Text of Plan #990
  WEEK 33  


The Adventures of Tom Sawyer  by Mark Twain

The Cruelty of "I Didn't Think"

T OM arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising market:

"Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!"

"Auntie, what have I done?"

"Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an old softy, expecting I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage about that dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that you was over here and heard all the talk we had that night. Tom, I don't know what is to become of a boy that will act like that. It makes me feel so bad to think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make such a fool of myself and never say a word."

This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had seemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked mean and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything to say for a moment. Then he said:

"Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it—but I didn't think."

"Oh, child, you never think. You never think of anything but your own selfishness. You could think to come all the way over here from Jackson's Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think to pity us and save us from sorrow."

"Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't mean to be mean. I didn't, honest. And besides, I didn't come over here to laugh at you that night."

"What did you come for, then?"

"It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got drownded."

"Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfulest soul in this world if I could believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never did—and I  know it, Tom."

"Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie—I wish I may never stir if I didn't."

"Oh, Tom, don't lie—don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times worse."

"It ain't a lie, auntie, it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from grieving—that was all that made me come."

"I'd give the whole world to believe that—it would cover up a power of sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?"

"Why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my pocket and kept mum."

"What bark?"

"The bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish, now, you'd waked up when I kissed you—I do, honest."

The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness dawned in her eyes.

"Did  you kiss me, Tom?"

"Why, yes, I did."

"Are you sure you did, Tom?"

"Why, yes, I did, auntie—certain sure."

"What did you kiss me for, Tom?"

"Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so sorry."

The words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in her voice when she said:

"Kiss me again, Tom!—and be off with you to school, now, and don't bother me any more."

The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a jacket which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her hand, and said to herself:

"No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it—but it's a blessed, blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it. I hope the Lord—I know  the Lord will forgive him, because it was such goodheartedness in him to tell it. But I don't want to find out it's a lie. I won't look."

She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought: "It's a good lie—it's a good lie—I won't let it grieve me." So she sought the jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading Tom's piece of bark through flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the boy, now, if he'd committed a million sins!"


Heroes of the Middle Ages  by Eva March Tappan

John Gutenberg

T he fall of Constantinople had brought the Greek scholars with their manuscripts to Italy, but it would have been a long while before even the most learned men of Western Europe could have read the writings had not a German named John Gutenberg been working away for many years, trying to invent a better process of making books than the slow, tiresome method of copying them by hand, letter by letter. When Gutenberg was a boy, this was the way in which all books were made. Moreover, they were generally written on parchment, and this added to the expense. The result was that a book was a costly article, and few people could afford to own one. When Gutenberg became a young man, a way of making books was invented which people thought was a most wonderful improvement. For each page the printer took a block of fine-grained wood, drew upon it whatever picture he was to print, then cut the wood away, leaving the outlines of the picture. By inking this and pressing it upon the paper he could print a page. Only one side of the paper was used, and so every pair of leaves had to be pasted together. At first only pictures were printed, but after a while some lettering was also done. Such books were called block books. Many were printed in this way with pictures illustrating Bible history; and these were known as poor men's Bibles.


Monk Writing Manuscript

Although the block books were much less expensive than the books written by hand, still they were by no means cheap. It was long, slow work to cut a block for each page; and after as many books had been printed as were needed, the blocks were of no further use. Gutenberg wondered whether there was not some better way to print a book. He pondered and dreamed over the matter and made experiments. At last the idea which he sought came to him, an idea so simple that it seems strange no one had thought of it sooner. It was only to cut each letter on a separate piece of wood, form the letters into words, bind them together the shape and size of a page, print as many copies as were desired, then separate the letters and use them in other books till they were worn out. Here was the great invention; but it was a long way from this beginning to a well-printed book.


Gutenberg's House
(At Strasburg, Germany)

Now people began to wonder what Gutenberg could be working at so secretly. In those days everything that was mysterious was thought to be witchcraft; so the inventor, in order to avoid any such charge, made himself a workshop in a deserted monastery outside of the town. He had yet to learn how to make his types of metal, how to fasten them together firmly in forms, how to put on just enough ink, and how to make a press.


Gutenberg Showing His First Proof

At length he carried through a great undertaking,— he printed a Latin Bible. This was completed in 1455, and was the first Bible ever printed. But Gutenberg was in trouble. He had not had the money needed to carry on this work without help, and he had been obliged to take a partner by the name of John Faust. Faust was disappointed in not making as much money as he had expected. The Bible had taken longer to complete and had cost more than Gutenberg had calculated; and at length Faust brought a suit to recover what he had lent. The judge decided in his favour, and everything that the inventor owned went to him. Gutenberg was left to begin again. Nevertheless he went on bravely with his printing, trying all the time to print better and better. By and by the Elector Adolphus of Nassau gave him a pension. This is all that is known of the last few years of his life. He died in 1468; but the art of printing lived. Printing presses could hardly be set up fast enough, for every country wanted them. England, France, Holland, Germany had presses within a few years after the death of Gutenberg. The Jews carried one to Constantinople, and a century later even Russia had one.


Oldest Known Picture of a Printing Press

So it was that the knowledge of printing spread over Europe. Of course those old Greek manuscripts were printed and sent from country to country. A Venetian printer named Aldo Manuzio issued especially accurate and well-made copies, which became known as the Aldine editions. The crusades had aroused people and made them ready and eager to learn. Now they found in the ancient writings of the Greeks and Romans nobler poems, more dignified histories, and more brilliant orations than they had known before. By this "New Learning," as it was called, men were stimulated to think. They felt as if they were brighter and keener than they used to be, as if they were not their old slow, dull selves, but were becoming quick and clear-minded. They felt so much as if they had just been born into a new, fresh world that the name Renaissance or new birth, has been given to this period.


  WEEK 33  


Our Island Story  by H. E. Marshall

The Story of the Seven Bishops

H AVING put down two rebellions, James made up his mind to turn Britain into a Roman Catholic country once more. It was against the law for a Roman Catholic to hold any public office but, in spite of that James began to turn away Protestants from many posts, and to put Roman Catholics in their places. The people grew more and more angry, but still James took his own way, growing bolder and bolder.

At last he issued what was called the Declaration of Indulgence. In this Declaration he said that all the laws against the Roman Catholics, and against all others who did not belong to the Church of England, and who were called Dissenters, were done away with.

James hated the Dissenters, that is the Puritans and Presbyterians, but he thought that if he made them free they would side with him and help him to free the Romish Church also. But they did not do so. They knew that James was breaking the laws of the land in issuing this Declaration, and they would not accept freedom in an unlawful manner.

The King ordered the Declaration to be read in all London churches on Sundays, 20th and 27th May, and in all country churches on Sundays, 3rd and 10th of June. But nearly every clergyman in London and in the country refused to obey.

After a great deal of talking and consulting seven bishops wrote out a paper, which they all signed. In this paper the bishops told the King that they could not obey him, not because they wished people who thought differently from themselves to be cruelly and unkindly treated, but because the laws against these people had been made by Parliament. They had been passed by King, Lords, and Commons, and could only be recalled by the consent of King, Lords, and Commons. The King alone, they reminded him, had no power to recall a law, and, in ordering the clergy to read the Declaration of Indulgence in the churches, the King was ordering them to break the law. This they refused to do.

By the time that this letter was written and signed, it was late on Friday evening. There was no time to be lost, and the bishops took it at once to the King.

He received them kindly, but when he read the letter his face grew dark and angry. "This is rebellion," he said.

"Sire," said the bishops, "we are not rebels. We are true to your Majesty. We wish to keep the laws of the land."

"I tell you it is rebellion," repeated James.

Then one of the bishops, who was called Trelawney, fell upon his knees. "Sire," he cried, "do not say so hard a thing to us. No Trelawney can be a rebel. Remember that my family has fought for the crown. Remember how we served your Majesty against Monmouth."

"We are ready to die at your Majesty's feet," cried another. "We helped to put down one rebellion, why should we raise another?"

"This is rebellion! This is rebellion, I will be obeyed!" replied the King, growing more and more angry. "I will keep this paper. I will remember you who have signed it. You are rebels. Go."

The bishops went. But that very night copies of the letter which they had written to the King were printed and sold to thousands of joyful people, who in reading it knew that seven brave men were fighting for their freedom.

On Sunday morning the excitement was great. People crowded to the churches in thousands. Would the clergy read the Declaration, or would they not, was the question which everybody asked. It was soon answered. In only four of the hundred London churches was it read. In these four churches, as soon as the first words were heard the people rose and streamed out, so that when the reading was at an end the churches were silent and empty.

A week passed. The second Sunday came. Again thousands thronged to the churches. Again the Declaration was unread. Excitement grew. Another week passed. Would the country churches read the Declaration, or would they not? That question, too, was answered. The country clergy, like the London clergy, refused, and the land from end to end seemed to be filled with an outburst of joy.

Then the King ordered the seven bishops who had written the letter, and who had set the brave example, to be sent to the Tower. As soon as this became known the whole river was crowded with boats, and the banks thronged with people eager to see the bishops as they passed on their way to prison. When the bishops appeared, the people fell upon their knees begging for a blessing. All the way from Whitehall to the Tower the air was full of shouts of "God bless your Lordships!" It was like a royal procession, rather than like rebels being led to prison. As the bishops entered the Traitors' Gate, the guards knelt before them begging, too, for a blessing, and in the guard-house the rough soldiers drank to the health of the brave bishops.

All next day, to the anger of the King, great people crowded to visit the bishops, to cheer and comfort them in prison. And when ten of the chief Dissenters went to see them, his anger knew no bounds. He called these Dissenters before him to scold them, and ask what they meant by visiting their enemies. "We are all Protestants," they replied, "it is our duty to forget old quarrels, and stand by the men who are fighting for the liberties of the Protestant religion."

For a week the bishops were kept in prison, while all over the country people wondered anxiously what would happen to them. Bishop Trelawney belonged to Cornwall. The people there loved him very much, and they made a song about him of which the chorus was:—

And shall Trelawney die? and shall Trelawney die?

Then thirty thousand Cornish boys will know the reason why.

After being kept in prison for a week the bishops were brought to court to be tried. The excitement was tremendous. The King and his friends did all they could to have the bishops punished. But it was in vain. The judges and the jury said that the bishops had done no wrong, and they were set free.

From street to street the joyful news spread like wildfire. Bells rang, cannon boomed, bonfires blazed, people cheered and wept and sang. Another battle had been fought for freedom, another victory won, and all England seemed mad with the joy of it.

At night, the houses were lit up; in nearly every window a row of seven candles appeared, one candle for each bishop. The streets were filled with rejoicing people, and not until day dawned, and the bells began to ring for morning service, did the weary, happy crowds go to their homes.


Summer  by Dallas Lore Sharp

The Sea-Birds' Home

A FTER my wandering for years among the quiet lanes and along the winding cow-paths of the home fields, my trip to the wild-bird rocks in the Pacific Ocean, as you can imagine, was a thrilling experience. We chartered a little launch at Tillamook, and, after a fight of hours and hours to cross Tillamook Bar at the mouth of the bay, we got out upon the wide Pacific, and steamed down the coast for Three-Arch Rocks, which soon began to show far ahead of us just off the rocky shore.

I had never been on the Pacific before, nor had I ever before seen the birds that were even now beginning to dot the sea and to sail over and about us as we steamed along. It was all new, so new that the very water of the Pacific looked unlike the familiar water of the Atlantic. And surely the waves were different,—longer, grayer, smoother, with an immensely mightier heave. At least they seemed so, for every time we rose on the swell, it was as if our boat were in the hand of Old Ocean, and his mighty arm were "putting" us, as the athlete "puts" the shot. It was all new and strange and very wild to me, with the wild cries of the sea-birds already beginning to reach us as flocks of the birds passed around and over our heads.

The fog was lifting. The thick, wet drift that had threatened our little launch on Tillamook Bar stood clear of the shouldering sea to the westward, and in over the shore, like an upper sea, hung at the fir-girt middles of the mountains, as level and as gray as the sea below. There was no breeze. The long, smooth swell of the Pacific swung under us and in, until it whitened at the base of the three rocks that rose out of the sea in our course, and that now began to take on form in the foggy distance. Gulls were flying over us, lines of black cormorants and crowds of murres were winging past, but we were still too far away from the looming rocks to see that the gray of their walls was the gray of uncounted colonies of nesting birds, colonies that covered their craggy steeps as, on shore, the green firs clothed the slopes of the Coast Range Mountains up to the hanging fog.

As we ran on nearer, the sound of the surf about the rocks became audible, the birds in the air grew more numerous, their cries now faintly mingling with the sound of the sea. A hole in the side of the middle Rock, a mere fleck of foam it seemed at first, widened rapidly into an arching tunnel through which our boat might run; the swell of the sea began to break over half-sunken ledges; and soon upon us fell the damp shadows of the three great rocks, for now we were looking far up at their sides, where we could see the birds in their guano-gray rookeries, rookery over rookery,—gulls, cormorants, guillemots, puffins, murres,—encrusting the sides from tide-line to pinnacles, as the crowding barnacles encrusted the bases from the tide-line down.


Tufted Puffins

We had not approached without protest, for the birds were coming off to meet us, wheeling and clacking overhead, the nearer we drew, in a constantly thickening cloud of lowering wings and tongues. The clamor was indescribable, the tossing flight enough to make one mad with the motion of wings. The air was filled, thick, with the whirling and the screaming, the clacking, the honking, close to our ears, and high up in the peaks, and far out over the waves. Never had I been in this world before. Was I on my earth? or had I suddenly wakened up in some old sea world where there was no dry land, no life but this?

We rounded the outer or Shag Rock and headed slowly in opposite the yawning hole of the middle Rock as into some mighty cave, so sheer and shadowy rose the walls above us,—so like to cavern thunder was the throbbing of the surf through the hollow arches, was the flapping and screaming of the birds against the high circling walls, was the deep, menacing grumble of the bellowing sea-lions, as, through the muffle of surf and sea-fowl, herd after herd lumbered headlong into the foam.

It was a strange, wild scene. Hardly a mile from the Oregon coast, but cut off by breaker and bar from the abrupt, uninhabited shore, the three rocks of the Reservation, each pierced with its resounding arch, heaved their huge shoulders from the waves straight up, high, towering, till our little steamer coasted their dripping sides like some puffing pygmy.

Each rock was perhaps as large as a solid city square and as high as the tallest of sky-scrapers; immense, monstrous piles, each of them, and run through by these great caverns or arches, dim, dripping, filled with the noise of the waves and the beat of thousands of wings.

They were of no part or lot with the dry land. Their wave-scooped basins were set with purple starfish and filled with green and pink anemones, and beaded many deep with mussels of amethyst and jet that glittered in the clear beryl waters; and, above the jeweled basins, like fabled beasts of old, lay the sea-lions, uncouth forms, flippered, reversed in shape, with throats like the caves of Æolus, hollow, hoarse, discordant; and higher up, on every jutting bench and shelf, in every weathered rift, over every jog of the ragged cliffs, to their bladed backs and pointed peaks, swarmed the sea-birds, webfooted, amphibious, shaped of the waves, with stormy voices given them by the winds that sweep in from the sea.

As I looked up at the amazing scene, at the mighty rocks and the multitude of winging forms, I seemed to see three swirling piles of life, three cones that rose like volcanoes from the ocean, their sides covered with living lava, their craters clouded with the smoke of wings, while their bases seemed belted by the rumble of a multi-throated thunder. The very air was dank with the smell of strange, strong volcanic gases,—no breath of the land, no odor of herb, no scent of fresh soil; but the raw, rank smells of rookery and den, saline, kelpy, fetid; the stench of fish and bedded guano, and of the reeking pools where the sea-lion herds lay sleeping on the lower rocks in the sun.

A boat's keel was beneath me, but as I stood out on the pointed prow, barely above the water, and found myself thrust forward without will or effort among the crags and caverns, among the shadowy walls, the damps, the smells, the sounds, among the bellowing beasts in the churning waters about me, and into the storm of wings and tongues in the whirling air above me, I passed from the things I had known, and the time and the earth of man, into a monstrous period of the past.

This was the home of the sea-birds. Amid all the din we landed from a yawl and began our climb toward the top of Shag Rock, the outermost of the three. And here we had another and a different sight of the wild life. It covered every crag. I clutched it in my hands; I crushed it under my feet; it was thick in the air about me. My narrow path up the face of the rock was a succession of sea-bird rookeries, of crowded eggs, and huddled young, hairy or naked or wet from the shell. Every time my fingers felt for a crack overhead they touched something warm that rolled or squirmed; every time my feet moved under me, for a hold, they pushed in among top-shaped eggs that turned on the shelf or went over far below; and whenever I hugged the pushing wall I must bear off from a mass of squealing, struggling, shapeless things, just hatched. And down upon me, as rookery after rookery of old birds whirred in fright from their ledges, fell crashing eggs and unfledged young, that the greedy gulls devoured ere they touched the sea.

I was midway in the climb, at a bad turn round a point, edging inch by inch along, my face pressed against the hard face of the rock, my feet and fingers gripping any crack or seam they could feel, when out of the deep space behind me I caught the swash of waves. Instantly a cold hand seemed to clasp me from behind.

I flattened against the rock, my whole body, my very mind clinging desperately for a hold,—a falling fragment of shale, a gust of wind, the wing-stroke of a frightened bird, enough to break the hold and swing me out over the water, washing faint and far below. A long breath, and I was climbing again.

We were on the outer Rock, our only possible ascent taking us up the sheer south face. With the exception of an occasional Western gull's and pigeon guillemot's nest, these steep sides were occupied entirely by the California murres,—penguin-shaped birds about the size of a small wild duck, chocolate-brown above, with white breasts,—which literally covered the sides of the three great rocks wherever they could find a hold. If a million meant anything, I should say there were a million murres nesting on this outer Rock; not nesting either, for the egg is laid upon the bare ledge, as you might place it upon a mantel,—a single sharp-pointed egg, as large as a turkey's, and just as many of them on the ledge as there is standing-room for the birds. The murre broods her very large egg by standing straight up over it, her short legs, by dint of stretching, allowing her to straddle it, her short tail propping her securely from behind. On, up along the narrow back, or blade, of the rock, and over the peak, were the well-spaced nests of the Brandt's cormorants, nests the size of an ordinary straw hat, made of sea-grass and the yellow-flowered sulphur-weed that grew in a dense mat over the north slope of the top, each nest holding four long, dirty blue eggs or as many black, shivering young; and in the low sulphur-weed, all along the roof-like slope of the top, built the gulls and the tufted puffins; and, with the burrowing puffins, often in the same holes, were found the Kaeding's petrels; while down below them, as up above them,—all around the rock-rim that dropped sheer to the sea,—stood the cormorants, black, silent, statuesque; and everywhere were nests and eggs and young, and everywhere were flying, crying birds—above, about, and far below me, a whirling, whirring vortex of wings that had caught me in its funnel.


Brandt's Cormorants


James Hogg

A Boy's Song

Where the pools are bright and deep,

Where the gray trout lies asleep,

Up the river and o'er the lea,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,

Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,

Where the nestlings chirp and flee,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,

Where the hay lies thick and greenest,

There to trace the homeward bee,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,

Where the shadow falls the deepest,

Where the clustering nuts fall free.

That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away,

Little sweet maidens from the play,

Or love to banter and fight so well,

That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play,

Through the meadow, among the hay;

Up the water and o'er the lea,

That's the way for Billy and me.


  WEEK 33  


The Story Book of Science  by Jean Henri Fabre

Processionary Caterpillars

"W E frequently see, at the ends of pine branches, voluminous bags of white silk intermixed with leaves. These bags are, generally, puffed out at the top and narrow at the bottom, pear-shaped. They are sometimes as large as a person's head. They are nests where live together a kind of very velvety caterpillars with red hairs. A family of caterpillars, coming from the eggs laid by one butterfly, construct a silk lodging in common. All take part in the work, all spin and weave in the general interest. The interior of the nest is divided by thin silk partitions into a number of compartments. At the large end, sometimes elsewhere, is seen a wide funnel-shaped opening; it is the large door for entering and departing. Other doors, smaller, are distributed here and there. The caterpillars pass the winter in their nest, well sheltered from bad weather. In summer they take refuge there at night and during the great heat.

"As soon as it is day, they set out to spread themselves on the pine and eat the leaves. After eating their fill they reënter their silk dwelling, sheltered from the heat of the sun. Now, when they are out on a campaign, be it on the tree that bears the nest, or on the ground passing from one pine to another, these caterpillars march in a singular fashion, which has given them the name of processionaries, because, in fact, they defile in a procession, one after the other, and in the finest order.

"One, the first come—for amongst them there is perfect equality—starts on the way and serves as head of the expedition. A second follows, without a space between; a third follows the second in the same way; always thus, as many as there are caterpillars in the nest. The procession, numbering several hundreds, is now on the march. It defiles in one line, sometimes straight, sometimes winding, but always continuous, for each caterpillar that follows touches with its head the rear end of the preceding caterpillar. The procession describes on the ground a long and pleasing garland, which undulates to the right and left with unceasing variation. When several nests are near together and their processions happen to meet, the spectacle attains its highest interest. Then the different living garlands cross each other, get entangled and disentangled, knotted up and unknotted, forming the most capricious figures. The encounter does not lead to confusion. All the caterpillars of the same file march with a uniform and almost grave step; not one hastens to get before the others, not one remains behind, not one makes a mistake in the procession. Each one keeps its rank and scrupulously regulates its march by the one that precedes it. The file-leader of the troop directs the evolutions. When it turns to the right, all the caterpillars of the same line, one after the other, turn to the right; when it turns to the left, all, one after the other, turn to the left. If it stops, the whole procession stops, but not simultaneously; the second caterpillar first, then the third, fourth, fifth, and so on until the last. They would be called well-trained troops that, when defiling in order, stop at the word of command and close their ranks.

"The expedition, simply a promenade, or a journey in search of provisions, is now finished. They have gone far away from their nest. It is time to go home. How can they find it, through the grass and underbrush, and over all the obstacles of the road they have just traveled? Will they let themselves be guided by sight, obstructed though it be by every little tuft of grass; by the sense of smell, which wafted odors of every sort may put at fault? No, no; processionary caterpillars have for their guidance in traveling something better than sight or smell. They have instinct, which inspires them with infallible resources. Without taking account of what they do, they call to their service means that seem dictated by reason. Without doubt, they do not reason, but they obey the secret impulse of the eternal Reason, in whom and through whom all live.

"Now, this is what the processionary caterpillars do in order not to lose their way home again after a distant expedition. We pave our roads with crushed stone; caterpillars are more luxurious in their highways: they spread on their road a carpet of silk, they walk on nothing but silk. They spin continually on the journey and glue their silk all along the road. In fact, each caterpillar of the procession can be seen lowering and raising its head alternately. In the first movement, the spinneret, situated in the lower lip, glues the thread to the road that the procession is following; in the second, the spinneret lets the thread run out while the caterpillar is taking several steps. Then the head is lowered and lifted again, and a second length of thread is put in place. Each caterpillar that follows walks on the threads left by the preceding ones and adds its own thread to the silk, so that in all its length the road passed over is carpeted with a silky ribbon. It is by following this ribbon conductor that the processionaries get back to their home without ever losing their way, however tortuous the road may be.

"If one wishes to embarrass the procession, it suffices to pass the finger over the track so as to cut the silk road. The procession stops before the cut with every indication of fear and mistrust. Shall they go on? Shall they not go on? The heads rise and fall in anxious quest of the conductor threads. At last, one caterpillar bolder than the others, or perhaps more impatient, crosses the bad place and stretches its thread from one end of the cut to the other. A second, without hesitating, passes over on the thread left by the first, and in passing adds its own thread to the bridge. The others in turn all do the same. Soon the broken road is repaired and the defile of the procession continues.

"The processionary caterpillar of the oak marches in another way. It is covered with white hairs turned back and very long. One nest contains from seven to eight hundred individuals. When an expedition is decided on, a caterpillar leaves the nest and pauses at a certain distance to give the others time to arrange themselves in rank and file and form a battalion. This first caterpillar has to start the march. Following it, others place themselves, not one after another, like the processionaries of the pine, but in rows of two, three, four, and more. The troop, completed, begins to move in obedience to the evolutions of its file-leader, which always marches alone at the head of the legion, while the other caterpillars advance several abreast, dressing their ranks in perfect order. The first ranks of the army corps are always arranged in wedge formation, because of the gradual increase in the number of caterpillars composing it; the remainder are more or less expanded in different places. There are sometimes rows of from fifteen to twenty caterpillars marching in step, like well-trained soldiers, so that the head of one is never beyond the head of another. Of course the troop carpets its road with silk as it marches, so as to find its way back to its nest.

"The processionaries, especially those of the oak, retire to their nests to slough their skins, and these nests finally become filled with a fine dust of broken hairs. When you touch these nests, the dust of the hairs sticks to your hands and face, and causes an inflammation that lasts several days if the skin is delicate. One has only to stand at the foot of an oak where the processionaries have established themselves, to receive the irritating dust blown by the wind, and to feel a smart itching."

"What a pity the processionaries have those detestable hairs!" Jules exclaimed. "If they hadn't—"

"If they hadn't Jules would much like to see the caterpillars' procession. Never mind; after all, the danger is not so great. And then, if one had to scratch one's self a little, it would not be a serious matter. Besides, we will turn our attention to the processionary of the pine, less to be feared than that of the oak. At the warmest part of the day we will go and look for a caterpillars' nest in the pine wood; but Jules and I will go alone. It would be too hot for Emile and Claire."


Four American Patriots  by Alma Holman Burton

Taking Up Arms against the King

When Henry reached home, the neighbors crowded around him, asking many questions about the city of Philadelphia and the people whom he had met there.

"Who was the greatest man there?" asked one.

"Always excepting yourself, Patrick," shouted another, laughing, "I'll warrant you were the greatest of all!"

Henry told them about the city that William Penn had built, and about the famous men who were at the congress.

There was Roger Sherman, of Connecticut, who "never said a foolish thing in his life." There was Samuel Adams, of Massachusetts, whose "head was wanted badly in England;" and his cousin John Adams, who "had forty towns in the Bay Colony at his back."

There was John Rutledge, of South Carolina, who was "by far the greatest orator of them all," with his brother Edward, who had learned fine manners at the court of the king, but had become a patriot while listening to the debates in Parliament on the tea tax.

There was Philip Livingston, of New York, whose letters to Edmund Burke had won that great English orator to the American cause; and there was John Jay, whose "pen was the finest in America."

"Of course, you know all about our own men," he said. "Everybody made much of Richard Henry Lee, for they had heard how he made a bonfire of the stamps; and Peyton Randolph was elected chairman of the convention. But for solid information and sound judgment," said Henry, "Colonel Washington was the greatest man in the Congress."

Now, the king gave no heed to the petition of Congress. He sent over a fleet of ships and an army to aid General Gage in making war on the colonies if they would not obey the law.

The second Virginia convention met in St. John's church, in Richmond, on the 2nd of March, 1775.


Patrick Henry moved in a convention that Virginia be put in a state of defence.

Many opposed doing this. They said it was the duty of every man to obey the king.

And so the Virginians were divided in opinion. Those who were loyal to the king were called Tories, and those who refused to obey his unjust laws were called Whigs.

Patrick Henry, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Richard Henry Lee, and many others were Whigs; but there were also many powerful men who were Tories. When the Tories opposed the motion to defend the colony, Patrick Henry made a wonderful speech.

"We must fight," he said. "An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts is all that is left us. They tell us, sir, that we are weak! But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week or the next year? Will it be when a British guard shall be stationed in every house?

"Sir, we are not weak. Three millions of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us.

"Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us.

"Gentlemen, we may cry peace! peace! but there is no peace. The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms. Our brethren in Boston are already in the field. Why stand we here idle?

"Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but, as for me, give me liberty or give me death!"

The faces of all were pale. The Tories were quaking with fear at the thought of having taken part in such a meeting.

But Lee and Jefferson spoke in favor of arming the colony, and Washington nodded his head, though he said nothing.

In the end it was voted to take up arms against the king's troops.

Meanwhile, the battles of Concord and Lexington were fought, near Boston. About the same time Governor Dunmore seized the powder at Williamsburg and sent it on board a British ship.

The Whigs armed themselves. They rallied about Patrick Henry, and set out for Williamsburg to demand the powder.

Tories along the march begged Henry not to plunge the colony into a war with the governor. But he pushed on his way, and the Whigs joined the ranks, until over five hundred were in line.

Governor Dunmore fled from the city. Very soon after, however, he sent a promise to pay for the powder he had carried away.

Then Patrick Henry disbanded the army and started for Philadelphia to attend the second Continental Congress. His friends, fearing the governor might have him arrested, mounted their horses and rode with him to the Potomac River. As he was ferried across to the Maryland side, they gave cheer after cheer and wished him success on his journey.


Emily Dickinson

The Evening

The cricket sang,

And set the sun,

And workmen finished, one by one,

Their seam the day upon.

The low grass loaded with the dew,

The twilight stood as strangers do

With hat in hand, polite and new,

To stay as if, or go.

A vastness, as a neighbor, came,

A wisdom without face or name,

A peace, as hemispheres at home,

And so the night became.


  WEEK 33  


Our Little Celtic Cousin of Long Ago  by Evaleen Stein

Kells Is Raided

The curragh in which they had come to the fair was pointed up the Blackwater which it parted in long ripples of silver as Ferdiad and Angus pulled at the oars. They were all very proud and happy over the honor Angus had won the night before, and Eileen had hugged and kissed him and begged to hear all about it.

But "There, child," said her father, "I will tell you by and by. We must hurry now to reach Kells, for you know we want to stop there to see the new high-cross they have been putting up, and we must be home by dark, for we cannot sleep in the curragh neither can we camp in the forests; there are too many bears!"

Indeed, for much of their way after leaving Tailltenn the great trees came close to the water's edge and in their deep shadows prowled many dangerous beasts; for a large part of Ireland was still wild and unsettled. Now and then they passed open bog lands with perhaps a glimpse of blue mountain tops in the distance; and sometimes the river led through meadows where cows and sheep were grazing near the homes of their owners. As I have told you, most of the Celtic people lived in the country and their homes, which they called "raths" were much alike. There was always a round or oblong house in the middle of a piece of ground enclosed by a circular wall of earth often planted on top with a prickly hedge to better protect the place from the attack of enemies or wild beasts.

Even the palaces of the kings were built much the same, only larger and finer, and they were called "duns" instead of raths.

But the curragh on the Blackwater had been making good progress and before long they could glimpse through the trees the stone walls of Kells, while clustering about rose the thatched roofs of the round wattled huts where lived the young students.

For Kells was not a town but a monastery where a number of monks lived and studied and taught, and in their spare time made beautiful painted books. There were many such places in Ireland and the Celtic monks had become so famous for their learning that people not only from their own country but even from Britain and Gaul (which we now call England and France), sent their sons to be educated by them. Much of Europe was then very heathenish and ignorant, and had it not been for those Celtic monks, many of whom went as missionaries and started schools in other countries, the world would not be nearly so wise as it is to-day.

As they now drew near Kells, "Shall we go to the monastery landing?" asked Ferdiad.

"No," said Angus, "I see the monks working at the new high-cross on the hill yonder. We will land there and go up and look at it."

In a few minutes they had all climbed to the hill top where the new stone cross had just been put in place. It was very large, more than twice as high as a tall man, and wonderfully carved with scenes from the Bible as it was meant to tell its story to people who had no books of their own. There are to-day more than fifty of these great Celtic crosses standing on the hills of Ireland and artists from many countries copy them because of their beauty.

"Oh, father, isn't it fine!" cried Eileen.

"Yes, indeed!" said Angus; "it is one of the finest I have seen. Who of you made it?" he asked, turning to the monks who were standing by.

One of them was about to answer him when suddenly there came a sharp jangle of bells from a tall round tower of stone near the monastery.

"Hark!" cried the monk, and as they all paused a moment, there came another wild peal of the bells, and crashing through the woods beyond Kells they could see a score or more people from the country round about running frantically for the tower. Some were carrying children in their arms and others driving before them a few cows or sheep, while from the door of the monastery the brown-robed monks were already pouring out, their arms filled with precious books and such sacred things of gold and silver as they had been able to snatch from the monastery church. For everywhere the young students were running about shouting, "The Danes! The Danes!"  and everybody knew that those fierce pirate raiders from across the northern sea were heathens who thought no more of stripping a Christian altar than of driving off a herd of cattle and killing their helpless owner.

"Can you see them coming yet?" asked Angus anxiously of the monks.

"No," they said, "they are probably burning the raths they have raided, but they will be here quickly! We must hurry to reach the tower!" For the monks were no fighters, and, moreover, they all knew they would be far outnumbered by the raiders.

Angus at once snatched up Eileen, who was screaming from fright, and bidding Fianna and Ferdiad to follow, they all ran like deer down the hill.

By this time the country folk had given up hope of saving their cattle and sheep and were trying only to save themselves as both they and the monks and their pupils crowded to the foot of the tower and scrambled as fast as they could up a wooden ladder which led to a door high above the ground. For the tower was not only a belfry for the monastery church but also a place of refuge from just such sudden attacks as the Danes were now making. And how often these places of refuge were needed in those wild warring times is proven by the many ancient towers, solitary and deserted, which still rise from innumerable Irish hills and valleys. And very good strongholds they were when every one was inside, the ladder drawn up and the great door barred. If the raiders tried to come too close they were apt to get their heads cracked by a few of the big stones of which there was always a good supply to be dropped from the high windows.

As Angus and the rest now joined the others at the foot of the ladder, Angus saw that Fianna and Eileen got safely in and then telling Ferdiad to climb up too, turned to see if he could help the others. But Ferdiad waited to pick up a child that was lost from its parents and running about crying helplessly. He handed it up to safety, and just then a group of belated country people came screaming that the Danes were at their heels!

At this there was a wild rush for the ladder by those who were still outside. Angus, who supposed Ferdiad had gone in long before, climbed in with the last of the monks he had been helping, and in the struggle to gain the door no one noticed that Ferdiad was pushed off the ladder by a burly countryman wild with terror, and that the lad fell some distance to the ground.

For a few moments he lay stunned, and when he came to himself the ladder was drawn up as out of the forest came rushing a troop of wild Danes. Some wore chain armor and helmets with cows' horns fastened in front making them look like demons, while others were clad in tunics made from the shaggy skins of beasts; but all carried shields and spears and short swords and were shouting in loud fierce voices.

Ferdiad's heart quaked and he crouched back at the foot of the tower where he had fallen and where, luckily, some bushes made a fairly good screen.

When the raiders came nearer and found there was nobody to fight, part of them began swarming into the monastery and church and huts of the pupils looking for anything on which they might lay hands, while others started driving off the flocks of the country folks, and still others quarreled among themselves over the booty they had brought from the raths they had afterward destroyed.

Ferdiad, who had all the while been looking sharply about, all at once fairly held his breath as his gaze fell on a sheltered nook in the monastery wall. The Danes being for the time busy elsewhere none of them saw as did Ferdiad that a monk, clutching his robe as if trying to hide something beneath it, had seemingly crawled out of the wall and was creeping through the bushes in the direction of the tower. Ferdiad guessed at once that he had come out of the underground chambers; and sure enough, the tangle of bushes hid a hole in the wall just big enough for a man's body. This hole was the opening of a secret passage leading from the bee-hive shaped stone chambers such as were built under most monasteries and important houses as a place to hide valuables or the people themselves if attacked too suddenly for them to reach the nearest round tower.

Now this monk of Kells, Brother Giles, had been with the last of those fleeing from the monastery when all at once he had remembered the most precious thing in all Kells and which no one else had thought to try to save. This was the marvelous angel book of Saint Columkille of which Ferdiad had told Conn the monks said there was no other like it in all the world! That it could for a moment have been forgotten would seem unbelievable were it not that every one knows that when people are frightened and must pick out what they most care for, as at a fire, they often bring away very silly things and leave the best behind.

At any rate, the moment the monk thought of the book he rushed back and snatched it from the drawer where it was kept, then, finding the Danes were already coming toward the door of the monastery, he hurried down the winding stair to the undergroung chambers, hoping to hide there. But in a few moments the Danes discovered the stair and he could hear them groping their way down, for it was very dark there. At this he began stealthily to feel his way to the secret passage, and because of the darkness he managed to escape from the raiders who were poking in corners for what plunder they could find. The monk, hiding the precious book in its golden case, had just come out of the passage when Ferdiad saw him.

As the boy looked, suddenly Brother Giles straightened up and made a dash for the tower hoping to reach it before the Danes saw him.

Forgetting his own danger, Ferdiad tried to call to him that the ladder was up, but could not make him hear. But the poor monk had scarcely run half way till with a fierce shout one of the raiders started in pursuit. Ferdiad's eyes grew wide with horror as the monk sprang forward desperately only to sink lifeless on the ground beneath the sharp thrust of a Danish sword. As the man paused a moment Ferdiad could see his wild cruel face and red-scarred forehead, then suddenly as the dead monk's robe fell apart the Dane caught the gleam of the golden case which held the painted book, and snatching it up greedily ran off with it before Ferdiad's strained gaze could make out just what the object was.


Ferdiad's eyes grew wide with horror.

In a little while the other raiders came out of the monastery, having stripped it of every bit of gold and silver they could find, and as they could not set fire to the stone buildings they had to content themselves with burning the thatched huts of the students. While these were still smoldering they took themselves off toward the seacoast, driving before them the sheep and cows they had stolen from the country folk.

As soon as they were sure it was all over, the people one by one crept down from the tower, the country folk going sadly back to try patiently to rebuild their desolate homes while the monks began to set things in order about Kells.

Everybody was amazed and delighted to find Ferdiad had escaped with his life, though of course no one had known he was not safe in the tower. The body of Brother Giles was borne sorrowfully into the monastery; and then, when they began to bring back the gold and silver things they had saved and to take stock of what the Danes had stolen, first of all the Abbot discovered that Saint Columkille's book was gone. He was filled with dismay and remorse that he had forgotten it, and kept muttering despairingly "The angel book of the blessed Saint Columkille! May all the saints forgive me!"

The monks, too, looked at each other white and terrified, fearing a curse on Kells because of their unbelievable carelessness. For none of them knew that Brother Giles had given his life in the vain effort to save the beautiful book, and they felt sure that the Celtic people would blame them when it was known the precious volume was lost, for it was even then famous in Ireland.

As Ferdiad heard them lamenting, presently an idea occurred to him. "Reverend Father," he said to the Abbot, "perhaps it was Saint Columkille's book that Brother Giles was carrying when the Dane struck him. I saw the man take something from his robe as he lay on the ground, but could only get a flash of gold. I couldn't see just what it was, as the Dane turned from me when he picked it up and he ran off right away."

The Abbot listened gravely, but only said, "Perhaps, boy. But it might have been a golden candlestick you saw; we had many such. And even if it was the book, the Dane will care for nothing but the gold of its case and will surely destroy it when he rejoins his people and looks at it; they have burned countless precious volumes before this!" and the Abbot sighed bitterly.

But, somehow, Ferdiad got it into his head that the book the angels had made would not be destroyed, and he wished more than anything else that someday he might find it.

Meantime, Angus, seeing there was really nothing he could do to help restore order at the monastery, had brought down the curragh and he and Ferdiad had moored it at their landing. Fortunately their rath, being on the other side of the river from Kells, had escaped harm.


The Tortoise and the Geese and Other Fables of Bidpai  by Maude Barrows Dutton

The Farmer, the Sheep, and the Robbers

A stupid Farmer was coming home from a fair, leading a large Sheep which he had bought there. His way lay along a lonely mountain-side, where a band of Robbers had their den. Hidden among the bushes, the Robbers saw the Farmer and his Sheep pass by, and they determined to play a trick on him so as to win the Sheep for themselves. They therefore separated, and one after another of them met the Farmer as he passed along the road.

The first Robber doffed his cap and said, "Good-day, sir, where are you taking this dog?"

The second said, "Good-day, Sir, where did you get this dog?"

The third Robber even stopped the Farmer, and inquired where his gun was. "For surely you would not have this dog with you unless you were going hunting," he added.

And the fourth Robber, coming up from the rear, put his hand on the Sheep's head and said, "Ah, my friend, what a fine watch-dog you have!" and went on.

By this time the Farmer was very angry. "In sooth," he cried aloud, "the man who sold me this beast bewitched my eyes; for truly I thought that it was a sheep, whereas in reality it is nothing but a dog. I will hurry back at once to find the fellow and make him pay me back my money."

So saying, he tied the Sheep to a tree by the roadside and started back to the fair on a run. Thereupon the four Robbers came out of their hiding-places and carried the prize off to their den.


Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Splendor Falls

The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes dying, dying, dying.

O love they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field, or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.


  WEEK 33  


The Struggle for Sea Power  by M. B. Synge

The Adventures of Mungo Park

"Strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."


W HEN the young Scottish surgeon, Mungo Park, started forth on his travels, to find out about the mysterious river Niger, little was known of the interior of Africa. It was twenty-six years since Bruce had discovered the source of the Nile, and still men thought that the Niger rose near it and flowed right across the Dark Continent from east to west, its mouths being the rivers Senegal and Gambia on the west coast. It had long been the dream of men of all nations to reach not only the Niger, but also the wonderful city on its banks called Timbuktu, which was said to be paved with gold.

In the year 1795, when the French Revolution was still at its height, Mungo Park, a young man of twenty-four, offered his services to the British African Society to explore this region. Tall and strong, with an iron will and a sweet expression, was this Mungo Park. He had already been to the East Indies, and a thirst for travel and adventure had seized him. He arrived on board an African trading-vessel, in May 1795, at the mouth of the Gambia, and sailed thence up the river to the English depot at Pisania. Here he was touched by the wretched condition of the slaves, who were brought from the interior and shipped to England to supply the European market. But his work lay in another direction.

It was December before he was ready to start. His sole companions were a negro servant and a slave boy. He took a horse for himself and two donkeys for his servants, food for two days, some beads and tobacco for exchange, a few clothes, an umbrella, compasses, a thermometer, besides a couple of pistols and a few firearms.

Thus provided, thus attended, thus armed, Mungo Park started for the heart of Africa. It must have needed a stout courage indeed, plenty of young enthusiasm and confidence, to face the unknown thus scantily equipped. Waterless deserts, trackless jungles, gloomy forests, angry natives—all had to be encountered before the Niger could be reached.

It is not possible to follow him in detail, interesting as his travels are. Now we see him standing before some black king begging leave, by means of gifts, to pass through his dangerous country. Now he is stealing forth silently under the moonlit sky to escape from furious natives, to pass the night in some great forest, where wild beasts made the night hideous with their howls. Now he is passing through country of untold beauty, where the windings of the Senegal, descending from its rocky heights, lend a pleasing variety to the scene. The banks of the Senegal were reached two days after Christmas. The next part of the road lay through an inhospitable region, inhabited by negroes of the most degraded type. So threatening were they, so brutal in their conduct, that the two native servants refused to venture farther, and Mungo Park went forward alone. Gathering together the few possessions now left him, he stole away under cover of the darkness, and with a stern resolution, unsurpassed in history, started on his forlorn hope of reaching the mysterious Niger. From all sides came the roar of wild beasts, adding terror to his already dangerous situation. But undismayed he plodded on, alone, through the night.

Suddenly one day he was seized and dragged before a black Moorish king, and all hope seemed to fade away. Men, women, and children crowded round to see the white man. He was insulted, tortured, starved. Day after day passed, leaving him no means of escape. The desert winds scorched him, sand-storms choked him; the heavens above were like brass, the earth beneath as the floor of an oven. Fever came on him, and he feared death with his great work yet unfinished. It was the end of May before he escaped from this intolerable life.

Early one morning, when the sun was just breaking across the sky and the Moors round him were sleeping heavily, he took his bundle, stepped stealthily over the sleeping negroes, jumped on to his horse, and rode away as fast as possible. But the horse, like its master, was reduced to mere skin and bone after four months' captivity. Every moment was one of life or death. Once he looked round to see three Moors on horseback in full pursuit. They were brandishing weapons and screaming threats, but he escaped, and rode breathlessly forward. Starvation now stared him in the face. To the pangs of hunger were added the agony of thirst. There was no water. The sun beat pitilessly down, the sand reflected the heat as from a furnace. Night came. His horse grew too tired to carry him any longer, but with his old strength of will he staggered on in the darkness, often falling from very weakness. Suddenly a flash of lightning bespoke a coming storm. On his ear fell the welcome sound of trees bending before a wind. It put new life into the fever-stricken explorer. But a terrific sand-storm swept over the land, and he fell down hopelessly under a sheltering bush. Then followed great storm-clouds, and soon big drops of rain began to fall, while lightning flashed and thunder crashed above. The refreshing rain fell on to his burning face and shaking hands, and saved his life.

In the third week of his flight his reward came. The prize for which men and nations had struggled for three centuries was to be his. Let him tell his own story. "Looking forward," he says, "I saw with infinite pleasure the great object of my mission—the long-sought-for, majestic Niger, glittering in the morning sun, as broad as the Thames at Westminster and flowing to the east-ward. I hastened to the brink, and having drunk of the water, lifted up my fervent thanks to the great Ruler of all things for having thus far crowned my endeavours with success."

He was the first European to reach the Niger, and to tell the world that its course was "towards the rising sun," and not as men had thought.

But his troubles were not ended here. The natives would not allow him to enter their city Sego on the Niger, and he wandered away to take shelter from the sun under a tree. Hour after hour passed away and no one offered him food or lodging. The sun fell and a great storm gathered. Suddenly a poor negro woman passed him returning from her work. Seeing his pitiful condition she stopped to ask his story. Bidding him follow her, she took him in, broiled him a fish from the river, and spread a mat for him to sleep upon. And while he slept she sang with her companions of this strange new guest:—

"The winds roared and the rains fell,

The poor white man sat under our tree;

He has no mother to bring him milk,

No wife to grind his corn."

Far on into the night the women of Africa sang, as they worked—

"Let us pity the white man, no mother has he."

Mungo Park could not get much farther. Fever had reduced him to a mere skeleton, his one remaining shirt was threadbare. He made his way slowly back to the coast and thence to England, where he arrived after an absence of two years and nine months.

As the years passed on he longed to be back in Africa. He felt much remained to be done, and the early part of the new year 1805, found him leaving England for the last time. It was May before he left Pisania, this time with forty-four Europeans and a large quantity of baggage. It was August before he caught sight of the Niger, by which time most of his companions were either dead or dying. But his stout heart did not despair as he embarked on his last great venture, "with fixed resolution to discover the source of the Niger or perish in the attempt."

In a large, unwieldy, half-rotten canoe—christened His Majesty's schooner Joliba—he set sail with nine men to navigate the strange new river, studded with dangerous rocks, full of hippopotamus, whose banks were lined with cannibal tribes. This is the last sight we get of Mungo Park, gliding down the Niger towards the heart of savage Africa, into the deep darkness of the unknown. The rest is silence.

Years after, it was discovered that he had sailed some thousand miles down the river, past Timbuktu to Boussa. Here the boat was overturned by rapids, and, at the last, attacked by natives. The great Niger had claimed the brave explorer as her own.


The Children of Odin: A Book of Northern Myths  by Padraic Colum

How Brynhild Was Won for Gunnar


dropcap image OW that Sigurd had wed Gudrun he was one with the Nibelungs. The hoard that was in Fafnir's cave he brought away and he left it in their treasure house. He went into his foster-father's kingdom again, and he saw King Alv and Hiordis, his mother. But he had no memory now of the House of Flame, nor of Brynhild, who waited there for him.

King Giuki died, and Gunnar, Sigurd's sworn brother, became King in his stead. His mother would have him wed, but Gunnar told her he had seen no maiden whom he would choose for his wife.

But when Sigurd and he were together Gunnar would speak of a maiden far away, one whom he often thought on. And one day when Sigurd pressed him to tell who this maiden was, he spoke of one whom the wisest of the poets told of, a maiden in a Hall with a flame around it, a maiden named Brynhild who was guarded by a ring of fire.

Sigurd laughed to think that his shrewd brother was beguiled by one whom he had only heard of. But if he was beguiled by the tale of her, why should he not come to her and wed her? So Sigurd said. Then Gunnar bent to him and asked Sigurd would he aid him to win her? And Sigurd took Gunnar's hand and swore that he would

So they started off for Hindfell, Gunnar and Högni and Sigurd. They rode on until they came in sight of the black walls with the mounting and circling fire around them. No memory had Sigurd of the place. With the flame of eagerness upon his stolid face Gunnar went forward to ride through the ring of fire. He brought Goti, his horse, near the flame, but the horse, for no urging, would go through it. Then Gunnar thought that, mounted on Grani, Sigurd's horse, he could ride through the ring of fire. He mounted Grani and came near to the flaring wall. But Grani, knowing that the one who rode him had fear of the fire, reared up and would not go through it. Only with Sigurd on his back would Grani go through the flame.

Then were the three sworn brethren greatly discomfited. But after they had considered it for long Högni the Wise said: "There is a way to win Brynhild, and that is for Sigurd to change shapes, by the magic of his helmet, with Gunnar. Then Sigurd could ride Grani through the wall of flame and come to Brynhild in Gunnar's shape."

So spoke Högni the Wise, and when he saw his sworn brother's gaze fixed on him in pleading, Sigurd could not but agree to ride through the flame and come to Brynhild in the way he said. And so by the magic of his helmet he changed shapes with Gunnar. Then he mounted Grani and rode to the wall of flame. And Grani, knowing that the one he bore was without fear, rode through the flaring fire. Then Sigurd came into the court-yard of the House of Flame. He dismounted from Grani, and he bade his horse be still.

He went within the Hall and he saw one with a bow in her hands shooting at a mark. She turned to him, and he saw a beautiful stern face, with coils of wondrous, bright-gleaming hair and eyes that were like stars in an unventured-in sea. He thought that the arrow in her hands had been shot through him. But it was not so. Brynhild threw down the bow and came to him with that walk of hers that was as of one moving above the earth. And when she came near and looked upon him she uttered a strange cry.

"Who art thou?" she said. "Who art thou who hast come to me through the wall of flaring fire?"

"Gunnar, son of Giuki, of the race of the Nibelungs," Sigurd said.

"Art thou the bravest one in the world?" she asked.

"I have ridden through the wall of flaring fire to come to thee," Sigurd answered.

"He who has come through that wall of flaring fire may claim me," Brynhild said. "It is written in the runes, and it must be so. But I thought there was only one who would come to me through it." She looked at him, and her eyes had a flame of anger. "Oh, I would strive with thee with warrior-weapons," she cried. Then Sigurd felt her strong hands upon him, and he knew that she was striving to throw him.

They wrestled, and each was so strong that none could move the other. They wrestled, Sigurd the first of heroes, and Brynhild, the Valkyrie. Sigurd got her hand in his in the wrestle. On that hand was a ring, and Sigurd bent back the finger and drew it off.

It was Andvari's ring, the ring he had placed on her finger. And when the ring was taken off it, Brynhild sank down on her knees like one that was strengthless.

Then Sigurd lifted her in his arms and carried her to where Grani, his horse, was waiting. He lifted her across his horse, and he mounted behind her and again he rode through the wall of flame. Högni and Gunnar were waiting, Gunnar in Sigurd's shape. Brynhild did not look upon them, but covered her face with her hands. Then Sigurd took back his own shape, and he rode before Gunnar and Högni to the hall of the Nibelungs.

He went within, and he found Gudrun, his wife, playing with Sigmund, his little son, and he sat beside her and he told her of all that had befallen: how, for the sake of the sworn brotherhood, he had won Brynhild the Valkyrie for Gunnar, and how he had striven with her and had overcome her, and had taken off her finger the ring that he now wore upon his own.

And even as he spoke to his wife the fume of the potion that Gudrun's mother had given him was wearing off, and he had memories of going to the House of Flame on a day that was not this day, and of riding through the wall of fire in his own shape. And again, as on the night when he drank the potion that Queen Grimhild brewed, he became as one whose wits are astray. He stood watching his child as he played, and his wife as she worked at her embroidery, and he was as a man in a dream.

While he was standing there Gunnar and Högni came into the hall of the Nibelungs bringing Brynhild with them. Gudrun rose up to welcome her who came as her brother's bride. Then did Sigurd look on Brynhild and then did he remember all. And when he remembered all such a mighty sigh rose from his heart as burst the links of the mail that was across his breast.


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Rain in Summer

How beautiful is the rain!

After the dust and the heat,

In the broad and fiery street,

In the narrow lane,

How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,

Like the tramp of hoofs!

How it gushes and struggles out

From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the windowpane

It pours and pours;

And swift and wide,

With a muddy tide,

Like a river down the gutter roars

The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks

At the twisted brooks.

He can feel the cool

Breath of each little pool;

His fevered brain

Grows calm again,

And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring school

Come the boys,

With more than their wonted noise

And commotion;

And down the wet streets

Sail their mimic fleets,

Till the treacherous pool

Engulfs them in its whirling

And turbulent ocean.

In the country on every side,

Where far and wide,

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,

Stretches the plain,

To the dry grass and the drier grain

How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land

The toilsome and patient oxen stand;

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,

With their dilated nostrils spread,

They silently inhale

The clover-scented gale,

And the vapors that arise

From the well-watered and smoking soil.

For this rest in the furrow after toil

Their large and lustrous eyes

Seem to thank the Lord,

More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand

From under the sheltering trees,

The farmer sees

His pastures and his fields of grain,

As they bend their tops

To the numberless beating drops

Of the incessant rain.

He counts it as no sin

That he sees therein

Only his own thrift and gain.


  WEEK 33  


Fairy Tales Too Good To Miss—Across the Lake  by Lisa M. Ripperton

The Squire's Bride

T HERE was once a very rich squire who owned a large farm, had plenty of silver at the bottom of his chest, and money in the bank besides; but there was something he had not, and that was a wife.

One day a neighbor's daughter was working for him in the hayfield. The squire liked her very much and, as she was a poor man's daughter, he thought that if he only mentioned marriage she would be more than glad to take him at once. So he said to her, "I've been thinking I want to marry."

"Well, one may think of many things," said the lassie, as she stood there and smiled slyly. She really thought the old fellow ought to be thinking of something that behooved him better than getting married at his time of life.

"Now, you see," he said, "I was thinking that you should be my wife!"

"No, thank you," said she, "and much obliged for the honor."

The squire was not used to being gainsaid, and the more she refused him the more he wanted her. But the lassie would not listen to him at all. So the old man sent for her father and told him that, if he could talk his daughter over and arrange the whole matter for him, he would forgive him the money he had lent him, and would give him the piece of land which lay close to his meadow into the bargain.

"Yes, yes, be sure I'll bring the lass to her senses," said the father. "She is only a child and does not know what is best for her."

But all his coaxing, all his threats and all his talking, went for naught. She would not have the old miser, if he sat buried in gold up to his ears, she said.

The squire waited and waited, but at last he got angry and told the father that he had to settle the matter at once if he expected him to stand by his bargain, for now he would wait no longer.

The man knew no other way out of it, but to let the squire get everything ready for the wedding; then, when the parson and the wedding guests had arrived, the squire would send for the lassie as if she were wanted for some work on the farm. When she got there they would marry her right away, in such a hurry that she would have no time to think it over.

When the guests had arrived the squire called one of his farm lads, told him to run down to his neighbor and ask him to send up immediately what he had promised.

"But if you are not back with her in a twinkling," he said, shaking his fist at him, "I'll——"

He did not finish, for the lad ran off as if he had been shot at.

"My master has sent me to ask for that which you promised him," said the lad, when he got to the neighbor, "but, pray, lose no time, for master is terribly busy to-day."

"Yes, yes! Run down in the meadow and take her with you—there she goes," answered the neighbor.

The lad ran off and when he came to the meadow he found the daughter there raking the hay.

"I am to fetch what your father has promised my master," said the lad.

"Ah, ha!" thought she, "is that what they are up to?" And with a wicked twinkle of the eye, she said, "Oh, yes, it's that little bay mare of ours, I suppose. You had better go and take her. She stands tethered on the other side of the pea field."

The boy jumped on the back of the bay mare and rode home at full gallop.

"Have you got her with you?" asked the squire.

"She is down at the door," said the lad.

"Take her up to the room my mother had," said the squire.

"But, master, how can I?" said the lad.

"Do as I tell you," said the squire. "And if you can't manage her alone, get the men to help you," for he thought the lassie might be stubborn.

When the lad saw his master's face he knew it would be no use to argue. So he went and got all the farm hands together to help him. Some pulled at the head and the forelegs of the mare and others pushed from behind, and at last they got her upstairs and into the room. There lay all the wedding finery ready.

"Well, that's done, master!" said the lad, while he wiped his wet brow, "but it was the worst job I have ever had here on the farm."

"Never mind, never mind, you shall not have done it for nothing," said his master, and he pulled a bright silver coin out of his pocket and gave it to the lad. "Now send the women up to dress her."

"But, I say—master!—"

"None of your talk!" cried the squire. "Tell them to hold her while they dress her, and mind not to forget either wreath or crown."

The lad ran into the kitchen:

"Listen, here, lasses," he called out, "you are to go upstairs and dress up the bay mare as a bride—I suppose master wants to play a joke on his guests."

The women laughed and laughed, but ran upstairs and dressed the bay mare in everything that was there. And then the lad went and told his master that now she was all ready, with wreath and crown and all.

"Very well, bring her down. I will receive her at the door myself," said the squire.

There was a clatter and a thumping on the stairs, for that bride, you know, had no silken slippers on.

When the door was opened and the squire's bride entered the room, you can imagine there was laughing and tittering and grinning enough.

And as for the squire, they say he never went courting again.


Will o' the Wasps  by Margaret Warner Morley

Madam Vespa Starts Her Nest

A S summer advances, warm and sunny, the hornets hang their big paper nests in the trees of the forest. Sometimes, however, they do not go to the woods, but build in sheds or under the eaves of houses. It was in a corner of the barn that Uncle Will discovered a white-faced hornet just starting a nest. Of course he went right off to find Theodore.

"Since you like wasps so well you must get acquainted with hornets and yellow jackets, and if they sting you—why, that will impress them all the better on your memory."

"I have got all over wanting to get stung," said Theodore, hammering his uncle, "but I want to see more wasps at work. Do hornets make mud nests?"

"What a silly young cave-dweller you are! You know perfectly well what kind of nests hornets make. You have seen a dozen hornet's nests if you have seen one."

"Do you mean—are we really to see—can we watch the hornets make one of those big gray nests we find empty in the fall of the year?" and Theodore fairly gasped at the idea.

"At least we can see the very beginning of one," said Uncle Will, laughing at Theodore's excitement. "And here, if I mistake not, is Madam Vespa herself making wood pulp"; and Uncle Will pointed to an old fence rail, on top of which a large hornet was industriously chewing out of the wood.

"My!" said Theodore, "won't she sting us?"

"Not unless we touch her," answered Uncle Will. "You see, she is too busy to think of stinging unless she is obliged to."

"See!" cried Theodore, "she has made a little ball and flown off with it."

"We will watch for her return," said Uncle Will, seating himself comfortably on a pile of boards, while Theodore seated himself comfortably on Uncle Will.

In a few minutes back came the hornet, and soon fell to work chewing the fence rail again, while Uncle Will and Theodore looked on silently for a while. Then Theodore said, "How different hornets are from wasps."

"How different hornets are from other wasps," corrected Uncle Will, "for hornets, you know, are wasps. They belong to the great wasp family, only to a different branch of it from Pelopaeus."

"What kind of wasps are they?" asked Theodore; and Uncle Will replied:

"We might call them paper-makers. Vespa is their family name. Vespa Maculata is the name of the white-faced one, if you want to know it all."

"Is she named that because of her white face?" asked Theodore, remembering the meaning of Pelopaeus.

"Perhaps because her face is spotted," said Uncle Will, "for maculata means spotted. But see, while we have been talking she has finished her little ball and gone."


  WEEK 33  


Hurlbut's Story of the Bible  by Jesse Lyman Hurlbut

Some Parables in Perea

Luke xii: 1, to xv: 32.

Part 2 of 2

While Jesus was teaching, many of the publicans, those who took up the taxes from the people, came to hear him; and many others who were called "sinners" by the Pharisees and the Scribes. The enemies of Jesus said:

"This man likes to have sinners come to see him, and he eats with them."

Then Jesus spoke a parable called "The Lost Sheep," to show why he was willing to talk with sinners. He said:

"What man of you, who has a hundred sheep; if one of them is lost, does not leave his ninety and nine sheep in the field, and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders, glad to see his lost sheep again. And when he comes home he calls together his friends and neighbors, and says to them:

" 'Be glad with me; for I have found my sheep that was lost!'

"Even so," said Jesus, "there is joy in heaven over one sinner who has turned to God, more than over ninety and nine good men, who do not need to turn from their sins."


The shepherd goes after the lost sheep

Jesus gave to the people also the parable of "The Lost Piece of Money." He said:

"If any woman has ten pieces of silver, and loses one piece, will she not light a lamp, and sweep her house carefully until she finds it? And when she has found it, she calls together her friends and her neighbors, saying:

" 'Be glad with me; for I have found the piece of silver that I had lost.'

"Even so, there is joy among the angels of God over one sinner that turns from his sins."


The lost piece of silver

Then Jesus told another parable, that one called "The Parable of the Prodigal Son." A prodigal is one who spends everything that he has, as did the young man in this parable. Jesus said, "There was once a man who had two sons. The younger of his sons said to his father:

" 'Father, give to me the share that will come to me, of what you own.'

"Then the father divided all that he had between his two sons; and not many days after the younger son took his share, and went away into a far country; and there he wasted it all in wild and wicked living. And when he had spent all there arose a mighty famine of food in that country; and he began to be in want.

"And he went to work for one of the men in that land; and this man sent him into the fields to feed his hogs. And the young man was so hungry that he would have filled himself with the husks that were fed to the hogs; and no one gave anything to him. At last the young man began to think of his father's house; and he said to himself:

" 'How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, while I am dying here with hunger! I will arise, and will go to my father, and will say to him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight. I am no more worthy to be called your son; let me be one of your hired servants.' "

"And he rose up, to go back to his father's house. But while he was yet afar off, his father saw him, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him:

" 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight. I am no more worthy to be called your son—'

"But before he could say any more, his father called to the servants, and said:

" 'Bring out quickly the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; and bring the fatted calf, and kill it, and let us eat and make merry; for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' Now his elder son was in the field; and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called to him one of the servants, and asked what these things might be. And the servant said to him:

" 'Your brother has come; and your father has killed the fatted calf, and is having a feast, because he is at home safe and sound.'

"But the elder brother was angry, and would not go in; and his father came out and urged him. But he answered his father, and said:

" 'I have served you for these many years; and I have never disobeyed your commands; and yet you never gave me even a kid, that I might make merry with my friends. But when this your son has come, who has wasted your living with wicked people, you killed for him the fatted calf!'

"And the father said to him:

" 'My son, you are always with me, and all that I have is yours. But it was fitting that we should make merry and be glad; for this your brother was dead, and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' "

By these parables Jesus showed that he came not to seek those who thought themselves so good that they did not need him; but those who were the sinful and the needy.


The father fell on his son's neck


The Princess and the Goblin  by George MacDonald

The Goblins in the King's House

When Curdie fell asleep he began at once to dream. He thought he was ascending the mountain-side from the mouth of the mine, whistling and singing "Ring, dod, bang!"  when he came upon a woman and child who were lost; and from that point he went on dreaming all that had happened since he met the princess and Lootie; how he had watched the goblins, and been taken by them, how he had been rescued by the princess; everything, indeed, until he was wounded, and imprisoned by the men-at-arms. And now he thought he was lying wide awake where they had laid him, when suddenly he heard a great thundering sound.

"The cobs are coming!" he said. "They didn't believe a word I told them! The cobs'll be carrying off the princess from under their stupid noses! But they shan't! that they shan't!"

He jumped up, as he thought, and began to dress, but, to his dismay, found that he was still lying in bed.

"Now then, I will!" he said. "Here goes! I am  up now!"

But yet again he found himself snug in bed. Twenty times he tried, and twenty times he failed; for in fact he was not awake, only dreaming that he was. At length in an agony of despair, fancying he heard the goblins all over the house, he gave a great cry. Then there came, as he thought, a hand upon the lock of the door. It opened, and, looking up, he saw a lady with white hair, carrying a silver box in her hand, enter the room. She came to his bed, he thought, stroked his head and face with cool, soft hands, took the dressing from his leg, rubbed it with something that smelled like roses, and then waved her hands over him three times. At the last wave of her hands everything vanished, he felt himself sinking into the profoundest slumber, and remembered nothing more until he awoke in earnest.

The setting moon was throwing a feeble light through the casement, and the house was full of uproar. There was soft heavy multitudinous stamping, a clashing and clanging of weapons, the voices of men and the cries of women, mixed with a hideous bellowing, which sounded victorious. The cobs were in the house! He sprang from his bed, hurried on some of his clothes, not forgetting his shoes, which were armed with nails; then spying an old hunting-knife, or short sword, hanging on the wall, he caught it, and rushed down the stairs, guided by the sounds of strife, which grew louder and louder.

When he reached the ground floor he found the whole place swarming. All the goblins of the mountain seemed gathered there. He rushed amongst them, shouting—

"One, two,

Hit and hew!

Three, four,

Blast and bore!"

and with every rhyme he came down a great stamp upon a foot, cutting at the same time at their faces—executing, indeed, a sword dance of the wildest description. Away scattered the goblins in every direction,—into closets, up stairs, into chimneys, up on rafters, and down to the cellars. Curdie went on stamping and slashing and singing, but saw nothing of the people of the house until he came to the great hall, in which, the moment he entered it, arose a great goblin shout. The last of the men-at-arms, the captain himself, was on the floor, buried beneath a wallowing crowd of goblins. For, while each knight was busy defending himself as well as he could, by stabs in the thick bodies of the goblins, for he had soon found their heads all but invulnerable, the queen had attacked his legs and feet with her horrible granite shoe, and he was soon down; but the captain had got his back to the wall and stood out longer. The goblins would have torn them all to pieces, but the king had given orders to carry them away alive, and over each of them, in twelve groups, was standing a knot of goblins, while as many as could find room were sitting upon their prostrate bodies.

Curdie burst in dancing and gyrating and stamping and singing like a small incarnate whirlwind,

"Where 'tis all a hole, sir,

Never can be holes:

Why should their shoes have soles, sir,

When they've got no souls?

"But she upon her foot, sir,

Has a granite shoe:

The strongest leather boot, sir,

Six would soon be through."

The queen gave a howl of rage and dismay; and before she recovered her presence of mind, Curdie, having begun with the group nearest him, had eleven of the knights on their legs again.

"Stamp on their feet!" he cried, as each man rose, and in a few minutes the hall was nearly empty, the goblins running from it as fast as they could, howling and shrieking and limping, and cowering every now and then as they ran to cuddle their wounded feet in their hard hands, or to protect them from the frightful stamp-stamp of the armed men.

And now Curdie approached the group which, trusting in the queen and her shoe, kept their guard over the prostrate captain. The king sat on the captain's head, but the queen stood in front, like an infuriated cat, with her perpendicular eyes gleaming green, and her hair standing half up from her horrid head. Her heart was quaking, however, and she kept moving about her skin-shod foot with nervous apprehension. When Curdie was within a few paces, she rushed at him, made one tremendous stamp at his opposing foot, which happily he withdrew in time, and caught him round the waist, to dash him on the marble floor. But just as she caught him, he came down with all the weight of his iron-shod shoe upon her skin-shod foot, and with a hideous howl she dropped him, squatted on the floor and took her foot in both her hands. Meanwhile the rest rushed on the king and the bodyguard, sent them flying, and lifted the prostrate captain, who was all but pressed to death. It was some moments before he recovered breath and consciousness.

"Where's the princess?" cried Curdie, again and again.

No one knew, and off they all rushed in search of her.

Through every room in the house they went, but nowhere was she to be found. Neither was one of the servants to be seen. But Curdie, who had kept to the lower part of the house, which was now quiet enough, began to hear a confused sound as of a distant hubbub, and set out to find where it came from. The noise grew as his sharp ears guided him to a stair and so to the wine cellar. It was full of goblins, whom the butler was supplying with wine as fast as he could draw it.


While the queen and her party had encountered the men-at-arms, Harelip with another company had gone off to search the house. They captured every one they met, and when they could find no more, they hurried away to carry them safe to the caverns below. But when the butler, who was amongst them, found that their path lay through the wine cellar, he bethought himself of persuading them to taste the wine, and, as he had hoped, they no sooner tasted than they wanted more. The routed goblins, on their way below, joined them, and when Curdie entered they were all, with outstretched hands, in which were vessels of every description, from saucepan to silver cup, pressing around the butler, who sat at the tap of a huge cask, filling and filling. Curdie cast one glance around the place before commencing his attack, and saw in the farthest corner a terrified group of the domestics unwatched, but cowering without courage to attempt their escape. Amongst them was the terror-stricken face of Lootie; but nowhere could he see the princess. Seized with the horrible conviction that Harelip had already carried her off, he rushed amongst them, unable for wrath to sing any more, but stamping and cutting with greater fury than ever.

"Stamp on their feet; stamp on their feet!" he shouted, and in a moment the goblins were disappearing through the hole in the floor like rats and mice.

They could not vanish so fast, however, but that many more goblin feet had to go limping back over the underground ways of the mountain that morning.

Presently, however, they were reinforced from above by the king and his party, with the redoubtable queen at their head. Finding Curdie again busy amongst her unfortunate subjects, she rushed at him once more with the rage of despair, and this time gave him a bad bruise on the foot. Then a regular stamping fight got up between them, Curdie with the point of his hunting-knife keeping her from clasping her mighty arms about him, as he watched his opportunity of getting once more a good stamp at her skin-shod foot. But the queen was more wary as well as more agile than hitherto.

The rest meantime, finding their adversary thus matched for the moment, paused in their headlong hurry, and turned to the shivering group of women in the corner. As if determined to emulate his father and have a sun-woman of some sort to share his future throne, Harelip rushed at them, caught up Lootie and sped with her to the hole. She gave a great shriek, and Curdie heard her, and saw the plight she was in. Gathering all his strength, he gave the queen a sudden cut across the face with his weapon, came down, as she started back, with all his weight on the proper foot, and sprang to Lootie's rescue. The prince had two defenceless feet, and on both of them Curdie stamped just as he reached the hole. He dropped his burden and rolled shrieking into the earth. Curdie made one stab at him as he disappeared, caught hold of the senseless Lootie, and having dragged her back to the corner, there mounted guard over her, preparing once more to encounter the queen. Her face streaming with blood, and her eyes flashing green lightning through it, she came on with her mouth open and her teeth grinning like a tiger's, followed by the king and her bodyguard of the thickest goblins. But the same moment in rushed the captain and his men, and ran at them stamping furiously. They dared not encounter such an onset. Away they scurried, the queen foremost. Of course the right thing would have been to take the king and queen prisoners, and hold them hostages for the princess, but they were so anxious to find her that no one thought of detaining them until it was too late.

Having thus rescued the servants, they set about searching the house once more. None of them could give the least information concerning the princess. Lootie was almost silly with terror, and, although scarcely able to walk, would not leave Curdie's side for a single moment. Again he allowed the others to search the rest of the house—where, except a dismayed goblin lurking here and there, they found no one—while he requested Lootie to take him to the princess's room. She was as submissive and obedient as if he had been the king. He found the bed-clothes tossed about, and most of them on the floor, while the princess's garments were scattered all over the room, which was in the greatest confusion. It was only too evident that the goblins had been there, and Curdie had no longer any doubt that she had been carried off at the very first of the inroad. With a pang of despair he saw how wrong they had been in not securing the king and queen and prince; but he determined to find and rescue the princess as she had found and rescued him, or meet the worst fate to which the goblins could doom him.


----- Aug 14 -----