Fourth Reader
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ROBINSON CRUSOE
When I waked, it was broad day. The weather was clear, and the storm had abated, so that the sea did not rage and swell as before; but what surprised me most was, that by the swelling of the tide the ship was lifted off in the night from the sand where she lay, and was driven up almost as far as the rock where I had been so bruised by the waves dashing me against it. I saw that I could easily swim to the vessel, and accordingly I pulled off my clothes and took to the water. But when I reached the ship, my difficulty was still greater to know how to get on board; for, as she lay aground, and high out of the water, there was nothing within my reach by which to climb on board. I swam round her twice, and the second time I spied a small piece of rope, by the help of which I got into the forecastle of the ship.
When I had climbed on board, I found that the ship was bulged, and that she had a great deal of water in her hold, but that she lay on the side of a bank of hard earth, in such a way that her stern was lifted up on the bank, while her bow was low, almost to the water. By this means all her quarter was free, and all that was in that part was dry; for you may be sure my first work was to find out what was spoiled and what was not. And, first, I found that all the ship’s provisions were dry and untouched by the water; and, being very well disposed to eat, I went to the bread-room, and filling my pockets with biscuits, ate them.
I now needed nothing but a boat, to furnish myself with many things which I foresaw would be very necessary to me. It was in vain, however, to sit still and wish for what was not to be had, and this extremity roused my application. We had several spare yards, and two or three large spars of wood, and a spare topmast or two in the ship. I resolved to fall to work with these, and so flung as many of them overboard as I could manage, tying each one with a rope, that they might not float away. When I had done this, I went down the ship’s side, and, pulling them to me, tied four of them together at both ends, as well as I could, in the form of a raft. By laying two or three short pieces of plank upon them, crossways, I found I could walk upon them very well, but that they were not able to bear any great weight, the pieces being too light. So I went to work, and with a carpenter’s saw cut a spare topmast into three lengths, and added these to my raft, with a great deal of labor and pains. But the hope of furnishing myself with necessaries encouraged me to go beyond what I should have been able to do upon another occasion.
My raft was now strong enough to bear any reasonable weight. My next care was what to load it with, and how to preserve what I laid upon it from the surf of the sea. However, I was not long considering this. I first laid all the plank, or boards, upon it that I could get, and, having considered well what I most needed, I first got three of the seamen’s chests, which I had broken open and emptied, and lowered them down upon my raft. The first of these I filled with provisions; namely, bread, rice, three cheeses, five pieces of dried goat’s flesh and a little remainder of grain which had been laid by for some fowls which we brought to sea with us, but which had been killed. There had been some barley and wheat together; but, to my great disappointment, I found afterwards that the rats had eaten or spoiled it all.
While I was doing this, I found that the tide had begun to flow, though it was very calm, and I had the mortification to see my coat, shirt, and waistcoat, which I had left on the shore, upon the sands, swim away. As for my trousers, which were only linen, and open-kneed, I had swam on board in them and my stockings. However, this set me on rummaging for clothes, of which I found enough, but took no more than I needed for present use, for I had other things which my eye was more upon; as, first, tools to work with on shore. And it was after long searching that I found out the carpenter’s chest, which was, indeed, a very useful prize to me, and much more valuable than a ship-load of gold would have been at that time. I got it down to my raft, whole as it was, without losing time to look into it, for I knew in general what it contained.
My next care was for some ammunition and arms. There were two very good fowling-pieces in the great cabin, and two pistols. These I secured first, with some powder-horns and a small bag of shot, and two old rusty swords. I knew there were three barrels of powder in the ship, but knew not where our gunner had stowed them; but with much search I found them. Two of them were dry and good, the third had taken water. These two I got to my raft, with the arms. And now, I thought myself pretty well freighted, and began to think how I should get to shore with them, having neither sail, oar, nor rudder; and the least capful of wind would have overset all my navigation.
I had three encouragements: first, a smooth, calm sea; secondly, the fact that the tide was rising and setting in to the shore; thirdly, what little wind there was blew me towards the land. And thus, having found two or three broken oars belonging to the boat, and, besides the tools which were in the chest, two saws, an axe, and a hammer, with this cargo I put to sea. For a mile or thereabouts my raft went very well, only that I found it drive a little distant from the place where I had landed before. By this I perceived that there was some indraft of the water, and consequently hoped to find some creek or river there, which I might use as a port to get to land with my cargo.
At length I spied a little cove on the right shore of the creek, to which, with great pain and difficulty, I guided my raft, and at last got so near, that, reaching ground with my oar, I could thrust her directly in. But here I almost dropped all my cargo into the sea again; for the shore lay pretty steep and sloping, and, wherever I might land, one end of my float, if it ran on shore, would lie so high, and the other be sunk so low, that it would endanger my cargo again. All that I could do was to wait till the tide was at the highest, keeping the raft with my oar like an anchor, to hold the side of it fast to the shore, near a flat piece of ground, which I expected the water would flow over. And so it did. As soon as I found water enough, for my raft drew about a foot of water, I thrust her up on that flat piece of ground, and there moored her by sticking my two broken oars into the ground – one on one side, near one end, and one on the other side, near the other end. Thus I lay till the water ebbed away, and left my raft and all my cargo safe on shore.
I now began to consider that I might yet get a great many things out of the ship, which would be useful to me, and particularly some of the rigging and sails, and such other things as might come to land; and I resolved to make another voyage on board the vessel, if possible. I got on board the ship as before and prepared a second raft; and, having had experience of the first, I neither made this so unwieldy, nor loaded it so hard. Still, I brought away many things very useful to me; as, first, in the carpenter’s stores, I found two or three bags full of nails and spikes, a great screw-jack, a dozen or two of hatchets, and, above all, that most useful thing, a grindstone. All these I secured, together with several things belonging to the gunner, particularly two or three iron crowbars, and two barrels of musket bullets, seven muskets, and another fowling-piece, with a small quantity of powder, a large bagful of small shot, and a great roll of sheet-lead; but this last was so heavy I could not hoist it up to get it over the ship’s side. Besides these things, I took all the men’s clothes that I could find, and a spare foretop-sail, a hammock, and some bedding; and with these I loaded my second raft, and brought them all safe on shore, to my very great comfort.
On the thirteenth day I was preparing for my twelfth trip, when I found the sky overcast. The wind began to rise, and in a quarter of an hour it blew a gale from the shore. It blew very hard all that night, and in the morning, when I looked out, behold, no ship was to be seen! I was a little surprised, but recovered myself with this satisfactory reflection, that I had lost no time, nor omitted any diligence, to get everything out of her that could be useful to me; and, indeed, there was little left in her that I was able to bring away, even if I had had more time. – Daniel Defoe.
THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shayThat was built in such a logical way?It ran a hundred years to a day,And then of a sudden it – ah, but stay,I’ll tell you what happened without delay,Scaring the parson into fits,Frightening people out of their wits —Have you ever heard of that, I say?Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.Georgius Secundus was then alive —Snuffy old drone from the German hive.That was the year when Lisbon townSaw the earth open and gulp her down,And Braddock’s army was done so brown,Left without a scalp to its crown.It was on the terrible Earthquake-dayThat the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.Now, in building of chaises, I’ll tell you what,There is always somewhere a weakest spot —In hub, tire, felloe, in spring, or thill,In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace – lurking still,Find it somewhere you must and will —Above or below, or within or without —And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,A chaise breaks down but doesn’t wear out.So the Deacon inquired of the village folkWhere he could find the strongest oak,That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke:That was for spokes and floor and sills;He sent for lancewood to make the thills;The crossbars were ash from the straightest trees;The panels of white-wood that cuts like cheeseBut lasts like iron for things like these;The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,”Last of its timber – they couldn’t sell ’em;Never an axe had seen their chips,And the wedges flew from between their lips,Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,Steel of the finest, bright and blue;Thoroughbrace bison-skin thick and wide;Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hideFound in the pit when the tanner died.That was the way he “put her through.” —“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew.”Do! I tell you, I rather guessShe was a wonder, and nothing less!Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,Deacon and Deaconess dropped away,Children and grandchildren – where were they?But there stood the stout old one-hoss shayAs fresh as on Lisbon Earthquake-day!Eighteen hundred: it came and foundThe Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound.Eighteen hundred increased by ten —“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.Eighteen hundred and twenty came —Running as usual; much the same.Thirty and forty at last arrive,And then come fifty and fifty-five.Little of all we value hereWakes on the morn of its hundredth yearWithout both feeling and looking queer.In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,So far as I know, but a tree and truth.(This is a moral that runs at large;Take it. – You’re welcome. – No extra charge.)First of November – the Earthquake-day:There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay;A general flavor of mild decay,But nothing local, as one may say.There couldn’t be, for the Deacon’s artHad made it so like in every partThat there wasn’t a chance for one to start.For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,And the floor was just as strong as the sills,And the panels just as strong as the floor,And the whippletree neither less nor more,And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,And spring and axle and hub encore.And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubtIn another hour it will be worn out!First of November, ’Fifty-five!This morning the parson takes a drive.Now, small boys, get out of the way!Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.“Huddup!” said the parson. – Off went they.The parson was working his Sunday text —Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexedAt what the – Moses – was coming next.All at once the horse stood stillClose by the meet’n’-house on the hill.– First a shiver, and then a thrill,Then something decidedly like a spill,And the parson was sitting upon a rockAt half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock —Just the hour of the Earthquake-shock!– What do you think the parson found,When he got up and stared around?The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,As if it had been to the mill and ground!You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,How it went to pieces all at once —All at once, and nothing first —Just as bubbles do when they burst.End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.Logic is logic. That’s all I say.– Oliver Wendell Holmes.Have more than thou showest,Speak less than thou knowest,Lend less than thou owest.WILLIAM TELL AND HIS SON
The sun already shone brightly as William Tell entered the town of Altorf, and he advanced at once to the public place, where the first object that caught his eyes was a handsome cap embroidered with gold stuck upon the end of a long pole. Soldiers were walking around it in silence, and the people of Altorf as they passed bowed their heads to the symbol of authority. The cap had been set up by Gessler, the Austrian commander, for the purpose of discovering those who were not submissive to the Austrian power, which had ruled the people of the Swiss Cantons for a long time with great severity. He suspected that the people were about to break into rebellion, and with a view to learn who were the most discontented, he had placed the ducal cap of Austria on this pole, publicly proclaiming that every one passing near, or within sight of it, should bow before it in proof of his homage to the duke.
Tell was much surprised at this new and strange attempt to humble the people, and leaning on his crossbow, gazed scornfully on them and the soldiers. The captain of the guard at length observed this man, who alone amidst the cringing crowd carried his head erect. He ordered him to be seized and disarmed by the soldiers and then conducted him to Gessler, who put some questions to him. These he answered so haughtily that Gessler was both surprised and angry. Suddenly he was struck by the likeness between him and the boy Walter Tell, whom he had seized and put in prison the previous day for uttering some seditious words. He immediately asked his name, which he no sooner heard than he knew him to be the archer so famous as the best marksman in the Canton.
Gessler at once resolved to punish both father and son at the same time, by a method which was perhaps the most refined act of torture that man ever imagined. As soon, then, as the youth was brought out, the governor turned to Tell and said: “I have often heard of your great skill as an archer and I now intend to put it to the proof. Your son shall be placed at a distance of a hundred yards with an apple on his head. If you strike the apple with your arrow, I shall pardon you both, but if you refuse this trial, your son shall die before your eyes.”
Tell implored Gessler to spare him so cruel a trial, in which he might perhaps kill his beloved boy with his own hand. The governor would not alter his purpose, so Tell at last agreed to shoot at the apple as the only chance of saving his son’s life. Walter stood with his back to a linden tree. Gessler, some distance behind, watched every motion. His crossbow and one arrow were handed to Tell; he tried the point, broke the weapon, and demanded his quiver. It was brought to him, and emptied at his feet. He stooped down and, taking a long time to choose an arrow, managed to hide a second in his girdle.
After being in doubt for some time, his whole soul beaming in his face, his love for his son rendering him almost powerless, he at length roused himself – drew the bow – aimed – shot – and the apple, struck to the core, was carried away by the arrow.
The market-place was filled with loud cheers. Walter flew to embrace his father, who, overcome by his emotions, fell fainting to the ground, thus exposing the second arrow to view. Gessler stood over him awaiting his recovery, which speedily taking place, Tell rose and turned away with horror from the governor, who, however, scarcely yet believing his senses, thus addressed him: “Incomparable archer, I shall keep my promise; but what needed you with that second arrow which I see in your girdle?” Tell replied that it was the custom of the bowmen of Uri to have always one arrow in reserve. “Nay, nay,” said Gessler, “tell me your real motive, and, whatever it may have been, speak frankly, and your life is spared.” “The second shaft,” replied Tell, “was to pierce your heart, tyrant, if I had chanced to harm my son.”
– Chambers’ Tracts.SAINT CHRISTOPHER
For many a year Saint ChristopherServed God in many a land;And master painters drew his face,With loving heart and hand,On altar fronts and churches’ walls;And peasants used to say, —To look on good Saint ChristopherBrought luck for all the day.For many a year, in lowly hut,The giant dwelt contentUpon the bank, and back and forthAcross the stream he went;And on his giant shoulders boreAll travellers who came,By night, by day, or rich or poor,All in King Jesus’ name.But much he doubted if the KingHis work would note or know,And often with a weary heartHe waded to and fro.One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay,He sudden heard a call, —“O Christopher, come, carry me!”He sprang, looked out, but allWas dark and silent on the shore.“It must be that I dreamed,”He said, and laid him down again;But instantly there seemedAgain the feeble, distant cry, —“Oh, come and carry me!”Again he sprang and looked; againNo living thing could see.The third time came the plaintive voice,Like infant’s, soft and weak;With lantern strode the giant forth,More carefully to seek.Down on the bank a little childHe found, – a piteous sight, —Who, weeping, earnestly imploredTo cross that very night.With gruff good-will he picked him up,And on his neck to rideHe tossed him, as men play with babes,And plunged into the tide.But as the water closed aroundHis knees, the infant’s weightGrew heavier and heavier,Until it was so greatThe giant scarce could stand upright,His staff shook in his hand,His mighty knees bent under him,He barely reached the land.And, staggering, set the infant down,And turned to scan his face;When, lo! he saw a halo brightWhich lit up all the place.Then Christopher fell down, afraidAt marvel of the thing,And dreamed not that it was the faceOf Jesus Christ, his King,Until the infant spoke, and said:“O Christopher, behold!I am the Lord whom thou hast served.Rise up, be glad and bold!“For I have seen, and noted well,Thy works of charity;And that thou art my servant goodA token thou shalt see.Plant firmly here upon this bankThy stalwart staff of pine,And it shall blossom and bear fruit,This very hour, in sign.”Then, vanishing, the infant smiled.The giant, left alone,Saw on the bank, with luscious dates,His stout pine staff bent down.I think the lesson is as goodTo-day as it was then —As good to us called ChristiansAs to the heathen men, —The lesson of Saint Christopher,Who spent his strength for others,And saved his soul by working hardTo help and save his brothers!– Helen Hunt Jackson.Who sows his corn in the fields trusts in God.GENERAL BROCK
One voice, one people, – one in heartAnd soul, and feeling, and desire!Relight the smouldering martial fire,Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre.The hero-deed cannot expire;The dead still play their part.Raise high the monumental stone!A nation’s fealty is theirs,And we are the rejoicing heirs,The honored sons of sires whose caresWe take upon us unawares,As freely as our own.We boast not of the victory,But render homage, deep and just,To his – to their – immortal dust,Who proved so worthy of their trust,No lofty pile nor sculptured bustCan herald their degree.No tongue can blazon forth their fame —The cheers that stir the sacred hillAre but mere promptings of the willThat conquered then, that conquers still;And generations yet shall thrillAt Brock’s remembered name.– Charles Sangster.AN ICEBERG
At twelve o’clock we went below, and had just got through dinner, when the cook put his head down the scuttle and told us to come on deck and see the finest sight we had ever seen. “Where away, Doctor?” asked the first man who was up. “On the larboard bow.” And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles off, an immense, irregular mass, its top and points covered with snow, and its centre of a deep indigo color. This was an iceberg, and of the largest size, as one of our men said who had been in the Northern Ocean. As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running high and fresh, and sparkling in the light, and in the midst lay this immense mountain-island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, and its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun.
All hands were soon on deck, looking at it, and admiring in various ways its beauty and grandeur. But no description can give any idea of the strangeness, splendor, and, really, the sublimity of the sight. Its great size, – for it must have been from two to three miles in circumference and several hundred feet in height, – its slow motion, as its base rose and sank in the water and its high points nodded against the clouds; the dashing of the waves upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its base with a white crust; and the thundering sound of the crackling of the mass, and the breaking and tumbling down of huge pieces, together with its nearness and approach, which added a slight element of fear, – all combined to give it the character of true sublimity.
The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of an indigo color, its base incrusted with frozen foam; and as it grew thin and transparent towards the edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue to the whiteness of snow. It seemed to be drifting slowly towards the north, so that we kept away and avoided it.
It was in sight all the afternoon; and when we got to leeward of it the wind died away, so that we lay to, quite near it for the greater part of the night. Unfortunately, there was no moon, but it was a clear night, and we could plainly mark the long, regular heaving of the stupendous mass, as its edges moved slowly against the stars, now revealing them, and now shutting them in. Several times in our watch loud cracks were heard, and several pieces fell down, plunging heavily into the sea. Towards morning a strong breeze sprang up, and we sailed away, and left it astern. At daylight it was out of sight.
– Richard Henry Dana.To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,To throw a perfume on the violet,To smooth the ice, or add another hueUnto the rainbow, or with taper-lightTo seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess. – Shakespeare.A LEGEND OF BREGENZ
Girt round with rugged mountainsThe fair Lake Constance lies;In her blue heart reflected,Shine back the starry skies;And, watching each white cloudletFloat silently and slow,You think a piece of HeavenLies on our earth below!Midnight is there: and Silence,Enthroned in Heaven, looks downUpon her own calm mirror,Upon a sleeping town:For Bregenz, that quaint cityUpon the Tyrol shore,Has stood above Lake ConstanceA thousand years and more.Her battlements and towers,From off their rocky steep,Have cast their trembling shadowFor ages on the deep.Mountain and lake and valleyA sacred legend know,Of how the town was saved one nightThree hundred years ago.Far from her home and kindredA Tyrol maid had fled,To serve in the Swiss valleys,And toil for daily bread;And every year that fleetedSo silently and fastSeemed to bear farther from herThe memory of the Past.She spoke no more of BregenzWith longing and with tears;Her Tyrol home seemed fadedIn a deep mist of years;Yet, when her master’s childrenWould clustering round her stand,She sang them ancient balladsOf her own native land;And when at morn and eveningShe knelt before God’s throne,The accents of her childhoodRose to her lips alone.And so she dwelt: the valleyMore peaceful year by year;When suddenly strange portentsOf some great deed seemed near.One day, out in the meadow,With strangers from the townSome secret plan discussing,The men walked up and down.At eve they all assembled;Then care and doubt were fled;With jovial laugh they feasted;The board was nobly spread.The elder of the villageRose up, his glass in hand,And cried, “We drink the downfallOf an accursed land!The night is growing darker;Ere one more day is flown,Bregenz, our foeman’s stronghold,Bregenz shall be our own!”The women shrank in terror,Yet Pride, too, had her part;But one poor Tyrol maidenFelt death within her heart.Nothing she heard around her,Though shouts rang forth again;Gone were the green Swiss valleys,The pasture and the plain;Before her eyes one vision,And in her heart one cryThat said, “Go forth! save Bregenz,And then, if need be, die!”With trembling haste and breathless,With noiseless step she sped;Horses and weary cattleWere standing in the shed;She loosed the strong white chargerThat fed from out her hand;She mounted, and she turned his headTowards her native land.Out – out into the darkness —Faster, and still more fast; —The smooth grass flies behind her,The chestnut wood is past;She looks up; clouds are heavy;Why is her steed so slow? —Scarcely the wind beside themCan pass them as they go.“Faster!” she cries, “oh, faster!”Eleven the church bells chime;“O God,” she cries, “help Bregenz,And bring me there in time!”But louder than bells’ ringing,Or lowing of the kine,Grows nearer in the midnightThe rushing of the Rhine.She strives to pierce the blackness,And looser throws the rein;Her steed must breast the watersThat dash above his mane.How gallantly, how nobly,He struggles through the foam!And see – in the far distanceShine out the lights of home!Up the steep bank he bears her,And now they rush againTowards the heights of BregenzThat tower above the plain.They reach the gates of BregenzJust as the midnight rings,And out come serf and soldierTo meet the news she brings.Bregenz is saved! Ere daylightHer battlements are manned;Defiance greets the armyThat marches on the land.Three hundred years are vanished,And yet upon the hillAn old stone gateway risesTo do her honor still.And there, when Bregenz womenSit spinning in the shade,They see in quaint old carvingThe Charger and the Maid.And when, to guard old BregenzBy gateway, street, and tower,The warder paces all night longAnd calls each passing hour;“Nine,” “ten,” “eleven,” he cries aloud,And then (Oh, crown of Fame!),When midnight pauses in the skies,He calls the maiden’s name!– Adelaide Anne Procter.