The New McGuffey Fourth Reader, W. H. McGuffey [reading like a writer txt] 📗

was the author of “The Old Oaken Bucket”? What does the poem describe? and what feeling does it express?

 

THE FARMER AND THE FOX.

By JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.

A farmer, whose poultry-yard had suffered severely from the foxes, succeeded at last in catching one in a trap. “Ah, you rascal!” said he, as he saw him struggling, “I’ll teach you to steal my fat geese!—you shall hang on the tree yonder, and your brothers shall see what comes of thieving.”

The farmer was twisting a halter to do what he threatened, when the fox, whose tongue had helped him in hard pinches before, thought there could be no harm in trying whether it might not do him one more good turn.

“You will hang me,” he said, “to frighten my brother foxes. On the word of a fox, they won’t care; they’ll come and look at me, but they will dine at your expense before they go home again.”

“Then I shall hang you for yourself, as a rogue and a rascal,” said the farmer.

“I am only what nature chose to make me,” the fox answered. “I didn’t make myself.”

“You stole my geese,” said the man.

“Why did nature make me like geese, then?” said the fox. “Live and let live; give me my share, and I won’t touch yours.”

“I don’t understand your fine talk,” answered the farmer; “but I know that you are a thief, and that you deserve to be hanged.”

“His head is too thick to let me catch him so,” thought the fox; “I wonder if his heart is any softer! You are taking away the life of a fellow-creature,” he said; “that’s a responsibility—life is a curious thing, and who knows what comes after it?

“You say I am a rogue—I say I am not; but at any rate, I ought not to be hanged—for if I am not, I don’t deserve it; and if I am, you should give me time to repent! I have him now,” thought the fox; “let him. get out if he can.”

“Why, what would you have me do with you?” said the man.

“My notion is that you should let me go, and give me a lamb, or goose or two, every month, and then I could live without stealing; but perhaps you know better; my education may have been neglected; you should shut me up, and take care of me, and teach me. Who knows but I may turn into a dog? Stranger things than this have happened.”

“Very pretty,” said the farmer; “we have dogs enough, and more, too, than we can take care of, without you. No, no, Master Fox, I have caught you, and I am determined that you shall swing. There will be one rogue less in the world, anyhow.”

“It is mere hate and unchristian vengeance,” said the fox.

“No, friend,” the farmer answered; “I don’t hate you, and I don’t want to revenge myself on you; but you and I can’t get on together, and I think I am of more importance in this world than you. If nettles and thistles grow in my cabbage garden, I don’t try to persuade them to grow into cabbages. I just dig them up.

“I don’t hate them; on the contrary, I feel a sense of pity for them. But I feel somehow that they mustn’t hinder me with my cabbages, and that I must put them away; and so, my poor friend, I am sorry for you, but I am afraid you must swing.”

 

HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

� By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them. Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.

There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, “Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!” Lulled him into slumber, singing, “Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Who is this that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!”

Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah with fiery tresses; Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war clubs, Flaring far away to northward In the frosty nights of winter; Showed the broad white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows.

At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine trees, Heard the lapping of the waters, Sounds of music, words of wonder; “Minne-wawa” said the pine trees, “Mudway-ashka!” said the water.

Saw the firefly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: “Wah-wah-taysee, little firefly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!”

Saw the moon rise from the water, Rippling, rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered: “Once a warrior, very angry, Seized his grandmother and threw her Up into the sky at midnight; Right against the moon he threw her. ‘Tis her body that you see there.”

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered: “‘Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; All the wild flowers of the forest, All the lilies of the prairie, When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us.”

When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing, in the forest, “What is that?” he cried in terror, “What is that,” he said, “Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered. “That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding, at each other.”

Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in summer, Where they hid themselves in winter, Talked with them whene’er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha’s Chickens.”

Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges. Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene’er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha’s Brothers.”

Then Iagoo the great boaster, He the marvelous story-teller, He the traveler and the talker, He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha; From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, And the cord he made of deerskin.

Then he said to Hiawatha: “Go, my son, into the forest, Where the red deer herd together, Kill for us a famous roebuck, Kill for us a deer with antlers!”

Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows; And the birds sang round him, o’er him “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!” Sang the robin, sang the bluebird, “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”

And the rabbit from his pathway Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches, Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter, “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”

But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer; On their tracks his eyes were fastened, Leading downward to the river, To the ford across the river, And as one in slumber walked he.

Hidden in the alder bushes, There he waited till the deer came, Till he saw two antlers lifted, Saw two eyes look from the thicket, Saw two nostrils point to windward, And a deer came down the pathway, Flecked with leafy light and shadow. And his heart within him fluttered Trembled like the leaves above him, Like the birch-leaf palpitated, As the deer came down the pathway.

Then, upon one knee uprising, Hiawatha aimed an arrow; Scarce a twig moved with his motion, Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, But the wary roebuck darted, Stamped with all his hoofs together, Listened with one foot uplifted, Leaped as if to meet the arrow; Ah! the singing, fatal arrow, Like a wasp it buzzed, and stung him.

Dead he lay there in the forest, By the ford across the river; Beat his timid heart no longer; But the heart of Hiawatha Throbbed and shouted and exulted, As he bore the red deer homeward.

 

DEFINITIONS:—Sinews, tendons. Tresses, long, flowing hair. Ghosts, spirits. Lodges, huts, dwellings. Wigwam, an Indian hut or dwelling. Antlers, the horns of the deer. Palpitated, fluttered, trembled. Fatal, causing death.

 

AT RUGBY SCHOOL.

BY THOMAS HUGHES.

The little schoolboys went quietly to their own beds, and began undressing and talking to one another in whispers: while the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one another’s beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off.

Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could hardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bottom of his bed, talking and laughing.

“Please, Brown,” he whispered, “may I wash my face and hands?”

“Of course, if you like,” said Tom, staring: “that’s your wash-hand stand under the window, second from your bed. You’ll have to go down for more water in the morning if you use it all.”

And on he went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out to his wash-hand stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing for a moment on himself the attention of the room.

On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and undressing, and put on his nightgown. He then looked round more nervously than ever. Two or three of the little boys were already in bed, sitting up with their chins on their knees. The light burned clear, the noise went on.

It was a trying moment for the poor, little, lonely boy; however, this time he did not ask Tom what he might or might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done every day from his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry and beareth the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in agony.

Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that his back was toward Arthur, and he did not see what had happened, and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed and sneered, and a big, brutal fellow, who was standing in the middle of the room, picked up a slipper and shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him a sniveling young shaver.

Then Tom saw the whole, and the next moment the boot he had just pulled off flew straight at the head of the bully, who had just time to throw up his arm and catch it on his elbow. “Brown, you rascal! What do you mean by that?” roared he, stamping with pain.”

“Never mind what I mean,” said Tom, stepping on