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

to the floor, every drop of blood in his body tingling: “if any fellow wants the other boot, he knows how to get it.”

What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and the rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing there, and the old janitor had put out the candle in another minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting the door with his usual, “Good night, gen’l’m’n.”

There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken to heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom. For some time his excitement and the flood of memories which chased one another through his brain, kept him from thinking or resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leapt, and he could hardly keep himself from springing out of bed and rushing about the room.

Then the thought of his own mother came across him, and the promise he had made at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bedside and give himself up to his Father before he laid his head on the pillow, from which it might never rise; and he lay down gently, and cried as if his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old.

It was no light act of courage in those days for a little fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later, when Arnold’s manly piety had begun to leaven the school, the tables turned; before he died, in the Schoolhouse at least, and I believe in the other houses, the rule was the other way.

But poor Tom had come to school in other times. The first few nights after he came he did not kneel down because of the noise, but sat up in bed till the candle was out, and then stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one should find him out. So did many another poor little fellow.

Then he began to think that he might just as well say his prayers in bed, and then that is did not matter whether he was kneeling, or sitting, or lying down. And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all who will not confess their Lord before men; and for the last year he had probably not said his prayers in earnest a dozen times.

Poor Tom! the first and bitterest feeling, which was like to break his heart, was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others which he loathed was brought in and burned in on his own soul. He had lied to his mother, to his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it? And then the poor, little, weak boy, whom he had pitied and almost scorned for his weakness, had done that which he, braggart as he was, dared not do.

The first dawn of comfort came to him in vowing to himself that he would stand by that boy through thick and thin, and cheer him, and help him, and bear his burdens, for the good deed done that night. Then he resolved to write home next day and tell his mother all, and what a coward her son had been. And then peace came to him as he resolved, lastly, to bear his testimony next morning.

The morning would be harder than the night to begin with, but he felt that he could not afford to let one chance slip. Several times he faltered, for the Devil showed him, first, all his old friends calling him “Saint,” and “Squaretoes,” and a dozen hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would be misunderstood, and he would be left alone with the new boy; whereas, it was his duty to keep all means of influence, that he might do good to the largest number.

And then came the more subtle temptation, “shall I not be showing myself braver than others by doing this? Have I any right to begin it now? Ought I not rather to pray in my own study, letting other boys know that I do so, and trying to lead them to it, while in public, at least, I should go on as I have done?” However, his good angel was too strong that night, and he turned on his side and slept, tired of trying to reason, but resolved to follow the impulse which had been so strong, and in which he had found peace.

Next morning he was up and washed and dressed, all but his jacket and waistcoat, just as the ten minutes’ bell began to ring, and then in the face of the whole room he knelt down to pray. Not five words could he say,—the bell mocked him; he was listening for every whisper in the room,—what were they all thinking of him?

He was ashamed to go on kneeling, ashamed to rise from his knees. At last, as it were from his inmost heart, a still, small voice seemed to breathe forth the words of the publican, “God be merciful to me a sinner!” He repeated them over and over, and rose from his knees comforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole world.

It was not needed: two other boys besides Arthur had already followed his example, and he went down to the great school with a glimmering of another lesson in his heart,—the lesson that he who has conquered his own coward spirit has conquered the whole outward world; and also that however we may fancy ourselves alone on the side of good, the King and Lord of men is nowhere without his witnesses.

He found, too, how greatly he had exaggerated the effect to be produced by his act. For a few nights there was a sneer or a laugh when he knelt down, but this passed off soon, and one by one all the other boys but three or four followed the lead.

—Adapted from “School Days at Rugby.”

 

DEFINITIONS:—Waistcoat, a vest. Overwhelmed, overcome, cast down. Novelty, newness. Ablution, the act of washing. Sneered, showed contempt. Bully, a noisy, blustering fellow, more insolent than courageous. Tingling, having a thrilling feeling. Leaven, to make a general change, to imbue. Loathed, hated, detested. Braggart, a boaster. Vowing, making a solemn promise to God. Testimony, open declaration. Faltered, hesitated. Motive, that which causes action, cause, reason. Subtle, artful, cunning.

NOTES.—“Rugby” the scene of this story, is a celebrated grammar school which was established at the town of Rugby, England, in 1667.

Sixth-form boy. The school was graded into six classes or “forms,” and the boys of the highest, or sixth, form were expected to keep the smaller boys under them in order.

 

SOMEBODY’S DARLING.

BY MARIA LA COSTE.

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody’s darling was borne one day;

Somebody’s darling, so young and brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,

The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; Pale are the lips of delicate mold Somebody’s darling is dying now.

Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow, Brush all the wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands, on his bosom now; Somebody’s darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody’s sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take; They were somebody’s pride, you know;

Somebody’s hand has rested there; Was it a mother’s, soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in the waves of light?

God knows best! he was somebody’s love. Somebody’s heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.

Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay; Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody’s watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies, with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, childlike lips apart.

Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab at his head, “Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”

 

DEFINITIONS:—Bayonet, a short, pointed iron weapon, fitted to the muzzle of a gun. Darling, one dearly loved. Lingering, protracted. Matted, twisted together. Delicate, soft and fair. Mold, shape. Wandering, straying. Enshrined, cherished. Wafted, caused to float. Yearning, being eager, longing. Tenderly, gently, kindly.

 

THE CAPTIVE.

BY JOHN R. MUSICK.

There is no more beautiful and thrilling tale of early pioneer days than the story of Helen Patterson. She was born in Kentucky; but while she was still a child her parents removed to St. Louis County, Missouri, and lived for a time in a settlement called Cold Water, which is in St. Ferdinand township. About the year 1808 or 1809, her father took his family to the St. Charles district, and settled only a few miles from the home of the veteran backwoodsman, Daniel Boone.

At the time of this last removal, Helen was about eighteen years of age. She was a very religious girl, and had been taught to believe that whatever she prayed for would be granted.

Shortly after the family had settled in their new home, bands of prowling savages began to roam about the neighborhood. The Indians would plunder the cabins of the settlers during their absence, and drive away their cattle, horses, and hogs.

One day business called all the Patterson family to the village, except Helen. She was busily engaged in spinning, when the house was surrounded by nine Indians. Resistance was useless. She did not attempt to escape or even cry out for help; for one of the savages who spoke English gave her to understand that she would be killed if she did so.

She was told that she must follow the Indians. They took such things as they could conveniently carry, and with their captive set off on foot through the forest, in a northwestern direction. The shrewd girl had brought a ball of yarn with her, and from this she occasionally broke off a bit and dropped it at the side of the path, as a guide to her father and friends, who she knew would soon be in pursuit.

This came very near being fatal to Helen, for one of the Indians observed what she was doing, and raised his hatchet to brain her. The others interceded, but the ball of yarn was taken from her, and she was closely watched lest she might resort to some other device for marking a trail.

It was early in the morning when Helen was captured. Her parents were expected to return to the cabin by noon, and she reasoned that they would be in pursuit before the Indians had gone very far. As the savages were on foot, and her father would no doubt follow them on horseback, he might overtake them before dark. The uneasiness expressed by her captors during the afternoon encouraged her in the belief that her friends were in pursuit.

A little before sunset, two of the Indians went back to reconnoiter, and the other seven, with the captive, continued on in the forest. Shortly after sunset, the two Indians who had fallen behind joined the others, and all held a short consultation, which the white girl could not understand.

The conference lasted but a few moments, and then the savages hastened forward with Helen to a creek, where the banks were sloping, and the water shallow enough for them to wade the stream. By the time they had crossed, it