather dryly.
"But I can see plainly enough that you think my
palace a prison, and me the iron-hearted keeper of it.
An iron heart I should surely have if I could detain
you here any longer, my poor child, when it is now six
months since you tasted food. I give you your liberty.
Go with Mercury. Hasten home to your dear mother."
Now, although you may not have supposed it, Perse-
phone found it impossible to take leave of poor King
Pluto without some regrets for not telling him about
the pomegranate. She even shed a tear or two,
thinking how lonely and cheerless the great palace
would seem to him, with all its ugly glare of artificial
light, after she had departed. I do not know how
many kind things she might have said to the sad king
of the mines, if Mercury had not hurried her away.
156


"Come along quickly," whispered he in her ear,
"or his majesty may change his mind. And take
care, above all things, that you say nothing of what
was brought you on the golden salver."
In a very short time they had passed the great
gateway (leaving the three-headed Cerberus, barking
and yelping and growling, with threefold din, behind
them) and emerged upon the surface of the earth.
It was delightful to behold, as Persephone hastened
along, how the path grew green behind and on either
side of her. Wherever she set her blessed foot, there
was at once a dewy flower. The violets gushed up
along the wayside. The grass and the grain began to
sprout with tenfold vigor to make up for the dreary
months that had been wasted in barrenness. The
starved cattle immediately set to work grazing, after
their long fast, and ate all day, and got up at midnight
to eat more. But I can assure you it was a busy time
with the farmers when they found the summer coming
upon them with such a rush. Nor must I forget to
say that all the birds in the whole world hopped about
upon the newly blossoming trees, and sang together
in a transport of joy.
Mother Ceres had returned to her deserted home, and
was sitting sadly on the doorstep, with her torch burning
in her hand. She had been idly watching the flame for
some moments, when all at once it flickered and went out.
11 157


"What does this mean?" thought she. "It is an
enchanted torch and should keep burning till my child
comes back."
Lifting her eyes, she was surprised to see a sudden
verdure springing in the brown and barren fields.
"Does the earth disobey me?" exclaimed Mother
Ceres, indignantly. "Does it presume to be green,
when I have bidden it be barren until my daughter
shall be restored to me?"
"Then open your arms, dear mother," cried a well-
known voice, "and take your little daughter into them."
And Persephone came running and flung herself
upon her mother's bosom. Their mutual joy is not
to be described. The grief of their separation had
caused both of them to shed a great many tears; and
now they shed a great many more, because their joy
could not so well express itself in any other way.
When their hearts had grown a little more quiet,
Mother Ceres looked anxiously at Persephone for a
moment and said:
"My child, did you taste any food while you were in
King Pluto's palace?"
"Dearest mother, answered Persephone, "I will tell
you the whole truth. Until this very morning, not a
morsel of food had passed my lips. But to-day they
brought me a pomegranate. It was a very dry one and
all shrivelled up till there was little left of it but seeds
158


and skin, but having seen no fruit for so long a time,
and being faint with hunger, I was tempted to bite it.
The instant I tasted it, King Pluto and Mercury came
into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel; and,
dear mother, I hope there was no harm in it, but six
of the pomegranate seeds, I am afraid, remained in
my mouth.''
"Ah, unfortunate child and miserable me!" exclaimed
Ceres. "For each of those six pomegranate seeds you
must spend one month of every year in King Pluto's
palace. You are but half restored to your mother.
Only six months with me, and six months with that
good-for-nothing King of Darkness!"
"Do not speak so harshly of poor King Pluto,"
said Persephone, kissing her mother. "He has some
good qualities; and I really think I can bear to spend
six months in his palace, if he will only let me spend
the other six with you. He certainly did very wrong
to carry me off; but then, as he says, it was a dismal
sort of life for him in that great gloomy place, all alone;
and it has made a wonderful change in his spirits to
have a little girl to run upstairs and down. There is
some comfort in making him so happy; and so, upon
the whole, dearest mother, let us be thankful that he
is not to keep me the whole year through."
—Nathaniel Hawthorne.
159


CROCKER'S HOLE
The Culm, which rises in Somersetshire, and
hastens into a fairer land, falls into the Exe at Killer-
ton. It was formerly a lovely trout stream, such as
prevents the Devonshire angler from having due
respect for Father Thames and the canals around
London. In the Devonshire valley it is pleasant to
see how soon a spring becomes a rill and a rill runs
into a rivulet, and a rivulet swells into a brook, and a
brook becomes a river.
The Culm used to be a good river at Culmstock,
tormented already by a factory, but not yet strangled
by a railroad. How it is now I do not know and am
afraid to ask. But Culmstock bridge was a very
pretty place to stand and watch the ways of trout,
which is easier work than to catch them.
When I was just big enough to peep over the edge,
or to lie upon it with one leg inside for fear of tumbling
over, what a mighty river it used to seem. Above the
bridge the factory stream fell in again, having done its
work and washed its hands in the clear half that had
strayed down the meadows. After that all of it hurried
off in one body again with a rapid current, under weedy
banks where fat flies might tumble in. And here you
might have found, forty years ago, the celebrated
"Crocker's Hole."
160


The story of Crocker is unknown to me, and inter-
esting as it doubtless was, I do not deal with him, but
with his Hole. Tradition said that he was a baker's
boy, who fell in love with a maid who received his
bread and buns for her master's use. No doubt she
was charming, as a girl should be, but whether she
encouraged the youthful baker and then jilted him is
known only to their ghosts. It is enough that she
would not have the floury lad, and that he, after
giving in his books and money, sought an untimely
grave among the trout. And this was the first pool
below the bread route deep enough to drown a five-foot
baker boy.
At a little later time there lived a remarkably fine
trout in that hole. Anglers are notoriously truthful,
especially as to what they catch or, even more fre-
quently, have not caught. Though I may have
written fiction, now I have to deal with facts, and I
could not even make believe that I caught that fish.
My length at that time was not more than the butt
of a four-jointed rod, and all I could catch was a
minnow with a pin. Our cook, Lydia, would not fry
them, but used to say, "Oh, what a shame, Master
Richard! They would have been trout in the summer,
if you would only let them grow on."
But upon every great occasion there arises a great
man or, as in the present instance, a great and mighty
161


boy. My father, being parson of the parish and
having small pay, tutored several pupils who were
about to enter the universities. Among them was
John Pike, a born fisherman, if there ever was one.
John Pike was a thickset youngster, with a large
and bushy head, keen blue eyes that could see through
water, and the proper slouch of shoulder which great
anglers are born with. It mattered little what the
weather was, and scarcely more as to the time of year.
John Pike must have his fishing every day, and on
Sundays he read about it and made flies. All the
rest of the time he was thinking about it.
No sooner were lessons done than Pike, whose rod
was ready on the lawn, always dashed away to the
river. He rushed headlong down the hill, and away
to the left through a private yard, where a "No
thoroughfare" sign was put up, and with a big dog
to enforce it; but Cerberus himself could not have
(stopped John Pike. His conscience backed him up
in the most sinful trespass when he was thinking of a
trout upon the rise.
But for two years John Pike must have been whip-
ping the water as hard as Xerxes without having ever
once dreamed of the glorious trout that lived in
Crocker's Hole. But when he ought to have been on
speaking terms with every fish as long as his middle
finger, why had he failed to know this champion?
162


The answer is simple—because of his short cuts.
Flying as he did like an arrow from the bow, Pike
used to hit his beloved river at an elbow several rods
below Crocker's Hole. You will say that if John Pike
had fished up stream, he would have found this trout
much sooner. And that is true; but, as it was, the
trout had more time to grow into such a prize.
The way in which John found him out was this.
For some days he had been tormented with a
very painful tooth, which even poisoned all the
joys of fishing. Therefore he resolved to have
it out, and bravely entered the shop of John
Sweetland, the village blacksmith, and there paid
his sixpence.
Sweetland extracted the teeth of the village, when-
ever they required it, in the simplest and most effectual
way. A piece of fine wire was fastened around the
tooth, and the other end around the anvil. Then
the sturdy blacksmith shut the lower half of his shop
door, which was about breast-high, with the patient
outside and the anvil within. A strong push of the
foot upset the anvil, and the tooth flew out like a
well-thrown fly.
When Master Pike had suffered this very bravely,
the blacksmith said with a grin, "Ah, Master Pike,
I reckon you won't pull out that big fish as pert as
that."
163


The Big Trout
"What big fish?" asked the boy with deepest inter-
est, although his mouth was bleeding fearfully.
"Why that great fish that has his home in Crocker's
Hole," replied the blacksmith. "Some say it must be a
salmon."
Off went Pike with his handkerchief to his mouth,
and after him ran Alec Bolt, one of his fellow pupils,
who had come to the shop to enjoy the extraction.
"Oh, my!" was all that Pike could utter, when, by
carefully placing himself, he had obtained a good view
of this grand fish.
"Ill bet you a crown you don't catch him!" cried
Bolt, an impatient youth who scorned angling.
"How long will you give me?" asked the wary Pike,
who never made rash wagers.
"Oh, till the holidays if you like; or, if that won't
do, till Michaelmas."
Now, the midsummer holidays were six weeks off—
boys never used to talk of "vacations" then, still less
of recesses.
"I think I'll bet you," said Pike in his slow way,
bending forward carefully, with his keen eyes on the
monster; "but it would not be fair to take till Michael-
mas. I'll bet you a crown that I catch him before the
holidays—at least, unless some other fellow does."
164


The day of that occurrence must have been the
fourteenth of May. Of the year I am not sure; for
children take more note of days than of years. It
must have been the fourteenth, because the day after
was our holiday, given on the fifteenth of May, in
honor of a birthday.
Now, John Pike was wary beyond his years, calm as
well as ardent, and quite as rich in patience as in vigor.
But Alec Bolt was a headlong youth, changeable, hot
and hasty, fit only to fish in a whirlpool or in a torrent
of lava. The moment he had made the bet, he expected
his crown piece; and now he demanded that Pike
should spend the holiday in trying to catch that trout.
"I shall not go near him," that lad replied, "until
I get a new collar."
It was not a piece of personal adornment, without
which he could not act, but what is now called the
fly-cast or leader.
"And another thing," continued Pike, "the bet is
off if you go near him, either now or at any other time,
without asking my permission first, and then going
only as I tell you."
"What do I want with the great slimy beggar?"
the arrogant Bolt made answer. "A good rat is
worth fifty of him. No fear of my going near him,
Pike. You shan't get out of it that way."
Pike showed his remarkable qualities that day by
165


fishing exactly as he would have fished without having
heard of the great Crockerite. He was up and away
to the millstream before breakfast; and the forenoon
he devoted to his favorite course—first down the
Craddock stream, a very pretty tributary of the Culm,
and then down the pleasant meadow, where the river
winds toward Uffculme.
It was my privilege to accompany the hero, while
Bolt and the faster race went up the river ratting.
We were back in time to have Pike's trout (which
ranged in weight between two ounces and half a
pound) fried for the early dinner.
At dinner everybody had several trout—large for
the larger folks, little for the little ones, with coughing
and patting on the back for bones. What of equal value
could the fierce rat-hunter show? Pike explained
many points in the history of each fish, seeming to
know them none the less, and love them all the better
for being fried. We banqueted thus, neither did a
soul have less than he desired. Then the wielder of
the magic rod very modestly sought leave of absence
at tea time.
"Fishing again, Mr. Pike, I suppose," my father
answered pleasantly. "I used to be fond of it at
your age, but never so entirely wrapped up in it as
you are."
"No, sir, I am not going fishing again," replied
166


Pike. "I want to walk to Wellington, to get some
things at Cherry's."
"Books, Mr. Pike? Ah! I am very glad of that;
but I fear they can only be fly-books."
"I want a little Horace for eighteen pence—the
Cambridge One just published, to carry in my pocket—
and a new hank of gut," said Pike.
"Which of the two is more important?" asked my
father.
"I can do more if I have both," answered Pike.
"After that, who could refuse you?" said my father.
"You always tell the truth."
Although it was a long walk, some fourteen miles
to Wellington and back, I got permission to go with
Pike; and as we crossed the bridge and saw the tree
that overhung Crocker's Hole, I begged him to show
me the mighty fish.
"Not a bit of it," he replied. "It would bring the
blackguards. If the blackguards once find him out,
it would be all over with him."
"The blackguards are all in the factory now,"
said I, "and I am sure they cannot see us from the
windows. They won't be out till five o'clock."
With the true liberality of young England, Pike
yielded to my request and very carefully approached
the pool. Then he commanded me to sit down while
he carefully looked from the meadow on the right
167


bank of the stream. And the place which had so sadly
quenched the fire of the baker's love filled my childish
heart with dread and deep wonder. But as for John
Pike, all he thought of was the fish and the best way
to get at him.
The river, after passing through a fence at the
head of the meadow, takes a little turn or two, and
then gathers itself into a great, strong slide, as if
going down a slope instead of steps. The right bank is
high and overhung with yellow loam, but the other
side is low and stony and washed by floods. At the
end of this rapid, the stream turns sharply under an
ancient alder tree into a large, deep, calm repose, cool,
unruffled and sheltered from the sun by branch and
leaf—and that is the hole of poor Crocker.
At the head of the pool, where the hasty current
rushes in so eagerly, a "V" is formed, a fancy letter V.
It is more beautiful than can be imagined, a perpetu-
ally changing liquid wedge. And here a gray bough
of the ancient alder stretches across, like a giant's
arm, and makes it a very ticklish place to throw a
fly. Yet this was the very spot our John Pike must
put his fly into, or lose his crown.
"You may come now, and try to look along his
back," said John Pike in a whisper. "Now don't be
in a hurry, you stupid—kneel down. He is not to
be disturbed at his dinner, mind you. You keep
168


behind me and look over my shoulder. I never set
eyes on such a whopper."
I had to kneel down on the soft grass and gaze care-
fully, but my eyes were not like those of my guide
and I could see nothing. "You are no better than
a muff," said Pike, and it was not in my power to
deny it.
"If the sun would only leave off, "said I. But the
sun, who was having very pleasant play with the
sparkle of the water and the twinkle of the leaves,
had no intention of leaving off yet, but kept the
rippling water flashing like silver.
But suddenly a May-fly, richer and more delicate
than duck or woodcock, with a dart and a leap and a
merry zigzag, began to enjoy a little game above the
stream. Rising and falling'like a gnat, shaking
her gauzy wings, she almost dipped her long tapering
whisks into the dimples of the water.
"He sees her! He'll have her as sure as a gun!"
cried Pike, with a gulp, as if he himself were "rising."
"Now, can you see him, stupid?"
"Crickety, crocums!" I exclaimed, with classic
elegance. "I have seen that long thing for five min-
utes, but I took it for a log."
"You little ape," replied Pike, "now don't you
stir a peg, or I'll dig my elbow into you."
The great trout was almost as stationary as a stone
169


in the middle of the "V" already described. He was
gently fanning with his large clear fins, but holding
his own against the current by the wagging of his
broad fluked tail. As soon as my slow eyes made
him out, he grew upon them, and I doubt whether even
John Pike saw him more accurately than I did. His
size was such that I fear to say a word about it; not
because language does not contain the word, but from
dread of exaggeration.
Swoop came a swallow, as we gazed, and was gone
like a flash, having missed the May-fly. But the
wind of his passage struck the merry dancer down,
so that he fluttered for one instant on the wave, and
that instant was enough. Swift as the swallow and
more true of aim, the great trout made one dart, and a
sound, deeper than a tinkle, but as silvery as a bell,
marked the poor May-fly's knell.
"He knows how to take a fly," said Pike, "but he
has had too many to be tricked with mine. Have him
I must; but how shall I ever do it?"
All the way to Wellington he uttered not a word,
but shambled along with a mind full of care.
Surely no trout could have been misled by the
artificial May-fly of that time, unless he were either
a very young fish or quite blind. Even now there is
plenty of room for improvement, but in those days the
body was made of yellow with ribs of red and yellow
170


silk, and as big as a bumble-bee. John Pike saw that
to offer such a thing to Crocker's trout would probably
cause it to die of indignation. On the other hand,
while the May-fly lasted, a trout so intelligent would
never touch a worm or other low bait.
Meanwhile, Alec Bolt allowed poor Pike no peaceful
thought or any calm in which to make his flies. But
as a poet labors in finding the right words for his
lines, so Pike toiled to make a fly that had all the
excellencies of all the flies that were ever cast.
Pike's First Attempt
On a bright morning of early summer, Pike came
to the bank of the Culm, with a loudly beating heart.
Having no faith in the May-fly, he brought with
him his masterpiece. The artificial Yellow Sally is
generally—as they say in Cheshire—"always a mile
or more too yellow." But Pike had made a very
decent Sally, not perfect (for he was young as well as
wise), but far above any counterfeit to be had in
fishing-tackle shops. How he made it, he told nobody.
It fluttered beautifully on the breeze, and in such
living form that a brother or sister Sally came up to
see it and went away sadder and wiser.
Then Pike said to me, "Get away, you young
wretch;" but he was better than his words and allowed
me to lie down on my stomach and watch. There
171


were great things to see, but to see them was so
difficult.
Pike had well planned the time and manner of his
attempt. He knew that the giant Crockerite was
satisfied now with May-flies, or began to find their
flavor failing, as happens to us with asparagus, green
peas or strawberries, when we have had a month of
them. And he thought the first Yellow Sally of the
season, although it were inferior, might have the
charm of novelty.
With the skill of a Zulu, he stole up through the
branches over the lower pool till he came to a spot
where a yard-wide opening gave just space enough for
the spring of a rod. Then he saw his huge friend
at dinner, wagging his tail, as a hungry gentleman
dining with the Lord Mayor shakes his coat. With
one skilful whirl, untaught by any of the books, John
Pike laid his Yellow Sally as lightly as a gossamer
upon the rapid, about a yard in front of the big
trout's head. A moment's pause, and then, too quick
for words, was the thing that happened.
A heavy plunge was followed by a fearful rush.
Forgetful of current, the river was ridged, as if it were
plowed. The strong line, although given out as fast
as might be, twanged like a harp-string as it cut the
wave, and then Pike stood up, like a ship dismantled,
with the butt of his rod snapped below the ferrule.
172


"Bad luck!" cried the fisherman, "but never
mind, I shall have him next time."
The cause of Pike's disaster was sadly obvious.
The fish, being hooked, had made off with the rush of a
shark for the lower part of the pool. A thicket of
saplings below the alder had stopped the fisherman
from all possibility of following; and so his rod broke
at the weakest point. "I have learned a sad lesson,"
said John Pike, and he looked very sad.
How many fellows would have given up, and glori-
fied themselves for having hooked so grand a fish,
while explaining that they must have caught him, if
it could have been done! But Pike only told me not
to say a word about it, and began to make ready for
another tug of war. He made himself a splice-rod,
short and handy, of well-seasoned ash, with a stout
top of bamboo, and so balanced in its spring that it
formed an arc, with any pressure on it, like a leafy
poplar in a summer storm.
"Now break it if you can," he said to me, "by any
amount of rushes. I'll hook you by your jacket
collar, then you cut away and I'll land you."
This was very skilful, and he did it many times.
Whenever I was landed well, I got a lollypop, so that
I was careful not to break the tackle. Moreover, he
made him a landing net from a bean-pole, a ring of
wire, and his own best nightcap. Then he got the
u 173


farmer's permission and cut hindering bushes; and
now the chief question was: what bait and when to
offer it? In spite of his sad experience, John Pike was
as full of hope as ever.
People put their fingers to their noses and said,
"Master Pike, have you caught him yet?" and Pike
made answer, "Wait a bit."
Pike fished in a manlier age, when nobody would
dream of cowering from a savage because he was clever
at skulking; and when, if a big fish broke the rod, a
stronger rod were made for him. And although the
young angler had been defeated, he did not sit down and
have a good cry over it.
Pike's Second Attempt
About the second week in June, when the May-fly had
danced its day and died and Crocker's trout had recov-
ered from the injury to his feelings, there came a night of
gentle rain, of pleasant tinkling upon window sills and a
soothing patter among young leaves, and the Cuhn was
yellow in the morning. "I mean to do it this after-
noon," Pike whispered to me, as he came back panting.
"When the water clears, then will be a splendid time."
The lover of the rose knows a gay, joyous beetle that
delights to lie embedded in the heart of that fragrant
flower. All his back is emerald green, and all his head
red Indian gold. Pike put his finger in and brought
174


him out, and offered him a change of joys, by putting
a hook through him. The beetle did not like it, but
pawed the air very naturally, and fluttered with his
wings attractively.
"I meant to have tried with a fern-web," said the
angler, "until I saw one of these beggars this morning.
If he works like that upon the water, he will do. It
was useless to try artificial flies again. What a lovely
color the water is! Only three days now to the holidays.
I have run it very close. You be ready, youngster!"
With these words he stepped upon a branch of the
alder, for the tone of the water allowed approach,
the ground being soft and yielding, without any mud.
Master Pike also stepped upon the alder bough to get
as near as might be to the fish, for he could not cast
the beetle like a fly. It must be dropped gently and
allowed to play. "You may come and look," he said
to me. "When the water is like this, they have no
eyes in their tails."
The rose-beetle danced upon the water prettily,
and he looked quite as happy as when he had been
cradled in the bosom of the rose.
"Hooked him in the gullet! He can't get off!"
cried Pike, trying hard to control his nerves. "Every
inch of tackle is as strong as a bell-pull. Now if I
don't land him, I will never fish again!"
Providence, who had made Pike first of all for
175



176


angling, now ordained that Pike must catch that
trout. He seemed to understand that and hurried
through the rushes, shouting, "I am sure to have him,
Dick! Be ready with my nightcap."
Rod in a bow; line on the hum, like the string of a
violin; reel on the gallop, like a harpoon wheel; Pike,
the center of everything, dashing through thick and
thin, once jumped into the hole; for otherwise he
would have lost the fish. But the monster towed
him out and dashed off in anger for another pool;
when if he had only retired to his hover, the angler
might have shared the baker's fate. All these things
so scared me that I could only shout and scream. But
one thing I did. I kept the nightcap ready.
"He is pretty nearly spent, I do believe," said Pike,
and the voice was like the balm of Gilead, as we came
to Farmer Aunger's meadow, a quarter of a mile below
Crocker's Hole. "Take it coolly, my boy, and we shall
be sure to have him."
Never have I felt, through forty years, such tre-
mendous responsibility. I had not the faintest idea
how to use a landing net, but a mighty general directed
me. "Don't let him see it!" he shouted. "Don't let
him see it! Don't clap it over him; go under him, you
stupid! If he makes another rush, he will get off, after
all. Bring it up his tail. Well done! You have him!"
The mighty trout lay in the nightcap of Pike, which
177



was six feet long, with a tassel at the end. "Come and
hold the rod if you can't lift him," my master shouted,
and so I did. Then with both arms straining, and his
mouth wide open, John Pike made a mighty sweep,
and we both fell upon the ground and rolled, with the
giant of the deep flapping heavily between us, and no
power left to us, except to cry, "Hurrah!"
Copyright. 1895. by Dodd. Mead and Co.
—Richard D. Blackmore.
178



THE BROOK
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a 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 flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.


I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To 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 water-break
Above the golden gravel,
180


And draw them all along, and flow
To 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-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars,
I loiter round my cresses:
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
S
181


WASHINGTON IRVING
Washington Irving was born in the city of New
York, in the year 1783. He was named for George
Washington, as his name indicates. When he was a
child, his nurse happened to take him into a store
where Washington was making some purchases. She
timidly went up to him and said, "Please, sir, here's
a bairn that was named for you." It is said that the
General was pleased and wished a blessing upon the
child.
Irving had a good education. He studied law
and was admitted to the bar, but never practiced.
Fortunately, his family had means, which enabled
him to pursue the more agreeable profession of writing
books. He wrote the following account of himself J
"I was always fond of visiting new scenes and
observing strange characters and manners. Even
when a mere child, I began my travels and made many
tours of discovery into unknown parts of my native
city, to the frequent alarm of my parents and the
profit of the town crier. As I grew into boyhood, I
extended the range of my observations. My holiday
afternoons were spent in rambles about the sur-
rounding country.
"I made myself familiar with all its places famous
in history or story. I knew every spot where a
182


RIP VAN WINKLE
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must
remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a
dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family
and are seen away to the west of the river, rising up
to a noble height and lording it over the surrounding
country. Every change of season, every change of
weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some
changes in the magical hues and shapes of these
mountains, and they are regarded by all the goodwives,
far and near, as perfect barometers.
When the weather is fair and settled, they are
clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold out-
lines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes when
the rest of the landscape is cloudless they will gather
a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which,
in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light
up like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager
may have seen the light smoke curling up from a
village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees
just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into
the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little
village of great antiquity, having been founded by
some of the Dutch colonists in the early time of the
province, just about the beginning of the government
184


of the good Peter Stuyvesant. There were some of
the houses of the original settlers standing within a
few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from
Holland, and having latticed windows and gable
fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn
and weather-beaten) there lived many years since,
while the country was yet a province of Great Britain,
a simple, good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van
Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles
who figured so gallantly in the days of Peter Stuyvesant,
and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina.
He inherited, however, but little of the martial char-
acter of his ancestors.
I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured
man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an
obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter
circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit
which gained him such universal popularity; for those
men are most apt to be obliging and conciliating
abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home.
Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and
malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation;
and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the
world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-
suffering. A scolding wife may, therefore, in some
185


respects be considered a blessing, and if so, Rip Van
Winkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all
the goodwives of the village, who took his part in all
the family squabbles; and never failed, when they
talked those matters over in their evening gossipings,
to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle.
The children of the village, too, would shout with
joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their
sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites
and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts,
witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging
about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of
them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back,
and playing a thousand tricks on him; and not a dog
would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was a dislike
for all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from
the want of perseverance; for he would sit on a wet
rock, with a rod as long and as heavy as a Tartar's
lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even although
he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He
would carry a fowling piece on his shoulders for hours
together, trudging through woods and swamps, and
up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild
pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor,
even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at
186


all country frolics for husking Indian corn or building
stone fences.
The women of the village, too, used to employ
him to run their errands and to do such little odd jobs
as their less obliging husbands would not do for them.
In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's
business but his own; but as to doing family duty
and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his
farm. It was the most pestilent little piece of ground
in the whole country. Everything about it went
wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His
fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow
would either go astray or get among the cabbages;
and weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than
anywhere else. The rain always made a point of
setting in just as he had some outdoor work to do; and
although his patrimonial estate had dwindled away
under his management, acre by acre, until there was
little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and
potatoes, yet it was the worst kept farm in the neigh-
borhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they
belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin with
his father's likeness, promised to inherit the habits,
with the old clothes, of his father. He was generally
seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels wearing
187


a pair of his father's cast-off trousers, which he had
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does
her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy
mortals with foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take
the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever
can be got with least thought or trouble, and would
rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If
left to himself, he would have whistled life away in
perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually
dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness,
and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning,
noon, and night her tongue was incessantly going,
and everything he said or did was sure to produce a
torrent of household eloquence.
Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the
kind, and that by frequent use had grown into a
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head,
cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however,
always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that
he was compelled to draw off his forces and take to the
outside of the house, the only side which belongs to a
henpecked husband.
Rip's sole domestic follower was his dog Wolf, who
was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and
even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause
iss


of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as
courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods, but
what courage can withstand the never-ending terrors
of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the
house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or
curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a
gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame
Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick
or a ladle he would fly to the door with yelping
precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle
as years of matrimony rolled on. A tart temper never
mellows with age, and a sharp tongue js the only edged
tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long
while he used to console himself, when driven from
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the
sages, philosophers, and other. idle persons of the
village, which held its sessions on a bench before a
small inn, whose sign was a red-faced portrait of His
Majesty George the Third.
Here they used to sit in the shade through a long
lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing.
But it would have been worth any statesman's money
to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes
took place, when, by chance, an old newspaper fell
is 189


into their hands from some passing traveler. How
solemnly they would listen to the contents as drawled
out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a
dapper little man, who was not to be daunted by the
most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely
they would deliberate upon public events several
months after they had taken place.
The opinions of the council were completely con-
trolled by Nicholas Vedder, an old man of the village,
and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took
his seat from morning till night, just moving suffi-
ciently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a
large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour
by his movements as accurately as by a sun dial. It is
true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe
continually. His followers, however, perfectly under-
stood him and knew how to gather his opinions.
When anything that was read or related displeased
him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vigorously,
and to send forth short, angry puffs; but when pleased
he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and
emit it in light and placid clouds. Sometimes, taking
the pipe from his mouth and letting the fragrant vapor
curl about his nose, he would gravely nod his head
in token of perfect approval.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at
length routed by his angry wife, who would suddenly
190


break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and
call the members all to naught. Nor was that great
person, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the
daring tongue of this terrible scold, who charged him
with encouraging her husband in idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair,
and the only way to escape from the labor of the farm
and the clamor of his wife was to take his gun in hand
and stroll away into the woods. Here he would some-
times seat himself at the foot of a tree and share the
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sym-
pathized as a fellow sufferer in persecution.
"Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads
thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad. Whilst
I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!"
Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his
master's face, and if dogs can feel [pity, I verily believe
he returned the sentiment with all his heart.
Rip's Hunting in the Mountains
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day,
Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest
parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his
favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still
solitude had echoed and re-echoed with the*reports
of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw him-
self, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered
191


ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle!
Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!"
At the same time, Wolf bristled up his back and,
giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking
fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague
fear stealing over him. He looked anxiously in the
same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly
toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of
something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see
any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place;
but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood
in need of his assistance, he hastened down to give it.
On nearer approach, he was still more surprised
at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He
was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick, bushy
hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the
antique Dutch fashion. A cloth jerkin was strapped
around the waist, and he wore several pairs of breeches,
the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of
buttons down the sides and at the knees.
He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed
full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and dis-
trustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with
his usual willingness; and, mutually relieving one
another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently
the dry bed of a mountain torrent.
193



194


As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard
long rolling peals like distant thunder, that seemed
to come from a deep ravine between lofty rocks toward
which their rugged path conducted them. He paused
for a moment, but supposing it to be the muttering
of one of those transient thunder showers which often
take place in mountain heights, he proceeded.
Passing through the ravine, they came to a small
circular opening over the brinks of which trees shot
their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of
the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During
the whole time, Rip and his companion had labored on
in silence; for although the former considered what
could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this
wild mountain, yet there was something so strange
about his unknown companion that he inspired awe
and checked familiarity.
On entering the opening, new objects of wonder pre-
sented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a
company of odd-looking persons, playing ninepins.
They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion.
Some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long
knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous
breeches similar to those of the guide. Their faces,
too, were peculiar. One had a large beard, broad
face, and small piggish eyes. The face of another
seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted
195


with fear and trembling, and they quaffed the liquor
in profound silence, and then returned to their game.
Rip's Long Sleep
By degrees Rip's awe and fear subsided. He even
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste
the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor
of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty
soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught.
One taste provoked another; and he repeated his
visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses
were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his
head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He
rubbed his eyes—it was a bright, sunny morning.
The birds were hopping and twittering among the
bushes, and an eagle was wheeling aloft and breasting
the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip,
"I have not slept here all night." He recalled the
occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man
with the keg of liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild
retreat among the rocks—the solemn party at nine*
pins—the flagon. "Oh! that flagon!" thought Rip.
"What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"
He looked around for his gun; but in place of the
clean, well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old fire-
197


lock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the
lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now

suspected that the grave fellows of the mountain had
played a trick on him and, having dosed him with
198


liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had
disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a
squirrel or a partridge. He whistled after him and
shouted his name, but all in vain. The echoes repeated
his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of last evening's
gambol, and if he met with any of the party to demand
his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself
stiff in the joints and wanting in his usual activity.
"These mountain beds do not agree with me,"
thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me up with
a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time
with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he
got down into the glen.
He found the gully up which he and his companion
had ascended the preceding evening; but to his
astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming
down it, leaping from rock to rock and filling the
glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made a
shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome
way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-
hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the
wild grapevines that twisted their coils or tendrils
from tree to tree and spread a kind of network in his
path.
At length he reached the place where the ravine
had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater;
199


troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting
after him and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs,
too, not one of whom he recognized for an old acquaint-
ance, barked at him as he passed. The very village
was altered; it was larger and more populous. There
were rows of houses which he had never seen before;
and those which had been his familiar haunts had
disappeared. Strange names were over the doors—
strange faces at the windows—everything was strange.
His mind now misgave him, and he began to doubt
whether both he and the world around him were not
bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which
he had left the day before. There stood the Catskill
Mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—
there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always
been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last
night," thought he, "has mixed my poor head sadly!"
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to
his own house, which he approached with silent awe,
expecting at every moment to hear the shrill voice of
Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay—
the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the
doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked
like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by
name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and
passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. "My
very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!"
s
201


He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame
Van Winkle had always kept in good order. It was
empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This
desolateness overcame all his fears and he called
loudly for his wife and children. The lonely chambers
rang for a moment with his voice and then again all
was silence.
He now hurried forth and hastened to his old resort,
the village inn—but it, too, was gone. A large rickety
wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping
windows, some of them broken and mended with old
hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted,
"The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead
of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little
Dutch inn of yore, there was now reared a tall naked
pole, with something on the top that looked like a red
nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which
was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes.
All this was strange and hard to understand.
He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face
of King George, under which he had smoked so many a
peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly changed.
The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a
sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the
head was decorated with a cocked hat, and under-
neath was painted in large letters, "General Wash-
ington."
202


There was, as usual, a crowd of folks about the door,
but none that Rip recollected. The very character
of the people seemed changed. There was a busy,
bustling tone about it, instead of the drowsy tran-
quillity. He looked in vain for the sage, Nicholas
Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair
long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead
of idle speeches, or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster,
reading aloud the contents of an ancient newspaper.
In place of these a lean-looking fellow, with his pockets
full of handbills, was shouting about the rights of citi-
zens, elections, members of congress, liberty, Bunker
Hill, heroes of seventy-six, and other words, which
were a perfect mystery to the bewildered Van Winkle.
Rip at the Inn
The appearance of Rip with his long grizzled beard,
his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, an army of
women and children at his heels, soon attracted the
attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded
around him, eyeing him from head to foot with great
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him and, drawing
him aside, inquired "on which side he voted?" Rip
stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy
little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe,
inquired in his ear, "whether he was a Federal or a
Democrat?"
203


Rip was equally at loss to comprehend the question,
when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, wearing
a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd,
and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one
hand akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen
eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his
very soul, demanded in a severe tone, "What brought
him to the election with a gun on his shoulder and a
mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a
riot in the village?"
"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed,
"I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place and a
loyal subject of the king, God bless him!"
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders—
"A tory! A tory! A spy! A refugee! Hustle him!
Away with him!"
It was with great difficulty that the self-important
man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having
assumed a tenfold severity of brow, demanded again
of the unknown visitor, "What he came there for, and
whom he was seeking?"
The poor man humbly assured him that he meant
no harm, but merely came there in search of some of
his neighbors who used to be about the tavern.
"Well, who are they? Name them?"
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired.
"Where's Nicholas Vedder?"
204


There was silence for a little while, when an old man
replied, in a thin, piping voice: "Nicholas Vedder?
Why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There
was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used
to tell about him, but that's rotten and gone, too."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?" asked Rip.
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of
the war," said the old gentleman. "Some say he was
killed at the storming of Stony Point, others say he
was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose.
I don't know; he never came back again."
"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" asked
Rip.
"He went off to the war, too, was a great militia
general, and is now in Congress," was the reply.
Rip's heart died away at hearing these sad changes
in his home and friends, and finding himself thus
alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too,
by treating of such enormous lapses of time and of
matters which he could not understand—war, congress,
Stony Point. He had no courage to ask after any
more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody
here know Rip Van Winkle?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three.
"Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder,
leaning against the tree."
Rip looked and beheld an exact duplicate of himself
M 205


as he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy and
certainly as ragged. He doubted his own identity,
and whether he was himself or another man. In the
midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat
demanded "Who he was and what was his name?"
"God knows!" exclaimed he, at his wit's end. "I'm
not myself; I'm somebody else. That's me, yonder—
no, that's somebody else got into my shoes. I was myself
last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've
changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm
changed; and I can't tell what's my name or who I am!"
The bystanders now began to look at each other, nod
and wink, and tap their fingers against their foreheads.
There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun and
keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very
suggestion of which the self-important man in the
cocked hat retired with some haste.
At this critical moment a comely woman pressed
through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded
man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, fright-
ened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she.
"Hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you."
The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of
her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind.
"What is your name, my good woman?" he asked.
"Judith Gardenier," said she.
-'And your father's name?" he asked.
206


"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name," she
replied. "But it is twenty years since he went away
from home with his gun, and never has been heard of
since. His dog came home without him; but whether
he shot himself or was carried away by the Indians,
nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl."
Rip had but one more question to ask, and he put it
with a faltering voice:
"Where's your mother?"
"Oh, she, too, has died but a short time since. She
broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New England
peddler."
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intel-
ligence. The honest man could contain himself no
longer. He caught his daughter and ber child in his
arms.
"I am your father!" cried he. "Young Rip Van
Winkle once—old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody
know poor Rip Van Winkle?"
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out
from the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering
under it into his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure
enough, it is Rip Van Winkle—it is himself! Welcome
home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been
these twenty long years?"
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years
had been to him as one night. The neighbors stared
207


when they heard it. Some were seen to wink at each
other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the
self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the
alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down
the corners of his mouth and shook his head, upon
which there was a general shaking of heads throughout
the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of
old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing
up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of
that time, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the
province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of
the village. He recollected Rip at once, and confirmed
his story in the most satisfactory manner.
He assured the company that it was a fact handed
down from his ancestor, the historian, that the Catskill
Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings.
That it was said that the great Hendrick Hudson, the
first discoverer of the river and the country, kept a kind
of vigil there every twenty years with his crew of the
Half-Moon, being permitted in this way to revisit the
scenes of this enterprise and keep a guardian eye upon
the river and the great city called by his name. That
his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses
playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and
that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the
sound of their balls like distant peals of thunder.
208


To make a long story short, the company broke up
and returned to the more important concerns of the
election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with
her. She had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout,
cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected as
one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back.
As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself,
seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work
on the farm; but showed a disposition to attend to
anything else but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon
found many of his former friends, though all rather the
worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred
making friends among the rising generation with whom
he soon grew into great favor.
He took his place once more on the bench at the
inn door and was looked up to as one of the wise
men of the village and a chronicler of the old times
"before the war."
It was some time before he could get into the
regular track of gossip, or could be made to understand
the strange events that had taken place during his
sleep. How that there had been a Revolutionary War
—that the country had thrown off the yoke of old Eng-
land—and that, instead of being a subject of his
Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen
of the United States.
209


Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states
and empire made but little impression on him; but there
was one species of despotism under which he had long
groaned, and that was—petticoat government. Happily
that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke
of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he
pleased without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van
Winkle.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that
arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at
first, to vary on some points every time he told it,
which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently
awakened. It at last settled down to precisely the tale
I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the
neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always
pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that
Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one
point in which he always remained flighty.
The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost univer-
sally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never
hear a thunder storm of a summer afternoon, but they
say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game
of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked
husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy
on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught
out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.
—Washington Irving.
210


CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS
Christopher Columbus, or Colombo, as his name is
written in Italian, was born in the city of Genoa, about
the year 1435. He was the son of Dominico Colombo,
a wool-comber, and his wife Susannah. He was the
oldest of four children, having two brothers, Bartholo-
mew and James, and one sister, of whom little is known.
At a very early age Columbus showed a decided
inclination for the sea. His education, therefore, was
mainly intended to fit him for a sailor's life, as far as
the narrow means of his father would permit. Besides
the ordinary branches of reading, writing, grammar and
arithmetic, he also had some instruction in Latin and in
drawing.
For a short time he was sent to the University of
Pavia, where he studied geometry, geography, astron-
omy and navigation. He then returned to Genoa,
where he assisted his father in his trade of wool-combing.
However, he could not have remained long in this
employment, for, according to his own account, he
entered upon a sea-faring life when but fourteen years
of age.
Genoa, walled in on the land side by rugged moun-
tains, offered few opportunities on shore, while her vast
commerce naturally led her sons to follow the sea. A
historian of Genoa complains because its youths so often
211


wander from home. "They go," said he, "with the
intention of returning to live in their native place,
where they have earned a comfortable living; but of
twenty who thus depart scarcely two ever return."
Of this number was Columbus.
As has been said, Columbus commenced his seafaring
life when about fourteen years of age. The life of a
sailor in the Mediterranean in those days was dangerous
and daring. A commercial expedition resembled a
warlike cruise and a ship often had to fight its way from
port to port. Piracy was almost legalized, and every
trading ship was a ship-of-war.
Such was the rugged school in which Columbus was
reared. The first voyage in which we have any account
of his being engaged was a naval expedition, filled out
in Genoa in 1459 by the Duke of Calabria, to make an
attack upon Naples. The republic of Genoa aided him
with ships and money, and the youthful Columbus was
one of those who helped to man the ships.
Some time after this he took part in an attack upon
four galleys that were returning to Venice, richly laden
with spoil. The engagement took place near the coast
of Portugal, not far from Lisbon. The battle lasted
from morning until night and the crews fought hand to
hand and from ship to ship. Firebrands were thrown
until the ships were wrapped in flames and the crews
threw themselves into the sea. Columbus seized an
212


oar which was floating within reach and, being an expert
swimmer, succeeded in reaching the shore, although it
was several miles distant. From the place where he
landed, he soon made his way to Lisbon, where he
found several of his countrymen and took up his
residence among them.
Portugal was at this time more interested in the study
of geographical knowledge than any other nation in the
world. She derived her wealth from the sea and her
interest in discovery had been recently awakened by
voyages to the Canary Islands and the coast of Africa.
Prince Henry of Portugal believed that it would be
possible to reach India by sailing around Africa. But
sailors looked with distrust at the ocean, which appeared
to have no opposite shore, and feared to venture out of
sight of land. They crept fearfully along the shore and
thought they had accomplished wonderful things when
they had ventured a few degrees beyond the Strait of
Gibraltar.
Prince Henry established a naval college and em-
ployed the most learned scholars to make charts and
maps. The compass came into use and the coast of
Africa from Cape Blanc to Cape Verde was explored
and the Azore Islands, which lay three hundred miles
from the continent, were discovered.
Prince Henry died in 1473, and it was not until
several years later that Vasca de Gama, with a Portu-
213


guese fleet, doubled the Cape of Good Hope and sailed
as far as India. Henry, however, lived long enough to
reap some of the richest rewards. He lived long enough
to see his native country made prosperous through what
he had done. The discoveries of the Portuguese were
the wonder and admiration of the fifteenth century, and
Portugal, from being one of the least among nations,
suddenly rose to be one of the most important.
Columbus arrived at Lisbon about the year 1470.
He was at that time in the full vigor of manhood.
Minute descriptions are given of his person by his son
Fernando and others who lived at that time. According
to these accounts, he was tall, well-formed and muscular,
with a noble and dignified manner. His face was long,
his complexion fair and freckled and inclined to be-
ruddy. His nose was straight and his eyes were light
gray and apt to enkindle. His hair in his youthful days.
was of a light color; but care and trouble soon turned
it gray, and at thirty years of age it was entirely
white.
Throughout his life, Columbus was noted for his-
attention to religious duties, observing all the fasts and
ceremonies of the church. While at Lisbon he was
accustomed to attend religious services at the chapel of
the convent of All Saints. Residing in this convent
were certain ladies of rank, with one of whom Columbus-
became acquainted. She was Dona Felipa, daughter
214


of an Italian navigator who had taken part in the
Portuguese explorations under Prince Henry.
The acquaintance ended in marriage and the newly
married couple went to reside with the mother of the
bride, for her husband had recently died. The mother-
in-law noticed the interest that Columbus took in all
matters concerning the sea, and related to him all that
she knew of the voyages of her husband, and also gave
him all his papers, charts and journals. In this way he
became acquainted with the routes of the Portuguese
and as he soon became a citizen of that country, he
made several voyages to the coast of Guinea with the
Portuguese fleets. When on shore he supported his
family by making charts and maps.
Columbus Seeking Discoveries
,< It is impossible to determine the exact time when
Columbus first thought of seeking a western route to
India; but it is certain that he mentioned it as early
as the year 1474. However, it was not until the reign
of John II that he asked for ships and men to seek a
shorter route to India. His plan was to sail directly
across the Atlantic; but, after some delay, the king
refused to lend his support.
Columbus left Portugal in 1485 to seek assistance for
his plans among the nobles of Spain. The Duke of
Celi was favorable to the plan and was actually on the
215


story. That stranger was Columbus, who was on his
way to a neighboring town.
The prior was a man of great learning and was
interested in geography and discovery. When he found
that the voyager was on the point of abandoning Spain
to seek assistance from the French court, his patriotism
caused him to detain Columbus as his guest.
Several conferences soon took place at the convent,
at which several of the mariners of Palos were present.
Among these was Martin Alonzo Pinzon, the head of a
wealthy family of navigators. Facts were related by
some of these navigators in support of the theory of
Columbus. In a word, his plan was treated with a
respect in the quiet cloisters of La Rabida, and
among the seafaring men of Palos, which had been
sought in vain among the sages and wise men of
the court.
In a little time a person of some influence was sent to
ask assistance of the Queen. The result was all that
Columbus could have wished.
The Queen requested that Columbus might be again
sent to her, and, because of his humble state, ordered
that a sum of money equal to about two hundred sixteen
dollars should be sent to him to meet the expense of the
journey.
As soon as he received the message and the money,
Columbus exchanged his threadbare coat for one more
217


suited to the court, and, purchasing a mule, set out
once more with new hopes.
On arriving at Santa Fe\ Columbus had an immediate
audience with the Queen, and the kindness with which
she received him atoned for past neglect. After long
explanations and discussions, the following agreement
was made:
1. That Columbus should have for himself during his
life the office of admiral in all lands that he might dis-
cover in the ocean.
2. That he should be governor over all said lands.
3. That he should be entitled to have for himself
one-tenth of all pearls, precious stones, gold, silver, and
spices that might be found.
4. That he should contribute an eighth part of the
expense in fitting out the vessels to sail on the voyage.
He was able to fulfil the last part of the contract only
by the help of the Pinzon family of Palos. The contract
was signed by Ferdinand and Isabella on the 17th of
April, 1492, but the expense was borne entirely by the
Queen's province of Castile.
On arriving at Palos, Columbus went immediately to
the convent of La Rabida, where he was received with
open arms by the worthy prior. The next morning a
royal order was read in the porch of the church of St.
George, commanding the authorities of Palos to have
two caravels ready for sea within ten days after this
218


notice and to turn them and their crews over to Colum-
bus. The latter was also empowered to procure and fit
out a third vessel.
These small vessels were apparently all that Columbus
had requested. Two of them were light barks called
caravels, which were not larger than river craft of
modern days. A historian of the time says that only
one of the vessels was decked.
The largest of the ships was called the Santa Maria;
and on board this Columbus hoisted his flag. The
second ship, called the Pinta, was commanded by
Martin Alonzo Pinzon, a friend of Columbus, and the
third, called the Nina, was commanded by his brother.
The officers and crew amounted to one hundred twenty
persons.
It was on Friday, the third of August, 1492, early in
the morning, that Columbus set sail from the port of
Palos. He steered in a southwesterly direction for the
Canary Islands, whence it was his intention to proceed
due west.
On the third day the Pinta made signals of distress;
and her rudder was found to be broken. Fortunately,
Captain Pinzon commanded the ship and he was able
to make the rudder fast with ropes.
The damaged state of the Pinta, as well as her leaky
condition, caused the Admiral to determine to touch at
the Canary Islands and seek a vessel to replace her.
219


once more filled, and in the course of the day the islands
gradually faded from the horizon.
On losing sight of land, the hearts of the crews failed
them. They seemed to have taken leave of the world.
Many of the rugged seamen shed tears and some broke
into loud lamentations. The Admiral tried in every
way to soothe their distress. He described to them the
wonderful countries to which he was about to conduct
them—the islands of the Indian seas rich in gold and
precious stones.
On the thirteenth of September, being about five
hundred miles from the Canaries, Columbus for the
first time noticed the variation of the compass, some-
thing which had never before been known. At nightfall
he perceived that the needle instead of pointing to the
North Star, varied five or six degrees to the westward,
and still more on the following morning. He observed
it carefully for three days and found that the variation
increased as he advanced. He made no mention of this,
but it soon attracted the attention of the pilots, and
filled them with alarm.
Columbus was at a loss to know how to answer them,
but at last he said that the needle did not point to the
North Star but to some fixed point. The variation,
therefore, was not caused by the failure of the compass,
but by the movement of the north star itself.
On the fourteenth of September, the voyagers were
ii 221


rejoiced by the sight of what they considered signs of
land. A heron and a tropical bird, neither of which was
supposed to venture far from land, hovered about the
ships. They had now arrived within the influence of
the trade winds, which blow steadily from east to west
between the tropics, so that for many days they did not
shift a sail.
The crews were already growing uneasy at the length
of the voyage. They had advanced much farther west
than man had ever sailed before; and they began to
imagine that the wind in these seas might always blow
from the east and prevent them from ever returning to
Spain.
Columbus endeavored to encourage them by pointing
out signs of land, and on the twentieth the wind changed
and blew from the southwest. Although this hindered
their progress, it had a cheering effect upon the crews,
for it proved that the wind did not always blow from
the east. Several birds also visited the ships. They
were of the kinds that keep about groves and orchards,
and came singing in the morning and flew away again
in the evening.
The situation of Columbus was daily becoming more
and more critical. As he approached the regions where
he expected to find land the impatience of his crews
increased. There was danger of their rebelling and
obliging him to turn back.
222


Columbus having observed great flocks of small birds
going toward the southwest, concluded that there must
be some neighboring land where they would find food
and a resting place. He knew the importance which the
Portuguese voyagers attached to the flight of birds, by
following which they had discovered most of their
islands. He had now come about fifteen hundred miles,
the distance at which he had expected to find the island
of Cipango, and yet there was no sign of it. He
determined, therefore, to alter his course to the direction
in which the birds generally flew, and continue that
direction for at least two days.
For three days they sailed in that direction, and the
farther they went the more frequent were the signs of
land. Birds and wild ducks were seen flying towards
the southwest and others were heard flying by in the
night. The weeds that floated by were as fresh as if
they had recently come from the land, and the air
was as "sweet and fragrant as an April breeze in
Seville."
All these, however, were regarded by the crews as
snares leading them on to destruction. They insisted
upon turning back and abandoning the voyage. Colum-
bus tried to pacify them by gentle words and promises
of large rewards, but without result. At last he
assumed a tone of authority and told them it was useless
to murmur. The expedition had been sent by the
223


sovereigns to seek the Indies, and he was deter-
mined to continue until he should reach his destina-
tion.
Columbus was now in open defiance with his crew and
his situation was becoming desperate. Fortunately the
signs of land on the following day were such as to no
longer leave any doubt. Besides a quantity of fresh
weeds, which grow in rivers, a thorn-branch with berries
on it floated by them. All gloom and mutiny now gave
way to expectation; and throughout the day every one
was eagerly on the watch, in hopes of being the first to
discover the long-sought-for land.
In the evening when the crew had sung the vesper
hymn, Columbus pointed out the goodness of God in
thus guiding them by soft and favoring breezes across a
tranquil ocean. He thought it probable that they
would make land that very night, and he ordered a
vigilant watch to be kept, promising to him who should
make the discovery a cloak of velvet, in addition to the
pension to be given by the sovereigns.
There was the greatest interest throughout the ship,
and not an eye was closed that night. As the evening
advanced, Columbus took a position on the cabin of his
vessel and kept up a continuous watch. About two
o'clock he thought he beheld a light, glimmering at a
great distance. Fearing his eager eyes might deceive
him, he called a gentleman of the King's bedchamber, to
224


inquire whether he saw such a light, and he admitted
that he saw it.
Columbus now called another of his crew and made
the same inquiry, but by the time the latter had
ascended the round-house, the light had disappeared.
They saw it once or twice afterwards in sudden and
passing gleams; as if it were a torch in the bark of a
fisherman, rising and sinking with the waves; or in the
hand of some person on shore, borne up and down as he
walked from house to house. So uncertain were these
gleams, however, that few attached any importance to
them; but Columbus considered them certain signs of
land, and, moreover, that the land was inhabited.
They continued their course until two in the morning,
when a gun from the Pinta gave the joyful signal of
land. It was first seen by a mariner named Roderigo
da Trina; but the reward was afterwards awarded to the
Admiral, for having previously seen the light. The land
was now clearly seen about five miles distant, whereupon
they took in sail and waited impatiently for the dawn.
The thoughts and feelings of Columbus in this little
space of time must have been intense. At length, in
spite of every difficulty and danger, he had accom-
plished his object. The great mystery of the ocean had
been made clear. His theory, which had been scoffed at
by wise men, was triumphantly established, and he had
secured for himself a glory as enduring as the world itself.
225


The Discovery of America
It was on Friday morning, the twelfth of October, that
Columbus first beheld the New World. As the day-
dawned, he saw before him a level island, several miles
in extent and covered with trees like a continuous
orchard. Though apparently uncultivated, it was
populous, for the inhabitants were seen coming from all
parts of the woods and running to the shore, where they
stood gazing at the ships in wonder and astonishment.
Columbus made signals for the ships to cast anchor,
and the boats to be manned and armed. He entered
his own boat richly attired in scarlet, and holding the
royal standard. The other boats carried banners with
the letters F. and Y., the initials of Ferdinand and
Ysabel.
On landing, Columbus threw himself on his knees,
kissed the earth and returned thanks to God with tears
of joy. His example was followed by the rest, whose
hearts overflowed with the same feeling of gratitude.
Columbus, then rising, drew his sword, displayed the
royal standard and took possession of the land in the
name of the Spanish sovereigns, giving the island the
name of San Salvador.
When, at the dawn of day, the natives of the island
beheld the ships hovering on their coast, they supposed
them monsters which had come from the deep during
226



227


the night. They had crowded to the beach • and
watched their movements with awful anxiety. When
they saw the boats approaching the shore, with a
number of strange beings in glittering armor, they
fled in fear to the woods. Finding, however, that they
made no attempt to pursue them, they gradually
recovered from their terror and approached the
Spaniards with great awe.
The natives of the island were no less objects of
curiosity to the Spaniards, differing, as they did, from
any race of men they had ever seen. Their appearance
gave no promise of wealth or civilization, for they
had no clothes and were painted with a variety of
colors. Their complexion was of a copper hue, and
they were entirely destitute of beards. Their hair
was not curly, like the recently discovered tribes of the
African coast, but straight and coarse, cut short about
the ears, but long behind and falling upon their
shoulders. Their features, although disfigured by
paint, were agreeable; and they had high foreheads
and remarkably fine eyes.
As Columbus supposed he had landed on an island
at the extremity of India, he called the natives by the
general name of Indians, which was universally adopted
before the true nature of his discovery was known,
and has since been extended to all the natives of the
New World. —Washington Irving.
228



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 spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why you shall say, at break of day:
'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"
229


They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
"Why, now not even God would know
Should 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 spake the mate:
"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night.
He curls his lips, he lies in wait,
With lifted teeth, as if to bite!
Brave Admiral, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?"
The words leapt 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 night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck—
Alight! Alight! Alight! Alight!
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: "On, sail on!"
—Joaquin Miller.
230


visions had returned sometimes but the voices very
often, and the voices always said, "Joan, thou art
appointed by heaven to go and help the Dauphin."
There is no doubt that Joan believed what she
saw and heard. Her father, who was more sceptical
than his neighbors, said, "I tell thee, Joan, it is thy
fancy. Thou hadst better have a kind husband to take
care of thee and do some work to take thy attention."
But Joan told him in reply that she had taken a vow
never to have any husband, and that she must go as
heaven directed her, to help the Dauphin.
It happened, unfortunately for the poor girl, that
a party of the Dauphin's enemies found their way
into the village where Joan lived, and burned the
chapel and drove out the inhabitants. The cruelties
she saw committed touched Joan's heart and made
her worse. She said that the voices and the figures
were now continually with her. They told her she
was the girl who, according to old traditions, was to
deliver France; and she must go and help the Dauphin
and must remain with him until he should be crowned
at Rheims.
Although her father said, "I tell thee, Joan, it is
thy fancy," she set out, accompanied by her uncle, a
poor village wheelwright and cartmaker, who believed
in the reality of her visions. They traveled a long
way and went on and on, over rough country, full of
232


the Dauphin's enemies and all kinds of robbers, until
they came to the castle of one of the friends of the
Dauphin.
When the servants told the nobleman that a poor
peasant girl named Joan of Arc, accompanied by
nobody but an old village wheelwright and cartmaker,
wished to see him because she was commanded to
help the Dauphin and save France, he burst out
laughing and bade them send the girl away. But he
soon heard so much about her lingering in the town
and praying in the churches and seeing visions, that
he sent for her and questioned her.
Then he thought it worth while to send her to the
town of Chinon, where the Dauphin was. So he
bought her a horse and a sword and gave her two
squires to conduct her. As the voices had told Joan
she was to wear a man's dress, now she put one on and
girded her sword to her side and mounted her horse
and rode away with her two squires. As for her
uncle, the wheelwright, he stood staring at his niece
in wonder until she was out of sight—and then went
home again.
Joan and the two squires rode on and on, until they
came to Chinon, where she was admitted to the
Dauphin's presence. She told him she had come to
subdue his enemies and conduct him to his coronation
at Rheims. She also said there was an old sword
233


Joan Saves Orleans
When the people on the walls caught sight of her,
they cried out: "The maid has come! The maid of
the prophecy has come to deliver us!"
This and the sight of the maid fighting at the head
of her men, made the French so bold and the English
so fearful, that the English line of forts was soon
broken. The troops with the provisions rushed into
the town, and Orleans was saved.
From that time Joan was called the Maid of Orleans.
She remained within the walls for a few days, and
caused letters to be thrown over, ordering Lord Suffolk
and his English soldiers to depart from before the
town according to the will of heaven. As the English
general refused to do this, she mounted her white war-
horse again, and ordered her white banner to advance.
The enemy held the bridge and some strong towers
upon the bridge, and here the Maid of Orleans attacked
them. The fight was fourteen hours long. She
placed a scaling ladder with her own hands and
mounted a tower wall, but was struck by an English
arrow in the neck and fell into the trench. She was
carried away and the arrow was taken out, and then
she said the voices were speaking to her and soothing
her to rest.
After a while she got up and was again foremost
236


in the fight. When the English, who had seen her
fall and supposed her to be dead, saw this, they were
troubled with strange fears and cried out that they
saw Saint Michael on a white horse fighting for the
French. They lost the bridge and lost the towers,
and the next day set their chain of forts on fire and
left the place.
But as Lord Suffolk retired to a town only a few
miles off, the Maid of Orleans attacked him there and
he was taken prisoner. As the white banner scaled
the wall, she was struck upon the head with a stone
and again tumbled down into the ditch. But she
only cried all the more as she lay there, "On, on my
countrymen! Fear nothing, for the Lord hath delivered
them into your hands!" After this new success of the
maid's, several other places which had previously
held out against the Dauphin were delivered up
without a battle. At Patay she defeated the remainder
of the English army, and set up her victorious white
banner on a field where twelve hundred Englishmen
lay dead.
She now urged the Dauphin to proceed to Rheims
and be crowned there. The Dauphin was in no par-
ticular hurry to do this, as Rheims was a long way
off and the English were still strong in the country
through which the road lay. However, they set forth
with ten thousand men, and the Maid of Orleans rode
w 237


on and on, upon her white war-horse and in her shining
armor.
Whenever they came to a town that yielded easily,
the soldiers believed in her; but when they came to a
town which gave them any trouble, they began to
murmur that she was a fraud. The latter was the
case at Troyes, which finally yielded through the
efforts of a friar of the place.
Joan of Arc at Rheims
So at last, after much riding, the Maid of Orleans
and the Dauphin and the ten thousand soldiers came
to Rheims, and in the great cathedral of Rheims the
Dauphin was crowned, Charles the Seventh, in a
great assembly of the people.
Then the maid, who stood beside the king in that
great house of triumph, kneeled down upon the pave-
ment at his feet, and with tears in her eyes, said that
what she had been called to do had been done. The
only reward she asked for was that she be permitted
to go back to her distant home and her still doubting
father, and her first follower, the village wheelwright
and cartmaker.
But the king said, "No!" and made her as noble as a
king could and gave her the income of a count.
Happy would it have been for the Maid of Orleans
if she could have put on her rustic dress that day and
238


had gone home to the little chapel and the wild hills.
It was not to be and she continued helping the king,
and leading a religious, unselfish and modest life.
Many times she begged the king to let her go home;
and once she even took off her bright armor and hung
it up in a church, meaning never to wear it again.
But the king always won her back again and so she
went on and on to her doom.
At last Charles marched to Paris, which was
opposed to him, and attacked the suburb of Saint
Honore. In this battle, being again struck down,
Joan was abandoned by the whole army. She lay
unaided among a heap of dead, and crawled out as
best she could. Then some of her followers went
over to a rival maid, Catherine of La Rochelle, who
said she could tell where treasure was buried, although
she never did. And then Joan broke the old, old
sword, and others said that her power was broken
with it.
Finally, in a retreat, she was basely left alone, and
although she fought to the last, an archer pulled her
off her horse.
Oh, the noise that was made and the thanksgiving
that was sung about the capture of one poor country
girl!
I should never finish if I were to tell you how many
times they examined Joan and cross-examined her and
239


worried her into saying anything and everything.
Sixteen times she was brought out and worried and
argued with until she was sick of the whole business.
It was natural in one so young to wish to live. To
save her life she signed a statement with a cross—
for she couldn't write—that all her visions and voices
had come from the devil. And upon her promise that
she would never wear a man's dress again, she was
condemned to imprisonment for life.
But one day she put on a man's suit which had been
left in the prison to entrap her, and for this she was
condemned to be burned to death.
And in the market place of Rouen, this shrieking
girl—last seen amid the smoke and fire with a crucifix
in her hand—last heard calling upon God—was burned
to ashes. They threw her ashes into the Seine, but
they will rise against her murderers on the last day.
In the picturesque old town of Rouen, where weeds
and grass grow high in the cathedral towers, and the
Norman streets are still warm in the blessed sunlight,
though the fires that once gleamed horribly upon them
have long grown cold, there is a statue of Joan of Arc
in the scene of her last agony, the square to which
she has given its present name. I know some statues
of modern times which commemorate less constancy,
less earnestness and much smaller claims upon the
World's attention. -Charles Dickens.
240 (Adavte


BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
241


THE TEMPEST
My friend went to the coach office at my request
and engaged a seat for me; for I was going to visit
my old friend, Ham Peggoty. So in the evening I
started down the road in that conveyance. There
had been a wind all day; and it was rising then, with
an unusually great sound. In another hour it had
much increased and the sky was more overcast, and it
blew hard.
But as the night advanced, the clouds closing in and
densely overspreading the whole sky, it blew harder
and harder, and still increased until our horses could
hardly face the wind. Many times the leaders turned
about, or came to a dead stop; and we were often
in serious fear that the coach would be overturned.
Sweeping gusts of rain came up before this storm
like showers of steel; and at those times, when there
was any shelter of trees or walls, we stopped because
it was almost impossible to go on.
When the day broke, it blew harder and harder.
I had been in Yarmouth where the seamen said it
"blew great guns," but I have never known the like
of this, or anything approaching it. We came to
Ipswich very late—having had to fight every inch of
ground since we were ten miles out of London; and
found a cluster of people in the market place, who
243


had risen from their beds in the night, fearful of
falling chimneys. Some of these, congregating about
the inn yard while we changed horses, told us of
great sheets of lead having been ripped off a high
church tower and falling into a by-street. Others told
of country people, coming in from neighboring villages.
who had seen great trees torn out of the earth and
hayricks scattered about the fields and roads. Still
there was no lessening of the storm, but it only blew
harder.
As we struggled on nearer and nearer to the sea,
from which the wind was blowing inshore, its force
became more and more terrific. Long before we saw
the sea, its spray was on our faces and showered salt
rain upon us. When we came within sight of the
shore, the waves on the horizon were like glimpses
of another shore with towers and buildings. When
at last we came into the town, the people came to
their doors in wonder that the mail had come through
on such a night.
I put up at the old inn, and went down to look at the
sea, staggering along the street which was strewn
with sand and seaweed. Coming near the beach, I
saw not only the boatman, but half the people of the
town, lurking behind buildings. Some now and then
braved the storm to look away to sea, and were blown
out of their course in trying to zigzag back again.
244


Joining these groups, I found bewailing women
whose husbands were away in fishing boats, which
there was too much reason to think might have gone
down before they could run in anywhere for safety.
Grizzled old sailors were among the people, shaking
their heads as they looked from water to sky, and
muttering to one another. There were ship owners,
excited and uneasy; children huddling together and
glancing into older faces; and even stout mariners,
disturbed and anxious, leveling their glasses at the
sea from behind places of shelter.
The tremendous sea itself, with the flying stones
and sand, and the awful noise, confounded me. As
the watery walls came rolling in and tumbled into
surf, they looked as if they would engulf the town.
Moving hills were changed to valleys, moving valleys
were lifted up to hills. Masses of water broke and
shook the beach with a booming sound, and then rolled
back to change their shape and place.
Not finding Ham among the people whom the wind
had brought together, I made my way to his house.
It was shut, and as no one answered my knocking,
I went by by-lanes to the yard where he worked.
I learned there that he had gone to a nearby place to
assist in some urgent ship repairing, but that he would
be back to-morrow morning in good time.
I went back to the inn; and when I had washed and
245


dressed and tried in vain to sleep, it was five o'clock
in the afternoon. I had not sat five minutes by the
coffee-room fire, when the waiter came to stir it, and
told me that two colliers had gone down with all
hands a few miles away; and that some other ship
had been seen laboring hard to keep off shore. "Mercy
on them and on all poor sailors," said he, "if we have
another night like the last."
The waiter's dismal intelligence about the ships
made me uneasy about Ham. I was afraid he might
attempt to return by sea and be lost. The idea grew
so strong with me that I resolved to go back to the
yard before I had my dinner and ask the boat-builder
if he thought it at all likely that Ham would attempt
to return by sea.
I hastily ordered my dinner and went back to the
yard. Iwas none too soon; for the boat-builder,
with a lantern in his hand, was locking the yard gate.
He laughed when I asked him the question, and said
there was nothing to fear. No man in his senses, or
out of them, would put off in such a gale of wind, least
of all Ham Peggoty, who had been born to seafaring.
When I went back to the inn, if such a wind could
rise, I think it was rising. The howl and roar, the
rattling of the doors and windows, the rumbling in the
chimneys, the rocking of the very house that sheltered
me, and the great tumult of the sea were more fearful
246


than in the morning. There was now a great dark-
ness besides; and that filled the storm with many new
terrors.
I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not
continue at anything. Amid all the roar and tumult
of the storm, Ham was always in my thoughts.
My dinner went away almost untasted. At length,
the steady ticking of the undisturbed clock on the
wall tormented me so that I resolved to go to bed.
It was reassuring on such a night to be told that some
of the inn-servants had agreed to sit up until morning.
I went to bed exceedingly weary and drowsy, but on
lying down I was wide-awake again, as if by magic.
For hours I lay there listening to the wind and
water, imagining now and then that I heard shrieks
out at sea. At last I became so restless that I hurried
on my clothes and went downstairs. In the large
kitchen the watchers were clustered together about a
table, which had been moved away from the great
chimney. A pretty girl who had her ears stopped
with her apron, and her eyes upon the door, screamed
when I appeared, supposing me to be a spirit; but the
others were glad of an addition to their company.
I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Once I
opened the yard gate and looked into the empty street.
The sand, the seaweed, and the flakes of foam were
driving by, and I was obliged to call for assistance
247


before I could shut the gate again and make it fast.
There was a dark gloom in my chamber when at
length I returned to it, but I was tired now and,
getting into bed, fell asleep. When I awoke, it was
broad daylight or nine o'clock; and some one was
knocking and calling at my door.
"What is the matter?" I cried.
"A wreck close by!" was the answer.
I sprang out of bed and asked what wreck.
"A schooner from Spain or Portugal," was the
answer. "Make haste, sir, if you want to see her.
Down on the beach it is thought she will go to pieces
any minute."
The excited voice went clamoring along the hallway;
and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as I
could and ran into the street.
Numbers of people were there before me, all running
in one direction, to the beach. I ran the same way,
outstripping a good many, and was soon facing the
wild sea.
The Wreck
A half-dressed boatman standing near me pointed
with his bare arm to the left. Then, for the first time,
I saw the wreck close in shore. One mast was broken
short off, six or eight feet from the deck, and lay over
the side in a maze of sails and rigging; and as the ship
248



251


Ham watched the sea until there was a great return-
ing wave, and then dashed in after it. In a moment
he was buffeting with the water, rising with the hills,
falling with the valleys, lost beneath the foam, then
drawn again to land.
He was hurt. I saw blood on his face from where I
stood; but he took no thought of that. He hurriedly
gave some directions for leaving him more free, and
was gone as before.
And now he made for the wreck, rising with the
hills, falling with the valleys, borne in towards the
shore, borne on towards the ship, striving hard and
valiantly. The distance was nothing, but the power
of the sea and wind made the strife deadly. At length
he neared the wreck. He was so near that with one
more of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it.
Then a great hill of water moved shoreward and the
ship was gone.
I saw some fragments in the sea as if a mere cask
had been broken. Alarm was on every face. They
drew him in to my very feet—insensible—dead. He
was carried to the nearest house and, no one pre-
venting me now, I remained near him. Every means
of restoration was tried; but he had been beaten to
death by the great wave, and his generous heart was
stilled forever.
—Charles Dickens.
252


THE COAST GUARD
Do you ask me what I am seeing
While I watch the embers glow,
And list to the wild wind howling
As it drives the winter snow?
I see, away to the eastward,
The line of a storm-beat coast,
And I hear the tread of the hurrying waves,
Like the tramp of a mailed host.
And up and down in the darkness,
And over the frozen sand,
I hear the men of the coast guard
Pacing along the strand—
Beaten by storm and tempest
And drenched by the pelting rain—
From the shores of Carolina
To the wind-swept bays of Maine.
No matter what storms are raging,
No matter how wild the night,
The gleam of their swinging lanterns
Shines out with a friendly light.

tr 253



254


And many a shipwrecked sailor
Thanks God with his gasping breath
For the sturdy arms of the surfmen
That drew him away from death.
And so, when the wind is wailing
And the air grows dim with sleet,
I think of the fearless watchers
Pacing along their beat.
I think of a wreck, fast breaking
In the surf of a rocky shore,
And the lifeboat leaping onward
To the stroke of the bending oar.
I hear the shouts of the sailors,
The boom of the frozen sail,
And the crack of the icy halyards
Straining against the gale.
"Courage!" the captain trumpets,
"They are sending help from land!"
God bless the men of the coast guard,
And hold their lives in His hand!
—Emily Huntington Miller.
255


THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER
In a far-away part of the world there was, in olden
time, a valley of the most surprising fertility. It was
surrounded on all sides by steep and rocky mountains,
with peaks that were always covered with snow, and
from which a number of torrents descended in con-
stant cataracts. One of these fell to the westward,
over the face of a crag so high that when everything
else was in darkness the sun still shone upon the water-
fall, making it look like a shower of gold. For this
reason the people in the neighborhood called it the
Golden River.
It was strange that none of these streams fell into
the valley itself. They all descended on the other side
of the mountains, and wound their way through
broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds
were drawn so constantly to the snowy hills, and
rested so softly in the circular hollow, that in time
of drought and heat, when all the country around was
parched, there was still rain in the little valley. Its
crops were so heavy, and its grass so tall, and its
apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and its wine so
rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to
everyone who beheld it, and it was commonly called
the Treasure Valley.
The whole of this little valley belonged to three
256


every living thing. He did not, of course, agree very
well with his brothers, or rather they did not agree
with him. He was usually appointed to the office of
turnspit when there was anything to roast, which
was not often. At other times Gluck used to clean
the shoes, the floors and sometimes the plates, with
a wholesale quantity of blows, by way of education.
Things went on in this manner for a long time. At
last there came a very wet summer, and everything
went wrong in the country around. The hay had
hardly been gathered when the haystacks were floated
bodily down to the sea by a flood. The vines were cut
to pieces with hail. The corn was all spoiled with a
blight, but in the Treasure Valley everything prospered.
Everybody came to the Treasure Valley to buy corn,
and went away cursing the Black Brothers, who
asked three times what their corn was worth, and got
it, too, except from the poor people, who had no
money and could only beg. Several of these starved
at the very door of the Black Brothers, without their
taking the least notice of them.
Winter was near at hand, and one very cold day the
two older brothers went out, warning Gluck, as usual,
that he was to let nobody in and give nothing out.
Gluck, who had been left to mind the roast, sat close
to the fire, for it was raining very hard and the kitchen
walls were wet and uncomfortable.
258


He turned and turned the roast till it was nice and
brown. "What a-pity," thought he, "that my
brothers never ask anybody to dinner. I'm sure,
when they have such a nice piece of mutton as this, and
nobody else has so much as a piece of bread, it would
do their hearts good to have somebody eat it with
them."
Just as he spoke, there came a double knock at the
house door, yet heavy and dull as though the knocker
had been tied up.
"It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else
would venture to knock at our door."
No, it wasn't the wind, for the knocking came again
very soon. Gluck opened the window and put his
head out to see who was there.
Gluck's Visitor
It was the most extraordinary looking little gentle-
man he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large
nose, that was the color of brass. His cheeks were
very round and very red as if he had been blowing a
fire for the last eight-and-forty hours. His eyes
twinkled merrily through long silky eyelashes. His
mustaches curled twice around, like a corkscrew, on
each side of his mouth, and his hair descended far
over his shoulders.
He was about four feet six tall, and wore a pointed
259


cap of nearly the same height, decorated with a black
feather about three feet long. He was nearly covered
by the folds of an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak,
which must have been very much too long in calm
weather, as the wind whistling around the old house
carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to
about four times his own length.
Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the singular
appearance of his visitor that he remained there
without uttering a word until the old gentleman
knocked again and turned around to look after his
flyaway cloak. In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's
little yellow head in the window, with eyes and mouth
very wide open indeed.
"Hello!" called the little gentleman, "that's not the
way to answer the door. I'm wet; let me in."
"I beg your pardon, sir," replied Gluck. "I'm
very sorry, but I really can't."
"Can't what?" asked the old gentleman.
"I can't let you in, sir. I can't, indeed!" said Gluck.
"My brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought
of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"
"Want?" said the old gentleman, impatiently.
"I want fire and shelter; and there's your great fire
blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with
nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say, I only want to
warm myself."
260


"I've had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They
surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!"
He spoke in such a sad tone that it quite melted
Gluck's heart. "They promised me one slice to-day,
sir," said he. "I can give you that, but not a bit
more."
"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.
Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharpened a knife.
"I don't care if I am beaten for it," thought he.
Just as he had cut a large slice of the mutton, there
came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentle-
man jumped off the hearth, as if it had suddenly become
too warm for him. Gluck put the slice of mutton into
the dish again and ran to open the door.
"Why did you keep us waiting in the rain?" asked
Hans as he followed his brother into the room and
gave Gluck a box on the ear.
"Bless my soul!" said Swartz, when he opened the
kitchen door.
"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken
his cap off and was standing in the middle of the
kitchen, bowing with the utmost speed.
"Who's that?" asked Swartz, catching up a rolling-
pin and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown.
"I don't know, brother," replied Gluck in great
terror.
"How did he get in?" roared Swartz.
262


"My dear brother,'' said Gluck, "he was so very
wet!"
The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head.
But at that instant the old gentleman put out his
pointed cap, and the rolling-pin no sooner touched it
than it flew. out of Swartz's hand and fell into the
farthest corner of the room.
"Who are you, sir?" demanded Swartz, as he
turned upon the little gentleman.
"I'm a poor old man, sir," said he, "and I saw your
fire through the window and begged shelter for a
quarter of an hour."
"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said
Swartz. "We've quite enough water in our kitchen,
without making it a drying house."
"It is a cold day in which to turn an old man out,
sir," replied the little gentleman.
"Off, and be hanged!" said Hans, seizing him by the
collar.
But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman
than away he went after the rolling-pin, spinning
around and around till he fell in the corner on top of
it. Then Swartz was very angry and ran at him,
when away he went after Hans and the rolling-pin,
and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into
the corner. And so all three lay there.
Then the old gentleman spun himself around and
263


around in the opposite direction. He continued to
spin until his cloak was all wound neatly about him,
He clapped his cap on his head, very much on one
side, for it could not stand upright without hitting
the ceiling, gave an additional twist to his mustaches,
and replied with perfect coolness: "Gentlemen, I
wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock
to-night I'll call again!"
"A very pretty business, Mr. Gluck!" said Swartz.
"Dish the mutton, sir. If ever I catch you at such a
trick again—bless me, why, the mutton's been cut!"
"You promised me one slice, brother, you know,"
replied Gluck.
"Oh!" and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, to
catch all the gravy. It'll be long before I promise
you such a thing again. Leave the room, sir, and have
the kindness to wait in the coal cellar until I call
you."
Gluck left the room instantly. The brothers ate
as much mutton as they could, and locked the rest in
the cupboard, where no one could get it.
Such a night as it was! The wind howled and the
rain poured without intermission. The brothers had
sense enough to put up all the shutters and double bar
the door before they went to bed. They usually slept
in the same room. As the clock struck twelve, they
were both awakened by a tremendous crash. Their
265


table. On it, in large, breezy, long-legged letters was
written:
Souhwest Wind, Esquire
Southwest Wind, Esquire, was as good as his word.
After the visit just related, he entered the Treasure
Valley no more; and, what was worse, he had so much
influence with his relations, the West Winds, that
they all adopted the same line of conduct.
No rain fell in the valley from one year's end to
another. Though everything remained green and
flourishing in the plains below, the field of the Three
Brothers was a desert. What had once been the
richest soil in the kingdom became a shifting heap
of red sand; and the brothers, unable to contend with
adverse skies, left their home to try to gain a living
among the people of the plains. All their money was
gone, and they had nothing left but some curious old-
fashioned pieces of gold plate, the last remnants of
their ill-gotten wealth.
"Suppose we turn goldsmiths?" said Swartz to
Hans, as they entered a large city. "It is a good knave's
trade. We can put a great deal of copper with the
gold without anyone's finding it out."
They agreed that the idea was a good one, so they
hired a furnace and turned goldsmiths. But they
did not prosper, for people did not like the color of their
gold. Whenever they sold anything the two older
267


renders me willing to serve you. Therefore attend to
what I tell you. Whoever shall climb to the top of
that mountain from which you see the Golden River
flow and shall cast into the stream at its source three
drops of holy water, for him the river shall turn to
gold. But no one failing in his first attempt, can
succeed in a second. If anyone shall cast unholy
water into the river, it will overwhelm him, and he
will become a black stone."
So saying, the King of the Golden River turned
away and deliberately walked into the center of the
hottest flame of the furnace.
The King of the Golden River had hardly made his
exit before Hans and Swartz came roaring into the
house. The discovery of the total loss of their last
piece of plate had the effect of sobering them just
enough to enable them to stand over Gluck, beating
him steadily for a quarter of an hour. At the end
of that time they dropped into their chairs and asked
Gluck to tell what he had to say for himself. Gluck
told them the story, but they did not believe a word
of it.
In the morning, however, as Gluck'still held to his
story, they began to believe in it and to wrangle over
the question as to who should first try his fortune.
Finally they drew their swords and began fighting.
The noise alarmed the neighbors, who tried to stop
271


he had never crossed so strange or dangerous a glacier
in his life. The ice was so very slippery, and out of all
its chasms came the sound of gushing water, not soft
and low, but rough and loud, with sounds of wild
melody.
Hans had been compelled to abandon his basket of
food, which became a dangerous burden on the glacier,
and now had no means of refreshing himself but by
breaking off pieces of the ice and eating them. This
relieved his thirst, and an hour's rest gave him new
strength, and he renewed his journey.
His path now led straight up a ridge of bare red
rocks, without a blade of grass to ease the foot, or any
shade from the sun. It was past noon, and the rays
beat intensely upon the steep path, while the whole
atmosphere was motionless with heat. Intense thirst
soon added to the bodily fatigue with which Hans was
afflicted. Glance after glance he cast upon the flask
of water that hung at his belt. "Three drops are
enough," he thought. "I may at least cool my lips
with it."
He opened the flask, and was raising it to his lips
when his eye fell on an object lying on the rock beside
him. It was a small dog, apparently in the last agony
of death from thirst. Its tongue was out, its jaws dry
and its limbs extended lifelessly. Its eye moved to the
bottle which Hans held in his hand. He raised it,
273


drank, spurned the animal with his foot, and passed on.
He did not know how it was, but he thought a strange
deep shadow had suddenly come across the bright blue
sky.
The path became steeper and more rugged every
moment; and the mountain air, instead of refreshing
him, seemed to throw his blood into a fever. The
noise of the cataracts sounded like mockery in his
ears; but they were all distant, and his thirst increased
every moment.
Another hour passed, and he again looked down to
the flask at his side. It was more than half empty,
but there was much more than enough for three drops
in it. He stopped to open it, and again as he did
so he saw a fair child stretched nearly lifeless on the
rock, its eyes closed, its lips parched and burning
with thirst. Hans eyed it deliberately, drank, and
passed on.
The roar of the Golden River rose on Hans' ear.
Soon he stood at the brink of the chasm through
which it ran, and he was unable to go further. Shud-
dering, he drew the flask from his girdle, and hurled
it into the center of the torrent. As he did so, an
icy chill shot through his limbs. He staggered,
shrieked and fell. The waters closed over his cry,
and the moaning of the river rose wildly into the
night, as it gushed over
274


The Black Stone
Poor little Gluck waited very anxiously alone in the
house for Hans' return. Finding he did not come
back, he was terribly frightened and went and told
Swartz in the prison all that happened. Swartz was
very much pleased, and said that Hans must certainly
have been turned into a black stone, and he should
have all the gold to himself.
But Gluck was very sorry and cried all night.
When he got up in the morning there was no bread in
the house nor any money, so Gluck went and hired
himself to another goldsmith, and he worked so hard
and so well and so long every day, that he soon had
money enough to pay his brother's fine, and he went
and gave it all to Swartz who, in this way, got out of
prison. Swartz was quite pleased, and said Gluck
should have some of the gold of the river. But Gluck
only begged him to go and see what had become of
Hans.
When Swartz heard that Hans had stolen the holy
water, he thought to himself that the King of the
Golden River might not be pleased with that, so he
determined to do better. He took more of Gluck's
money and went to a bad priest, who very readily sold
him some of the holy water.
Swartz felt sure that this would be all right. He
275


got up in the morning long before sunrise, took some
bread and wine in a basket, put his holy water in a
flask and started for the mountains. Like his brother,
he was much surprised at the sight of the glacier, and
had great difficulty in crossing it, even after leaving
his basket behind.
As Swartz climbed the steep rocky path, thirst came
upon him, as it had upon his brother. As he lifted his
flask to his lips to drink, he saw the fair child lying
near him on the rocks, and it cried to him and moaned
for water.
"Water, indeed," said Swartz; "I haven't half
enough for myself," and he passed on.
Swartz climbed for another hour, and again his
thirst returned. As he lifted the flask to his lips, he
thought he saw his brother Hans lying exhausted in
the path before him, and, as he gazed, the figure
stretched its arms toward him, and cried for water.
"Ha, ha," laughed Swartz, "are you there? Water,
indeed! Do you suppose I carried it all the way up
here for you?"
As he strode over the figure, he thought he saw a
strange expression of mockery about its lips. When he
had gone a few yards farther, he looked back; but the
figure was not there.
A sudden horror came over Swartz, he knew not
why; but the thirst for gold prevailed over his fear,
276


and he rushed on. When Swartz stood by the brink
of the Golden River, its waves were black, like thunder
clouds, but their foam was like fire; and the roar of
the waters below and the thunder above met as he
cast the flask into the stream. As he did this, the
lightning glared in his eyes and the earth gave way
beneath him, and the waters closed over him. The
moaning of the river rose wildly into the night, as it
gushed over the
Two Black Stones
When Gluck found that Swartz did not come back,
he was very sorry, and did not know what to do.
He had no money and he was obliged to go and hire
himself again to the goldsmith, who worked him very
hard and gave him very little money. After a month
or two Gluck grew tired, and made up his mind to go
and try his fortune with the Golden River.
"The little king looked very kind," thought he.
"I don't think he will turn me into a black stone."
So he went to the priest, who gave him some holy
water as soon as he asked for it. Gluck took some
bread in his basket, and the bottle of water, and set
off very early for the mountains.
If the glacier had caused his brothers a great deal of
fatigue, it was twenty times worse for him, who was
not as strong nor as skilful in mountain climbing. He
277


had several very bad falls. He lost his basket and
bread, and was very much frightened at the strange
sounds under the ice. After he had crossed over he
lay on the grass to rest a long time.
He began to climb the hill just at the hottest part
of the day. When he had climbed for an hour he
became dreadfully thirsty, and was going to drink like
his brothers when he saw an old man coming down the
path above him, looking very feeble and leaning on a
staff.
"My son," said the old man, "I am faint with
thirst; give me some of that water."
Gluck looked at him, and when he saw that he was
pale and weary, he gave him the water, but said,
"Pray, don't drink it all."
But the old man drank a great deal, and gave back
the bottle two-thirds empty. He bade him good-
speed, and Gluck went on merrily. The path became
easier to his feet, a few blades of grass appeared, some
grasshoppers began to sing on the bank, and Gluck
thought he had never heard such merry singing.
He went on for another hour, and the thirst
increased so that he thought he should be forced to
drink. As he raised the flask he saw a little child
panting by the roadside, and it cried out piteously
for water. Gluck struggled with himself, and deter-
mined to bear the thirst a little longer; and he put
278


alarm at this unlooked-for reply to his remarks. "But
why didn't you come before," continued the dwarf,
"instead of sending me those rascally brothers of
yours?"
So saying, the dwarf stooped and plucked a lily
that grew at his feet. On its white leaves there
hung three drops of clear dew. The dwarf shook
them into the flask which Gluck held in his hand.
"Cast these into the river," said he, "and descend
on the other side of the mountains into the Treasure
Valley."
As he spoke, the figure of the dwarf became indis-
tinct. The colors of his robe formed themselves into
a mist of dewy light. He stood for an instant as if he
were wrapped in a bright rainbow. Then the colors
grew faint, the mist rose into the air, and the King
had disappeared.
Gluck climbed to the brink of the Golden River.
Its waves were as clear as crystal and as brilliant as
the sun. When he cast the three drops of dew into the
stream there opened where they fell a small circular
whirlpool, into which the waters descended with a
musical noise.
Gluck stood watching it for some time, very much
disappointed, because the river was not only not turned
into gold, but its waters seemed much diminished in
quantity. Yet he obeyed his friend, the dwarf, and
280



281


descended the other side of the mountain toward the
Treasure Valley.
As he went along, he heard the noise of water
working its way under the ground. When he came
in sight of the Treasure Valley, behold, a river like
the Golden River was springing from a new cleft of
the rocks above it, and was flowing in innumerable
streams among the dry heaps of sand.
And as Gluck gazed, fresh grass sprang beside the
new streams, and creeping plants grew and climbed
along the moistening soil. Young flowers opened
suddenly along the river sides, as stars leap out when
twilight is deepening, and thickets of myrtle and ten*
drils of vine cast lengthening shadows over the valley
as they grew. Thus the Treasure Valley became a
garden again, and the inheritance, which had been
lost by cruelty, was regained by love.
Gluck went and dwelt in the valley, and the poor
were never driven from his door. His barns became
full of corn and his house full of treasure. For him the
river had, according to the promise of the dwarf,
become a river of gold.
And to this day, the inhabitants of the valley point
out the place where the three drops of holy dew were cast
into the stream, and trace the course of the Golden
River underground until it enters the Treasure Valley.
—John Ruskin.
282


Ill
At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
"Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy;
And as for our Corporation—shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin!
**************
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.
IV
An hour they sat in council;
At length the mayor broke silence:
"I wish I were a mile hence!
For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell,
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain—
I'm sure my poor head aches again.
I've scratched it so, and all in vain—
Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!"
Just as he said this what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"
**************
284


"Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"
V
"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red,
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in;
There was no guessing his kith and kin,
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire.
VI
He advanced to the council table:
And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper."
19 285


(Here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the selfsame check,
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe,
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon his pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire bats:
And as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?"
"One? fifty thousand!"—was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
VII
Into the street the piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled;
286


Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered.
You heard as if an army muttered:
And the muttering grew to a grumbling,
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step by step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!
VIII
You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles,
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!"—when suddenly, up the face
288


For having left in the Caliph's kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor,
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe after another fashion."
XI
"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook
Being worse treated than a cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!"
XII
Once more he stepped into the street,
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
Ne'er gave the enraptured air).
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds jostling at pitching and hustling;
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes were clattering;
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
290


And, like fowls in a farm yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
291


And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
XIII
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed to blocks of wood.
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by,
Could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However, he turned from south to west,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
"He never can cross that mighty top,
He's forced to let the piping drop,
When, lo, as they reached the mountain side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed,
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
292


And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain side shut fast.
XIV
Alas, alas! for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says that Heaven's gate
Opes to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in!
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,
And Piper and dancers were gone forever,
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church windows painted
The same, \o make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away,
And there it stands to this very day.
So, Willy, let me and you be wipers
Of scores out with all men—especially pipers!
And whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!
—Robert Browning.
r
293



THE ALHAMBRA
The Alhambra is an ancient fortress or castle-like
palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, where they
held dominion over that territorial paradise, and made
their last stand for empire in Spain. The palace
occupies but a portion of the fortress, the walls of
294


which stretch around the crest of a lofty hill that
overlooks the city and forms a spire of the Sierra
Nevada or Snowy Mountains.
In the time of the Moors, the fortress was capable
of containing an army of forty thousand men, and
served occasionally as a stronghold of the sovereigns
against their rebellious subjects. After the kingdom
had passed into the hands of the Christians, the
Alhambra continued a royal residence, and was occa-
sionally inhabited by the Spanish sovereigns. The
Emperor Charles Fifth began a sumptuous palace
within its walls, but was deterred from completing it
by repeated shocks of earthquakes.
The great entrance to the Alhambra is formed by
an immense Arabian arch in the form of a horseshoe,
which rises to half the height of the tower. On the
keystone of the arch is engraved a gigantic hand.
Within the entrance, on the keystone of the portal,
is engraved, in like manner, a gigantic key. Those
who pretend to understand Mohametan symbols
affirm that the hand and the key are magical devices
on which the fate of the Alhambra depends. The
Moorish king who built it was a great magician, who
had laid the whole fortress under a magic spell. By
this means it had remained standing for several hundred
years, in defiance of storms and earthquakes, when
almost all the other buildings of the Moors had fallen
295


to ruin. The spell, according to tradition, would
last until the hand on the outer arch should reach
down and grasp the key, when the whole pile would
tumble to pieces, and the treasures buried beneath it
by the Moors would be revealed.
Notwithstanding this ominous prediction, we ven-
tured to pass through the spell-bound gateway, and
advanced through an inner portal into the interior of
the Moorish palace.
The change was almost magical. It seemed as if we
were at once transported into other times and another
realm, and were treading the scenes of Arabian story.
We found ourselves in a great court, paved with white
marble. It is called the Court of Alberca. In the
center was an immense basin, or fish-pool, one hundred
and thirty feet in length, by thirty in breadth, stocked
with gold-fish, and bordered with hedges of roses.
From the lower end of this court, we passed through
a Moorish archway into the renowned Court of Lions.
There is no part of the edifice that gives a more com-
plete idea of its original beauty than this; for none
has suffered so little from the ravages of time. In
the center stands the fountain, famous in song and
story. The alabaster basins still shed their diamond
drops, and the twelve lions that support them pour
forth their crystal streams as in the days of Boabdil.
—Washington Irving.
296


bow to the cross, and set off merrily on his
wandering.
The life of a begging student in Spain is not the
most miserable in the world, especially if he has any
talent at making himself agreeable. He rambles as he
likes from village to village and city to city, wherever
curiosity or fancy may lead him. The country curates,
who, for the most part, have been begging students
in their time, give him shelter for the night and .a
hearty meal, and often enrich him with several quartos
or halfpence in the morning.
As he presents himself from door to door in the
streets of the cities he meets with no harsh rebuff, no
chilling discourtesy, for there is no disgrace attending
his begging. Many of the most learned men in Spain
have commenced their careers in this manner. Besides,
if a student is good-looking and a merry companion,
and, above all, if he can play the guitar, he is sure of a
hearty welcome among the peasants, and the smiles
and favors from their wives and daughters.
In this way did our ragged and musical son of learn-
ing make his way over half the kingdom, with the fixed
determination to visit the famous city of Granada
before his return. Sometimes he was gathered for the
night in the fold of some village pastor. Sometimes
he was sheltered under the humble but hospitable roof
of the peasant. Seated at the cottage door with his
298


'He was thus engaged one evening when he beheld
a curate of the church advancing, at whose approach
every one touched his hat. He was evidently a man
of importance; and he certainly was a mirror of good.
As he passed along, he would every now and then
take a piece of money out of his pocket, and bestow it
on a beggar with an air of the greatest good will.
"Ah, blessed father!" would be the cry, "long life
to you, and may you soon be a bishop!"
To aid his steps in ascending the hill, he leaned
gently now and then on the arm of a handmaid.
The good curate looked kindly on the company
about the fountain, and took his seat on a stone bench,
while the handmaid hastened to bring him a glass of
sparkling water. He sipped it deliberately and with
relish, tempering it with one of those spongy pieces of
frosted eggs and sugar so dear to old and young in
Spain.
"Ah, the good pastor!" whispered the student to
himself. "What a happiness it would be to be gathered
into his fold with such a damsel for a companion!"
But no such good luck was likely to befall him. In
vain he tried those powers of pleasing which he had
found so irresistible with country curates and country
lasses. Never had he touched his guitar with such
skill. Never had he poured forth such soul-moving
ditties; but he had no longer a country curate or
300


country lass to deal with. The worthy priest evi-
dently did not relish music, and the modest damsel
never raised her eyes from the ground. They remained
but a short time at the fountain, and hastened to
return to Granada. The damsel gave the student
one shy glance in retiring, and it plucked the heart
out of his bosom.
He inquired about them after they had gone. Padre
Thomas was one of the saints of Granada, a model of
regularity—punctual in his hour of rising, his hours of
eating, and his hour of retiring to rest, to gather fresh
strength for another day's round of duties.
Day and night the student could not get the image
of the damsel out of his mind. He sought the mansion
of the curate. Alas! it was above the class of houses
open to a strolling student like himself. The worthy
priest had no sympathy with him; for he had never
been obliged to sing for his supper. So the student
serenaded the maiden's balcony at night, and at one
time was flattered by the appearance of something
white at a window. Alas, it was only the nightcap
of the curate.
At length the eve of St. John arrived, when the
lower classes of Granada swarm into the country,
dance away the afternoon, and pass midsummer's
night on the banks of the Darro and the Xenil. Happy
are they who, on this eventful night, can wash their
M 301


faces in these waters just as the cathedral bell tolls
midnight. The student having nothing to do, suffered
himself to be carried away by the holiday-seeking
throng, until he found himself in the valley of the
Darro, below the lofty hill and ruddy towers of the
Alhambra. The dry bed of the river, the rocks which
border it, and the terraced gardens which overhang it,
were alive with various groups, dancing under the
vines and fig trees to the sound of the guitar and
castanets.
The Enchanted Soldier
The student stood for some time, leaning against
one of the huge misshapen stone pomegranates that
adorn the ends of the little bridge over the Darro.
He cast a wistful glance upon the merry scene and
sighed at his own solitary state. By degrees his
attention was attracted to a neighbor quite as solitary
as himself. This was a tall soldier, with a stern look
and grizzled beard, who seemed posted as a sentry
at the opposite pomegranate. His face was bronzed
by time; and he was arrayed in an ancient Spanish
armor, with buckler and lance, and stood as immovable
as a statue. What surprised the student was that,
although thus strangely equipped, he was totally
unnoticed by the passing throng, although many
almost brushed against him.
302


A person of this kind was not to be trifled with, and
the student assured him that he might rely upon his
friendship and good will to do everything in his power
for his deliverance.
"I trust to a motive more powerful than friendship,"
said the soldier.
He pointed to a ponderous iron coffer, secured by
locks inscribed with Arabic characters. "That coffer,"
said he, "contains countless treasure in gold and jewels
and precious stones. Break the magic spell by which
I am enchanted, and one-half of this treasure shall be
thine."
"But how am I to do it?" inquired the student.
"The aid of a Christian priest and a Christian maid
is necessary," said the soldier. "The priest is to drive
away the powers of darkness and the maid is to touch
the chest with the seal of Solomon. The priest must
be a model of goodness, and must fast for twenty-four
hours before coming here. Linger not in finding such
aid; for in three days my freedom will be at an end.
If I am not delivered before midnight of the third day,
I shall have to mount guard here for another century."
"Fear not," said the student. "I have in mind
the very priest and damsel you require; but how am
I to gain admission to this tower when I come again?"
"The seal of Solomon will open the way for you,"
returned the soldier.
307


The student hastened from the tower much more
gladly than he had entered. The wall closed behind
him and remained as solid as before.
The next morning he went boldly to the mansion of
the priest, no longer a poor strolling student, but a
messenger from the regions of enchanted treasures.
Nothing is known of the meeting, except that the
zeal of the worthy priest was easily kindled at the
idea of rescuing an old soldier of the faith and the
strong box of the Moors from the clutches of Satan.
As to the handmaid, she was ready to lend her hand,
which was all that was required of her. The greatest
difficulty was the fast, which the good priest had to
observe, and it was not until the third day that he
was enabled to withstand the temptations of the
cupboard.
The Scholar, The Priest and His Handmaid
Visit The Soldier
At a late hour of the night the three groped their
way, bearing a lantern and a basket of provisions for
the priest as soon as the fast should be over. The seal
of Solomon opened their way into the tower; and
they found the soldier seated on the enchanted strong
box, awaiting their arrival.
The damsel advanced and touched the locks of the
coffer with the seal of Solomon. The lid flew open
308


and vast treasures of gold and jewels and precious
stones flashed upon their eyes.
"Here's where I help myself," said the student, as
he proceeded to cram his pockets.
"Softly, there," exclaimed the soldier. "Let us
carry the coffer outside and then divide the treasure.
They accordingly went to work with might and main;
but it was a difficult task. The chest was enormously
heavy, and had not been moved for centuries. While
the others were thus employed, the good curate drew
to one side and made an attack on the basket of
provisions. It was done quietly in a corner; but never
was innocent deed more awful in its consequences.
The soldier gave a cry of despair; and the coffer, which
was half raised, fell back into its place again and
was locked once more. Priest, student and damsel
found themselves outside the tower, the walls of
which closed with a noise as of thunder. And all
because the good priest had broken his fast too soon.
When he had recovered from his surprise, the stu-
dent would have entered the tower again, but learned
to his dismay that the damsel in her fright had let
fall the seal of Solomon, and it was shut up in the
tower. In a little while the cathedral bell tolled mid-
night. The spell was renewed, and the soldier was
doomed to mount guard for another hundred years.
—Washington Irving.
310


about the news of the city, and make long comments
on everything they hear and see. Not an hour of the
day but loitering housewives and idle maidservants
may be seen, lingering, with pitcher on head or in
hand, to hear the last of the endless tattle of these
worthies.
Among the water carriers who once resorted to this
well, there was a sturdy, strong-backed, bandy-
legged little fellow, named Pedro Gil, but called
Peregil for shortness, who had begun business with
merely a great earthen jar which he carried upon his
shoulder. By degrees he rose in the world, and was
enabled to purchase a stout shaggy-haired donkey.
On each side of this long-eared helper, in a kind of
pannier, were slung his water jars, which were covered
with fig leaves to protect them from the sun.
There was not a more industrious water carrier in
all Granada, nor one more merry. The streets rang
with his cheerful voice as he trudged after his donkey,
singing the usual summer call that resounds through
the Spanish towns: "Who wants water—water colder
than snow? Who wants water from the well of the
Alhambra, cold as ice and clear as crystal?"
When he served a customer with a sparkling glass,
it was always with a pleasant word that caused a
smile; and, if, perchance, it was a comely dame or
dimpling damsel, it was always with a compliment
312


to her beauty that was irresistible. Thus Peregil was
noted throughout all Granada for being one of the
civilest, pleasantest, and happiest of mortals. Yet it
is not he who sings loudest and jokes most that has
the lightest heart. Under all this air of merriment,
honest Peregil had his cares and troubles. He had a
large family of ragged children to support, who were
as hungry as a nest of young swallows, and beset him
with their outcries for food whenever he came home
of an evening.
He had a helpmate, too, who was anything but a
help to him. She had been a village beauty before
marriage, noted for her skill in dancing, and she still
loved gaiety and spent the hard earnings of honest
Peregil in foolishness. With all this she was a slattern
and a gossip of the first water; neglecting household
duties and everything else to loiter slipshod in the
houses of her gossiping neighbors.
Peregil bore all the heavy burden of wife and children
with as meek a spirit as his donkey bore the water
jars; and, however he might shake his ears in private,
never ventured to question the household virtues of
his slattern wife.
He loved his children, too, even as an owl loves its
owlets, seeing in them his own image; for they were a
sturdy, bandy-legged little brood. The great pleasure
of honest Peregil was, whenever he could afford himself
313


a scanty holiday and had a handful of pennies ta
spare, to take the whole family forth with him, some
in his arms, some tugging at his skirts and some
trudging at his heels, and to treat them to a gambol
among the orchards of the Vega, while his wife was
dancing with her holiday friends.
It was a late hour one summer night, and most of
the water carriers had ended their toils. The day
had been uncommonly sultry. The night was one of
those delicious moonlights which tempt the inhabitants
of southern climes to refresh themselves after the
heat of the day by lingering in the open air and enjoy-
ing its coolness until after midnight. Customers for
water were therefore still abroad. Peregil, like a
considerate father, thought of his hungry children.
"One more journey to the well," said he to himself,
"to earn a Sunday's dinner for the little ones."
So saying, he trudged manfully up the steep avenue
of the Alhambra, singing as he went, and now and then
bestowing a hearty thwack with a cudgel on the back
of his donkey, either by way of keeping time to the
song or refreshment to the animal; for in Spain dry
blows serve instead of grain for all beasts of burden.
The Moor
When he arrived at the well, he found it deserted
by every one except a solitary stranger in Moorish
314


garb, seated on a stone bench in the moonlight.
Peregil paused at first and regarded him with surprise,
but the Moor feebly beckoned him to approach. "I
am faint and ill," said he; "aid me to return to the
city, and I will pay thee twice what thou couldst gain
by thy jars of water."
The honest heart of the little water carrier was
touched with pity at the appeal of the stranger.
"God forbid," said he, "that I should ask fee or
reward for doing a common act of humanity."
He accordingly helped the Moor on his donkey,
and set off slowly for Granada, the poor Moslem being
so weak that it was necessary to hold him on the
animal to keep him from falling to the earth.
When they entered the city, the water carrier asked
whither he should conduct him. "Alas!" said the
Moor faintly, "I have neither home nor habitation.
I am a stranger in the land. Suffer me to lay my
head this night beneath thy roof and thou shalt be
amply repaid."
Honest Peregil thus saw himself unexpectedly saddled
with an infidel guest, but he was too humane to refuse
a night's shelter to a fellow being in so forlorn a plight;
so he conducted the Moor to his dwelling. The chil-
dren, who had sallied forth open-mouthed as usual
on hearing the tramp of the donkey, ran back in fear
when they beheld the turbaned stranger, and hid
315


enjoy your treasure, whatever it may be." The
Moor shook his head; he laid his hand upon the box,
and would have said something more concerning it,
but his convulsions returned with increasing violence,
and in a little while he expired.
The water carrier's wife was now beside herself.
"This comes," said she, "of your foolish good nature,
always getting into scrapes to oblige others. What
will become of us when this corpse is found in our
house? We shall be sent to prison as murderers; and
if we escape with our lives, shall be ruined by lawyers
and constables."
Poor Peregil was in equal grief and almost repented
himself of having done a good deed. At length a
thought struck him. "It is not yet day," said he.
I can take the dead body out of the city and bury it
in the sands on the banks of the Xenil. No one saw
the Moor enter our dwelling and no one will know
anything of his death."
So said, so done. The wife aided him; they rolled
the body of the unfortunate Moslem in the mat on
which he had expired, laid it across the donkey,
and Peregil set out with it for the banks of the
river.
As ill luck would have it, there lived opposite the
water carrier a barber named Pedrillo Pedrugo, one
of the most prying, tattling, and mischief-making of
a 317


his gossip tribe. He knew all of the affairs of others,
and he had no more power of retention than a sieve.
It was said that he slept with but one eye at a time,
and kept one ear uncovered, so that even in his sleep
he might see and hear all that was going on. Certain
it is, he was a sort of scandal bearer and had more
customers than all the rest of his fraternity.
This meddlesome barber heard Peregil arrive at an
unusual hour of night, and the exclamations of his
wife and children. His head was instantly popped
out of a little window which served him as a lookout,
and he saw his neighbor assist a man in Moorish garb
into his dwelling. This was so strange an occurrence
that Pedrillo Pedrugo slept not a wink that night.
Every five minutes he was at his loophole, watching
the lights that gleamed through the chinks of his
neighbor's door, and before daylight he beheld Peregil
sally forth with his donkey unusually laden.
The inquisitive barber was in a fidget. He slipped
on his clothes, and, silently stealing forth, followed
the water carrier at a distance until he saw him dig a
hole in the sandy bank of the Xenil and bury some-
thing that had the appearance of a dead body.
The barber hurried home and fidgeted about his
shop, setting everything upside down, until sunrise.
Then he took a basin under his arm and sallied forth
to the house of his daily customer, the judge.
318


The Judge
The judge was just risen. Pedrillo Pedrugo seated
him in a chair, threw a napkin around his neck, put a
basin of hot water under his chin, and began to soften
his beard with his fingers.
"Strange doings!" said Pedrugo, who played barber
and newsmonger at the same time—"strange doings!
Robbery, and murder, and burial all in one night!"
"Hey—how!—what is that you say?" cried the
judge.
"I say," replied the barber, rubbing a piece of soap
over the nose and mouth of the judge, for a Spanish
barber does not use a brush—"I say that Peregil, the
water carrier, has robbed and murdered a Moor and
buried him this blessed night. Accursed be the
night for the same!"
"How do you know all this?" demanded the judge.
"Be patient, Senor, and you shall hear all about
it," replied Pedrillo, taking him by the nose and
sliding a razor over his cheek. He then recounted
all that he had seen, going through both operations
at the same time, shaving his beard, washing his chin,
and wiping him dry with a dirty napkin, while he was
robbing, murdering, and burying the Moslem.
Now it so happened that this judge was one of the
most unjust and most grasping individuals in all
319


Granada. It could not be denied, however, that he
set a high value upon justice, for he sold it at its weight
in gold. He presumed the case in point to be one of
murder and robbery. Doubtless there must be rich
spoil, but how was it to be brought into the hands
of the law? As to merely entrapping the offender—
that would be feeding the gallows; but entrapping the
booty—that would be enriching the judge, and such,
according to his creed, was the great end of
justice.
So thinking, he summoned to his presence his trus-
tiest constable and put him upon the traces of the
unlucky water carrier, and such was his speed that he
caught up with poor Peregil before he had returned
to his dwelling, and brought both him and his donkey
before the judge.
The judge bent upon him one of the most terrible
frowns. "Hark ye, culprit!" roared he, in a voice
that made the knees of the little water carrier smite
together—"hark ye, culprit! There is no need of
denying thy guilt, everything is known to me. A
gallows is the proper reward for the crime thou hast
committed, but I am merciful, and readily listen to
reason. The man that has been murdered in thy
house was a Moor, an infidel, the enemy of our faith.
It was doubtless in a fit of religious zeal that thou
hast slain him. I will be indulgent; therefore, render
320


up the property of which thou hast robbed him, and
we will hush the matter up."
The water carrier related the whole story of the
dying Moor with the straightforward simplicity of
truth, but it was all in vain. "Wilt thou persist in
saying," demanded the judge, "that this Moor had
neither gold nor jewels, which were the object of
thy greed?"
"As I hope to be saved, your worship," replied the
water carrier, "he had nothing but a small box of
sandal wood which he gave me in reward for my
services!"
"A box of sandal wood; a box of sandal wood?"
exclaimed the judge, his eyes sparkling at the idea of
precious jewels. "And where is this box? Where
have you concealed it?"
"And please your grace," replied the water carrier,
"it is in one of the panniers of my donkey, and heartily
at the service of your worship."
He hardly had spoken the words, when the keen
constable darted off, and reappeared in an instant with
the mysterious box of sandal wood. The judge opened
it with an eager and trembling hand. All pressed
forward to gaze upon the treasure it was expected to
contain; when to their disappointment, nothing
appeared within but a roll of paper covered with
Arabic characters and an end of a waxen taper.
321


When there is nothing to be gained by the con-
viction of a prisoner, justice, even in Spain, is apt to
be impartial. The judge, having recovered from his
disappointment and found that there was really no
booty in the case, now listened to the explanation of
the water carrier which agreed with the testimony of
his wife. Being convinced, therefore, of his innocence,
he discharged him from arrest; nay, more, he per-
mitted him to carry off the Moor's legacy, the box of
sandal wood and its contents, as the reward of his
humanity; but he retained his donkey in payment of
costs and charges.
Behold the unfortunate little Peregil reduced once
more to the necessity of being his own water carrier,
and trudging up to the well of the Alhambra with a
great earthen jar upon his shoulder.
As he toiled up the hill in the heat of a summer
noon, his usual good humor forsook him. "Dog of a
judge!" would he cry, "to rob a poor man of the best
friend he had in the world!" And then at the remem-
brance of the beloved companion of his labors, all the
kindness of his nature would break forth. "Ah,
donkey of my heart!" would he exclaim, resting his
burden on a stone and wiping the sweat from his
brow—"ah, donkey of my heart! I Warrant me thou
thinkest of thy old master! I warrant me thou missest
the water jars—poor beast."
322


To add to his afflictions, his wife received him on
his return home with fault-finding. She clearly had
the advantage of him, having warned him not to
commit the foolish act of hospitality which had
brought on him all these misfortunes. If her children
lacked food or needed a new garment, she could
answer with a sneer, "Go to your father—he is heir
to king Chico of the Alhambra; ask him to help you
out of the Moor's strong box."
Was ever poor mortal so soundly punished for having
done a good action? The unlucky Peregil was grieved
in flesh and spirit, but still he bore meekly the railings
of his wife. At length, one evening, when, after a hot
day's toil, she taunted him in the usual manner, he
lost all patience. He did not venture to reply to her,
but his eye rested upon the box of sandal wood, which
• lay on a shelf with lid half open, as if laughing at his vexa-
tion. Seizing it up, he dashed it with anger to the floor.
"Unlucky was the day that I ever set eyes on thee," he
cried, "or sheltered thy master beneath my roof!"
As the box struck the floor, the lid flew wide open,
and the roll of paper fell out.
Peregil sat regarding the roll for some time in
silence. At length, collecting his ideas, "Who knows,"
thought he, "but this writing may be of some impor-
tance, as the Moor seems to have guarded it with such
care?"
323


Peregil Visits The Moor
Picking it up, therefore, he put it in his bosom,
and the next morning, as he was crying water through
the streets, he stopped at the shop of a Moor, a native
of Tangier, who sold trinkets and perfumery, and
asked him to read it for him.
The Moor read the paper attentively, then stroked
his beard and smiled. "This writing," said he, "is a
form of incantation for the recovery of hidden treasure
that is under the power of enchantment. It is
said to have such force that the strongest bolts
and bars, nay, the hardest rock itself, will yield
before it!"
"Bah!" cried Peregil, "what is all that to me?
I am no enchanter, and know nothing of buried
treasure." So saying, he shouldered his water jar,
left the paper in the hands of the Moor, and trudged
forward on his daily rounds. v
That evening, however, as he rested himself about
twilight at the well of the Alhambra, he found a
number of gossips assembled at the place, and their
conversation was about old tales and traditions.
Being all as poor as rats, they dwelt with peculiar
fondness upon the popular belief in enchanted riches
left by the Moors in various parts of the Alhambra.
Above all they agreed in the belief that there were
324


watch tower strike midnight. Upon this they lit
the waxen taper, which gave forth an odor of myrrh
and spices.
The Moor began to read in a hurried voice. He had
scarcely finished when there was a noise as of under-
ground thunder. The earth shook, and the floor,
opening, showed a flight of steps. Trembling with
fear, they descended, and by the light of the lantern
found themselves in another vault covered with
Arabic inscriptions. In the center stood a great
chest, bound with seven bands of steel, at each end of
which sat an enchanted Moor in armor, but motionless
as a statue.
The Treasure
Before the chest were several jars filled with gold and
silver and precious stones. In the largest of these
they thrust their arms up to the elbow, and at every
dip hauled forth handfuls of broad yellow pieces of
Moorish gold, or bracelets and ornaments of the same
precious metal, while occasionally a necklace of Ori-
ental pearl would stick to their fingers. Still they
trembled and breathed short while cramming their
pockets with the spoils; and cast many a fearful
glance at the two enchanted Moors, who sat grim and
motionless, glaring upon them.
At length, struck with sudden panic at some fancied
327



328


and slept as soundly as if on a bed of down. Not so
his wife; she emptied the whole contents of his pockets
upon the mat, and sat counting gold pieces of Arabic
coin, trying on necklaces and earrings, and fancying
the figure she should one day make when permitted
to enjoy her riches.
On the following morning the honest water carrier
took a broad golden coin and repaired with it to a
jeweler's shop to offer it for sale, pretending to have
found it among the ruins of the Alhambra. The
jeweler saw that it had an Arabic inscription, and
was of the purest gold. He offered, however, but a
third of its value, with which the water carrier was
perfectly content. Peregil now bought new clothes
for his little flock, and all kinds of toys, together with
ample provisions for a hearty meal, and returning to
his dwelling, set all his children dancing around him,
while he capered in the midst, the happiest of
fathers.
The wife of the water carrier kept her promise of
secrecy with surprising strictness. For a whole day
and a half she went about with a look of mystery and
a heart swelling almost to bursting, yet she held her
peace, though surrounded by gossips. It is true, she
could not help giving herself a few airs, apologized for
her ragged dress, and talked of ordering a new gown
all trimmed with gold lace and spangles. She threw
332


out hints of her husband's intention of leaving off his
trade of water carrying, as it did not altogether agree
with his health. In fact, she thought they should all
retire to the country for the summer so that the children
might have the benefit of the cool mountain air.
The neighbors stared at each other and thought the
poor woman had lost her wits; and her boastings
were the cause of scoffing and merriment among her
friends the moment her back was turned.
If she restrained herself abroad, however, she
made up for it at home, and putting a string of rich
pearls around her neck, bracelets on her arms, and
diamonds on her head, sailed about the room in her
slattern rags, now and then stopping to admire herself
in a broken mirror. In her vanity, she could not
resist showing herself at the window to enjoy the
effect of her finery on the passers-by.
As the fates would have it, Pedrillo Pedrugo, the
meddlesome barber, was at this moment sitting idly
in his shop on the opposite side of the street, when
his ever-watchful eye caught the sparkle of a diamond.
In an instant he was at his loophole eyeing the slattern
wife of the water carrier, decorated with the splendor
of an eastern bride. No sooner had he taken an
accurate inventory of her ornaments than he posted
off with all speed to the judge. In a little while the
hungry constable was again on the scent; and before
« 333


"Softly, good judge," said the Moor, who by this
time had recovered his usual shrewdness and self-
possession. "Let us not mar fortune's favors in the
scramble for them. Nobody knows anything of this
matter but ourselves; let us keep the secret. There is
wealth enough in the cave to enrich us all. Promise
a fair division, and all shall be produced; refuse, and
the cave shall remain forever closed."
The judge consulted aside with the constable. The
latter was an old fox in the profession. "Promise
anything," said he, "until you get possession of the
treasure. You may then seize upon the whole, and if
he and his accomplice dare to murmur, threaten
them with the fagot and the stake as infidels and
sorcerers."
The judge relished the advice. Smoothing his brow
and turning to the Moor. "This is a strange story,"
said he, "and may be true, but I must have proof of
it. This very night you must repeat the incantation
in my presence. If there be really such treasure, we
will share it among us and say nothing further of the
matter. If ye have deceived me, expect no mercy at
my hands. In the meantime you must remain under
guard."
The Moor and the water carrier cheerfully agreed
to these conditions, satisfied that the event would
prove the truth of their words.
335


"Here is as much treasure as we can carry off without
being seen, and enough to make us all as wealthy as
we could wish."
"Is there more treasure remaining behind?"
demanded the judge.
"The greatest prize of all," said the Moor, "a huge
coffer bound with bands of steel and filled with pearls
and precious stones."
"Let us have up the coffer by all means," cried the
grasping judge.
"I will descend for no more," said the Moor stub-
bornly; "enough is enough for a reasonable man."
"And I," said the water carrier, "will bring up no
further burden to break the back of my poor donkey."
Finding commands and threats equally vain, the
judge turned to his two followers. "Aid me," said
he, "in bringing up the coffer, and its contents shall
be divided among us." So saying, he descended the
steps, followed by the trembling constable and the
barber.
No sooner did the Moor behold them fairly within
than he extinguished the yellow taper. The pavement
closed with its usual crash, and the three worthies
remained buried beneath it.
He then hastened up the steps, nor stopped until in
the open air. The little water carrier followed him as
fast as his short legs would permit.
337


"What hast thou done?" cried Peregil, as soon as
he could recover breath. "The judge and the other
two are shut up in the vault."
"It is the will of Allah!" said the Moor devoutly.

"And will you not release them?" demanded the
water carrier.
"Allah forbid!" replied the Moor, smoothing his
beard. "It is written in the book of fate that they
338


shall remain enchanted until some future adventurer
arrive to break the charm. The will of Allah be done!"
So saying, he hurled the end of the waxen taper far
among the gloomy thickets of the glen.
There was now no remedy; so the Moor and the
water carrier proceeded with the richly laden donkey
toward the city, nor could honest Peregil refrain from
hugging and kissing his long-eared fellow laborer, thus
restored to him from the clutches of the law. In fact,
it is doubtful which gave the simple-hearted little
man more joy at the moment, the gaining of the
treasure or the recovery of the donkey.
The two partners in good luck divided their spoil
fairly, except that the Moor, who had a little taste
for trinketry, got into his heap the most of the pearls
and precious stones, but he always gave the water
carrier instead magnificent jewels of massy gold, of
five times the size, with which the latter was heartily
content.
They took care not to linger within reach of acci-
dents, but made off to enjoy their wealth undisturbed
in other countries. The Moor returned to Africa,
to his native city of Tangier, and the water carrier,
with his wife, his children, and his donkey, made the
best of his way to Portugal. Here, under the guidance
and tuition of his wife, he became a person of some
consequence. She made the worthy little man array
339


his long body and short legs in doublet and hose, with
a feather in his hat and a sword by his side, and laying
aside his familiar name of Peregil, called himself Don
Pedro Gil. His children grew up thriving and merry-
hearted, though short and bandy-legged, while Senora
Gil, befringed, belaced, and betasselled from her
head to her heels, with glittering rings on every finger,
became a model of slattern fashion and finery.
As to the judge and his associates, they remained
shut up under the great tower of the seven floors, and
there they remain spellbound at the present day.
Whenever there shall be a lack of meddling barbers,
dishonest constables, and corrupt judges, they may be
sought after; but if they have to wait until such time
for their deliverance, there is danger of their enchant-
ment enduring until doomsday.
—Washington Irving.
340


approached (a-prochf): came
toward.
aqueduct (ak'we-dtikt): a pipe or
channel for carrying water.
Arabian (Sr-a'bl-an): belonging to
Arabia.
archbishop (arch-blsh'up): nhief
bishop.
ardent (ar'dSnt): fiery.
arrogant (ar'ro-gant): haughty.
Arthur (ar'thur).
asparagus (as-par'a-gtis).
assemblage (as-sSm'blag): assembly.
astonishing: wonderful.
attire (at-tlr'): dress.
Avellanos (a-v6l-yii'nos).
Azores (a-zorz'): islands.
azure (az'ur): sky-blue.
Baba Mustapha (ba-ba' mus-ta'fa).
Bagdad (bag'dad): a city of Arabia.
Bahama (ba-ha'ma).
bandy-legged (ban'dl leg-6d):
crooked-legged.
Bartholomew (bar-th6l'6-mu).
Bacis (ba'cls).
bairn (barn): a child.
balm of Gilead.
bar: a court.
barometer (ba-r8m'6-ter): an instru-
ment that tells the weight of the
atmosphere.
barons (bar'unz): lords.
beetle (betl): a large bug.
benighted (be-nlt'ed): overtaken by
darkness.
bequeath (be-kweth'): to give by will.
bewilderment (be-wll'der-ment): con-
fusion.
bicker (blk'er): to flow noisily.
blackguards (blag'ards): rough
persons.
Boabdil (bo'ab-dll): the last Moorish
king in Granada.
bountiful (boun'tl-ful): plentiful.
bouts: contests.
buccaneers (buk'ka-ners): pirates.
Candlemas (kandl'mfis): February
second.
Canterbury (kan'ter-bury).
chariot (char'I-8t): a two-wheeled car-
riage used in war.
coat of arms: family sign or emblem.
cobbler: a shoemaker.
coinage (koin'aj): making of coins.
Colombo (ko-16m'bo).
comely (kum'II): pleasing.
commemorate (k6-mSm'6-rat): to
call to mind.
commerce (k8'mers): trade by sea.
committed (k6-mlt'Sd): sent.
commodity (k6-m8d'I-tI): some-
thing bought or sold.
complicated (k&m'pll-kat-ecl): hav-
ing many parts.
comply (k8m-pll'): agree.
composure (k6m-pos'ur): calmness.
comrades (k6m'r&dz): companions.
congregating (k5n'gre-gat-ing): com-
ing together in a group.
conquer (k8nTccr): to defeat.
consoled (k8n-sold'): comforted.
constable (kun'stabl): an officer with
power to arrest.
Constantinople (k6n-stan'tl-no'pl):
the capital of Turkey.
consternation (k5n*ster-na'shun):
terror.
convulsions (k8n-vul'shuns): violent
shakings.
Cordova (kor-do'va).
Cornwall (k6rn'wal).
Corporation (kor-po-ra'shun): council.
corps (k6r): company.
corse (kors): corpse.
credit (kr6d'It): belief.
cresses (kres'8s): water-cresses.
342


'generations (geh-er-a'shuns): periods
equal to the life of a man.
Genoa (jSn'6-a): a city of Italy.
George the Third: King of England
during the American Revolution.
Gessler (gSs'ler).
gigantic (jl-gan'tlk): of great size.
glow-worm: a worm that shines in
the dark.
Gluck (gldok),
gnat (nat): fly.
godfather: A man other than a
child's father who takes charge
of a child at baptism.
gory: bloody.
gossamer (g8s'sa-mer): a cobweb.
gossiping (g&s'slp-ing): tattling.
Granada (gra-na'da).
gratitude (grat'I-tud): thankfulness.
grayling (gray'ling): a small fish
resembling trout.
Great Britain (grat brlt'an).
guidance (gld'ans): direction.
guilders (glld'erz): Dutch coins
worth about forty cents.
Guthrum (guth'rum).
Half moon: Henry Hudson's ship.
halyards (hal'yerds): ropes passing
through pulleys on the masts by
which the sails are hoisted.
Hamelin: (ham'lln).
hampers: large baskets.
Hans (hans).
hansel (han'sel): pay.
harangued (ha-rangd'): scolded.
Haroun-al-Raschid (ha-roon'al-
r&sh-Id).
Hastings (hast'ings).
hawthorn (ha'th6rn).
Hawthorne (ha'th6rn).
hayricks: haystacks.
Hecate (heVa-te).
helpmate: wife.
henpecked: scolded.
Hercules (her'ku-les).
hern (hern): a water-fowl.
historian (hls-to'rl-an): one who
writes history.
Horace (h6r'es): a Latin poet.
hospitable (hos'pl-ta-bl).
hover (huv'er): home.
hovered: remained near.
humane (hu-man'): kind.
humanity (hu-man'1-tl): kindness to
a human being.
humor (hu'mer): feeling.
hysterics (hls-tSr'Iks): a disease of
the nerves.
identify (I-deh'tl-fl): to recognize.
Igraine (Ig'ran).
imposing (Im-pos'ing): having a fine
appearance.
impression Otm-pres'un): effect.
incantation (In-kan-ta'shfln): form of
enchanting.
inclination (In-kll-na'shun): willing-
ness.
infidel (m'fl-d6l): unbeliever.
infuriated (In-fu'-rl-at-ed): enraged.
inscription (In-skrlp'shiin): directions.
intention (In-tSn'-shtin): turning
toward.
internal (Kn-tSr'nal): within.
Isabella (fe-a-bel'la).
irresistible (Ir-e-zlstl-bl): overpow-
ering.
jerkins (jerTcIns): vests.
Joan of Arc (jon of ark).
Joaquin Miller (waTdn mingr).
jostling (j8st'ling): pushing.
Killerton (kll'gr-tun).
kin (kin): relations.
kith (kith): those of the same family
or country.
kneading (ned'ing): mixing with the
hands.
344


restored (re-stord): given back,
restraining (re-stran'ing): holding
back.
retention (re-tSn'sh£n): holding,
revenge (re-v6ng'): to injure in re-
turn for injury.
Rheims (rems).
ribald (rlb'ald): a vile person.
Rose Algier (ros al-ger').
Rouen (roo-an').
routed (rout'ed): thrown into con-
fusion.
sages (sags): wise men.
Saint Catharine (sant kath'a-rln).
Saint Honore (sant hfin-or').
Salamanca (sal'a-man-ka).
salver (sSI'ver): serving table.
sandalwood (san'dal-wood): a sweet-
smelling wood.
Santa Fe (sftn'ta fa').
Santa Maria de Rabida (s&n-ta'
mar-I'a de ra-bl-da).
scanty (skan'tl): hardly enough.
scenes (sens): things that can be
seen.
scoffing (skftf'ing): belittling.
scores (skors): accounts.
scorpions (sk6r'pl-uns): a kind of
insect that stings,
scoured (skourd): searched,
scriptural (skrlp'ttir-al): belonging to
the Bible,
sea-faring (se'far-ing): living on the
sea.
seal (sel): a design in wax or metal,
sea-nymphs (se'nlmfs): fairies that
live in the sea.
season (se'zun): one of the four parts
of the year.
self-important: conceited,
sesame (ses'a-me): a kind of grain.
Seville (se-vll').
sharps: loud sounds.
shift: look out.
shorthand: stenography.
shouldered (shol'derd): put on his
shoulder.
shrews (shrus): scolds.
shrub: a tree-like plant.
Sierra Nevada (sl-er'ra ne-va'da).
singular (sing'Q-ler): strange.
singularity (smg-u-lar'l-ty): strange-
ness.
skulking (skulk'ing): walking in fear.
slattern (slat'ern): carelessly dressed,
solitudes (soTl-tuds): lonely places.
Solomon (s6T5-m6n): a king of
Israel.
Somersetshire (sttm'er-sSt-sher).
sorcerers (s&r'cer-6rs): magicians,
sovereigns (stiv'er-ms): kings,
spangles (spang'ls): dangling orna~
ments.
specie (spe'shl): paper money,
sprats (sprats): fish,
squabbles (skw8b'ls): quarrels,
stenographer (stS-n8g'ra-fer): a
writer of shorthand,
stickler (stickler): one who holds out.
stiver (stl'ver): a small coin.
St. Michael (st. mik'Sl).
Stuyvesant (stl'ves-ant).
sufficient (sti-fIsh-ent): enough.
Susannah (su-san'a).
subsided (sub-sId'Sd): grew less,
sumptuous (sump'tu-us): grand,
suspended (sus-pSnd'ed): stopped
for a time,
suspicion (stis-plsh'&n): distrust,
swarthy (swar;h-y): having dark
complexion.
Swartz (swartz).
Switzerland (swlt'zer-land).
symbols (slm'b6ls): signs,
sympathy (slm'pa-thy): feeling for
another.
347


"■"■^aliii-'


27-
<#S Ml


restored (re-stord): given back,
restraining (re-stran'ing): holding
back.
retention (r6-tSn'shfin): holding,
revenge (re-v6ng'): to injure in re-
turn for injury.
Rheims (rems).
ribald (rlb'ald): a vile person.
Rose Algier (ros al-ger').
Rouen (roo-an')-
routed (rout'ed): thrown into con-
fusion.
sages (sags): wise men.
Saint Catharine (sant kath'a-rln).
Saint Honore (sant h5n-or').
Salamanca (sal'a-man-ka).
salver (sal'ver): serving table.
sandalwood (san'dal-wood): a sweet-
smelling wood.
Santa Fe (san'ta fa').
Santa Maria de Rabida (san-ta'
mar-I'a de ra-bl-da).
scanty (skan'tl): hardly enough.
scenes (sens): things that can be
seen.
scoffing (sk6f'ing): belittling.
scores (skors): accounts.
scorpions (sk6r'pl-uns): a kind of
insect that stings,
scoured (skourd): searched,
scriptural (skrlp'ttir-al): belonging to
the Bible,
sea-faring (se'far-ing): living on the
sea.
seal (sel): a design in wax or metal,
sea-nymphs (se'nlmfs): fairies that
live in the sea.
season (se'zftn): one of the four parts
of the year.
self-important: conceited,
sesame (ses'a-me): a kind of grain.
Seville (se-vll').
sharps: loud sounds.
shift: look out.
shorthand: stenography.
shouldered (sheTderd): put on his
shoulder.
shrews (shrus): scolds.
shrub: a tree-like plant.
Sierra Nevada (sl-er'ra ne-va'da).
singular (sing'ti-ler): strange.
singularity (slng-u-lar'l-ty): strange-
ness.
skulking (sktilk'ing): walking in fear.
slattern (slat'ern): carelessly dressed,
solitudes (s6l'l-tuds): lonely places.
Solomon (s8l'o-m6n): a king of
Israel.
Somersetshire (sttm'er-s6t-sher).
sorcerers (sdr'cer-Crs): magicians,
sovereigns (suv'Sr-ms): kings,
spangles (spang'ls): dangling orna-
ments.
specie (spe'shl): paper money,
sprats (sprats): fish,
squabbles (skwob'ls): quarrels,
stenographer (st6-n8g'ra-fer): a
writer of shorthand,
stickler (stlck'ler): one who holds out.
stiver (stl'ver): a small coin.
St. Michael (st. mlk'el).
Stuyvesant (stl'ves-ant).
sufficient (sti-fIsh-6nt): enough.
Susannah (su-san'a).
subsided (stib-sld'ed): grew less,
sumptuous (sump'tu-iSs): grand,
suspended (sus-p5nd'ed): stopped
for a time,
suspicion (sfis-plsh'un): distrust,
swarthy (swarsh-y): having dark
complexion.
Swartz (swartz).
Switzerland (swlt'zer-land).
symbols (slm'bOls): signs,
sympathy (slm'pa-thy): feeling for
another.
v
347