澳大利亚学生文学读本（第6册）(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：澳大利亚维多利亚教育部

出版社：天津人民出版社

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澳大利亚学生文学读本（第6册）试读：

LESSON 1 SIR ROGER AT CHURCH

I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits,to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard as a citizen does upon ’Change, the whole parish politics being generally discussed in that place either after the sermon or before the bell rings.

My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome pulpit cloth,and railed in the communion table at his own expense. He has often told me that. at his coming to his estate, he found his parishioners very irregular; and that, in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a common prayer-book; and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the psalms; upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard.

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for, if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and, if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself or sends his servant to them. Several of the old knight’s peculiarities break out upon these occasions. Some- times he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing psalms half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces“Amen!” three or four times to the same prayer; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing.

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend in the midst of the service calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his behaviour; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities.

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants that stand bowing to him on each side;and every now and then inquires how such a one’s wife,or mother, or son, or father is, whom he does not see in church; which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent.

The chaplain has often told me that, upon a catechizing day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement; and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk’s place; and, that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church service, has promised, upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit.JOSE PH ADDISON.Author.—JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) is one of the earliest and most famous of English essayists. “ The Spectator,” a noble monument to his success as a light essayist, as an “ abstract and brief chronicle”of the manners of the time is incomparable. His criticism,though not profound, shows sobriety and good sense. His style reflects a singular grace and breeding, yet a subtle irony is conveyed in his beautifully lucid sentences.“ The Spectator ” and“ The Tatler ”contain most of his best essays. His poetry is not very important;perhaps his best-known verses are those beginning thus:” The spacious firmament on high .General notes.—Sir Roger de Coverley, as pictured in various numbers el Addison’s “ Spectator,” was the beau-ideal of an amiable English country gentleman in the reign of Queen Anne. He was courteous to his neighbours, kind to his servants, loving to his family. He had charming little follies and eccentricities, which endear him still more. See how many examples you can find in “Sir Roger at Church” of his whimsicalities; his pardonable vanity, and his delightful pomposity.

LESSON 2 WANDERERS

LESSON 3 CHRISTMAS IN THE EARLY DAYS

Though the bush may lack the attractions, the variety of sights and entertainments, and the festivities and general gaiety that the cities offer, Christmas-tide brings good cheer to the denizens of the ranges and forests, and is looked forward to and enjoyed in the humblest places.

It is a time when the scattered flocks foregather, from far and wide, under the old roof-tree. There are innumer- able homes from which many have gone out to battle with the world, as shearers, drovers, carriers, fencers, tank- sinkers,station hands, prospectors, miners, stockmen, and bush rouseabouts, leaving only the old couple and probably one or two of the younger members of the family. The “boys” may be working within easy reach, and they may be hundreds of miles’ away. In either case, “mother” expects them home.

Preparations are made weeks beforehand; Willie and Jim and Bob are daily discussed, and surprises are planned for them. Their rooms are done up and readied, and the old paddock is made doubly secure for their horses, which, being strange, “ are sure to try to make back.” Chips and bones,leaves and pieces of paper are raked up and burnt in little heaps; the garden is trimmed up; the house is painted or whitewashed outside; the steps and fireplace receive similar attention; and the inside walls are papered, if only with newspapers.

The sentiments of the old people in this respect are shared to a great extent by the young, whose thoughts turn now to home and kindred ties more than at any other time of the year; and some will bridge the gulf that lies between them in spite of all obstacles.

One Christmas Eve, a girl who had been at service at Winton (Queensland) started by coach for Boulia, where her parents lived. There had been heavy rains on the way, and on reaching Caddie Creek it was found impossible to cross the flood by vehicle, and the horses were taken out. But the girl was determined not to turn back, and she was equally resolved not to remain on the bank. She won the sympathy of the driver and a male passenger by telling them that she had never missed a Christmas dinner at home, and she did not want to miss this one. The men then fastened a strap round their bodies and, with the girl clinging to it between them,successfully negotiated a seventy yards’ swim. At Middleton,some miles farther on, she swam another flooded creek on horse- back, and, drenched and mud-covered, she eventually reached Boulia in time to participate in the all-important function.

One of the principal features of the time is the gay array of bushes that deck the veranda-posts of the houses. In towns men go round with dray-loads of green bushes, selling them for sixpence or a shilling a bundle; but, outside, they are cut and dragged home by the children. A big armful is lashed to each post till the veranda is hidden behind a wall of greenery.Even the selector’s hut, standing alone in a wilderness of trees, is annually decorated in this way; and the prospectors’camp, pitched where no one passes, and where the usual greetings are exchanged only between the two mates, sports an emerald cluster on the pole for “auld lang syne.”

Another custom favoured by those who still cling to old-world associations is the hanging of the mistletoe from the centre of the ceiling. Any bush does for a mistletoe in Australia. The bushman knows nothing of the old traditions that enshrine the bough; in his home, it is suspended mainly to minimize the annoyance caused by flies settling on the table.

More important than the mistletoe to him and his sister is the Christmas mail, which brings the pictorial annual,seasonable presents, cards, and letters from far-off friends and relatives. The arrival of the mailman, jogging along lonely tracks, is at all times welcome;but now he comes under the halo of a bush Santa Claus. The annuals are more appreciated by bush people than by city folk; the whole family will gather round, with heads clustered together, peering over one another’s shoulders, while one turns the pages.

On the goldfields, the miners take delight in secretly introducing a few small nuggets into the plum-duff—and they do not go round the table after dinner collecting them as some women do the coins. The gold becomes the property of the one who finds it, and it is made into pins, rings, and brooches. This habit of “salting” the pudding induces a good deal of prospecting, and, as the prospectors have to eat up the“tailings,” it is probably the reason that so many people don’t feel very well after the Christmas feast.

Hop-beer, ginger-beer, and honey-mead are also made,and stored away in kegs and bottles. “Bee-trees” are plentiful in many parts of the bush, and a good nest or two is usually left for December, when the trees are felled and the bees robbed. The mead is made from the comb after the honey has been drained out of it. Sarsaparilla is another extensivelymade drink, the vines growing plentifully among the ranges.The women and children are fond of these home-made drinks, but father is not always so enthusiastic.

A day or two before Christmas, the wanderers return.First comes Jim, cantering up the track with a valise strapped in front of him and a smoke-cloud trailing behind, while the old folks and the little ones are watching, with glad faces,from the veranda. Towards sundown, Bill appears on the hill in another direction, and comes jogging along quietly,with a well-loaded pack-horse, and with quart-pots, bells,and hobble-chains rattling and jingling to every stride. The children run shouting to meet him, and some ride back behind him, and some perch on the pack. They help him to unsaddle and carry his pack-bags in; they take his tired horses to water, and lead them through the slip-rails, and let them go in the paddock with a gentle pat on the neck. The sun is down,perhaps, when Bob comes plodding slowly along through the trees, carrying his swag, and swinging a billy in one hand,while he shakes a little bush before his face with the other to keep the flies away.

“Poor old Bob,” says mother, “still walking!” The youngsters race down the road again, and they carry his billy and tucker-bag for him, and hang on to his hands as though helping the tired traveller home.

They all talk to him at once, their eyes dancing with excitement, telling him that Jim and Willie are home, and that Strawberry has a calf, and the speckly hen has ten chickens. Bob listens with a dry smile as he plods along,recalling when he, too, was interested in Strawberry and the hens. When he reaches the door, the smile broadens, and he says, “Merry Christmas!” and throws his swag down against the wall. They crowd round him, wringing his hands till he feels tired, and ask him how he’s been getting on. “All right,”says Bob, simply.

Though Bob has “humped bluey” home, he has probably as many pound notes in his pockets as those who came in creaking saddles, and he feels well repaid for his long tramp and his many months of hard work and battling in the backblocks when he observes the pleased look on his mother’s face as he hands her the bulk of his savings.

The brothers “ swap” yarns till late at night, telling of their experiences and adventures by flood and field; and each has some curiosity to show, brought home as a token or keepsake from strange and far-off parts of the bush. The old home,which has so long been dull and quiet, now rings with merry laughter and glad voices, and when Bob dances a jig the very roof shakes and the crockery rattles loudly on the dresser.There is an hour or two’s dancing, may be, to the strains of the violin. Then somebody goes off for the Jackson girls and the Maloneys and the Andersons, and old acquaintances are renewed-likewise the dancing.

On Christmas Eve the boys go out with the guns for scrub turkeys, pigeons, and ducks. Often they spend the whole day shooting in the scrubs and round the swamps and lagoons;and they come home well laden with game. All hands and the cook turn to after tea and pluck the birds. The bushman’s table is very rarely without game at this time.

Christmas Day is quiet and generally dull—a day of rest;but Boxing Day makes up for it with a quantum of sport and excitement. There are usually horse-races somewhere in the vicinity, or a cricket match between Wombat Hill and Emu Creek.

There are many persons in the bush every year to whom the festive season is only a memory. These are men camped in lonely parts, “batching” at the station out-camps and boundary-riders’ huts. Some of them have been so long alone that, though they know that Christmas is somewhere near,they could not tell you whether it is two days ahead or two days past. I have often found man keeping up Saturday or Monday for the Sabbath, even within a few miles of town.EDWABD S.SORENSONAuthor.—EDWARD SYLVESTER SORENSON was born in New South Wales in 1869. He contributed to metropolitan newspapers when about 25,chiefly verse and stories of bush life. and entered upon writing as s profession in 1901. Author of The Squatter’s Ward, Quinton’s Life in the Australian Backblocks, Friends and Foes in the Australian Bush, Chips and Splinters, Spotty the Bower Bird, Murty Brown, etc.General notes.—This account of Christmas in the Early Days will come nearer home to adults than to young readers, for customs change,though they linger longest in remote places. What are the newer bush customs that Mr. Sorenson has not noticed？Do all that he has mentioned survive？Is he as accurate as he is interesting？What is the main motive that brings the family together？What fresh links has the bush with the city？Write an essay on Christmas in the City.

LESSON 4 LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR

LESSON 5 A BUSH FIRE

No rain yet. and we were in the end of January; the fountains of heaven were dried up. But now all round the northern horizon the bush fires burnt continually, a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night.

Nearer by night, like an enemy creeping up to a beleaguered town. The weather had been very still for some time. and we took the precaution to burn great strips of grass all round the paddocks to the north; but, in spite of all our precautions, I knew that should a strong wind come on from that quarter nothing short of a miracle would save us.

On the third of February the heat was worse than ever,but there was no wind; and as the sun went down among the lurid smoke, red as blood, I thought I made out a few white, brush-shaped clouds rising in the north.

Jim and I sat very late, not talking much. We knew that if we were to be burnt out our loss would be very heavy; but we thanked God that even were we to lose everything it would not be irreparable, and that we should still be wealthy. Our brood mares and racing stock were our greatest anxiety. We had a good stack of hay, by which we might keep them alive for another month, supposing all the grass was burnt; but, if we lost that, our horses would probably die. I said at last—

“Jim, we may make up our minds to have the run swept.The fire is burning up now.”

“Yes, it is brightening,” said he; “but it must be twenty miles off still, and if it comes down with a gentle wind we shall save the paddocks and hay. There is a good deal of grass in the lower paddock. I am glad we had the forethought not to feed it down. Well, fire or no fire, I shall go to bed.”

We went to bed, and, in spite of anxiety, mosquitoes, and heat, I fell asleep. In the grey morning I was awakened, nearly suffocated, by a dull, continuous roar. It was the wind in the chimney. The north wind, so long imprisoned, had broken loose, and the boughs were crashing, and the trees were falling before the majesty of his wrath.

I ran out and met Jim on the veranda. “It’s all up,” I said. “Get the women and children into the river, and let the men go up to windward with the sheepskins to beat out the fire in the short grass. I’ll get on horseback and go out and see how the Morgans get on. That obstinate fellow will wish he had come in now.”

Morgan was a stockman of ours, who lived, with a wife and two children, about eight miles to the northward. We always thought it would have been better for him to move in; but he had put it off, and now the fire had taken us by surprise.

I rode away, dead up-wind. Our station had a few large trees about it, and then all was clear plain and short grass for two miles. I feared from the density of the smoke that the fire had reached them already; but I thought it my duty to go and see, for I might meet them fleeing, and help them with the children.

I have seen many bush fires, but never such a one as this.The wind was blowing a hurricane, and when I had ridden about two miles into high scrub I began to get frightened. Still I persevered, against hope; the heat grew more fearful every moment. But I reflected that I had often ridden up close to a bush fire, turned when I began to see the flame through the smoke, and cantered away from it easily.

Then it struck me that I had never yet seen a bush fire in such a hurricane as this. I remembered stories of men riding for their lives, and others of burnt horses and men found in the bush, And now I saw a sight which made me turn in good earnest.

I was in lofty timber, and, as I paused, I heard the mighty crackling of fire coming through the wood. At the same instant the blinding smoke burst into a million tongues of flickering flame, and I saw the fire—not where I had seen it before, not creeping along among the scrub,but up aloft, a hundred and fifty feet overhead. It had caught the dry tops of the higher boughs, and was flying along from tree-top to tree-top like lightning. Below, the wind was comparatively moderate; but, up there, it was travelling twenty miles an hour. I saw one tree ignite like gun-cotton, and then my heart grew small, and I turned and fled.

I rode as I never rode before. There were three miles to go ere I cleared the forest and got among the short grass,where I could save myself—three miles! Ten minutes nearly of intolerable heat. blinding smoke, and mortal terror. Any death but this! Drowning were pleasant; glorious to sink down into the cool, sparkling water! But to be burnt alive!I would give all my money now to be naked and penniless,rolling about in a cool, pleasant river.

The maddened, terrified horse went like the wind,but not like the hurricane—that was too swift for us. The fire had outstripped us overhead, and I could see it dimly through the choking reek, leaping and blazing a hundred yards before us among the feathery foliage, devouring it as the south wind devours the thunder-clouds. Then I could see nothing. Was I clear of the forest？Yes—I was riding over grass.

I managed to pull up the horse; and as I did so a mob of kangaroos blundered by, blinded, almost against me, noticing me no more in their terror than if I had been a stump or a stone. Soon the fire came hissing along through the grass scarcely six inches high, and I walked my horse through it;then I tumbled off on the blackened ground, and felt as if I should die.

I lay there on the hot, black ground. My head felt like a block of stone, and my neck was stiff, so that I could not move my head. My throat was swelled and dry as a sand- hill, and there was a roaring in my ears like a cataract. I thought of the cool waterfalls among the rocks far away in Devon. I thought of everything that was cold and pleasant; and then came into my head about Dives praying for a drop of water. I tried to get up, but could not, so lay down again with my head upon my arm.

It grew cooler, and the atmosphere was clearer. I got up, and, mounting my horse. turned homeward, Now I began to think about the station Could it have escaped!Impossible ! The fire would fly a hundred yards or more on such a day as this, even in a low plain. No, it must be gone!There was a great roll in the plain between me and home,so that I could see nothing of our place—all round the country was black, without a trace of vegetation. Behind me were the smoking ruins of the forest I had escaped from, where now the burnt-out trees began to thunder down rapidly, and before, to the south, I could see the fire raging miles away.

So the station is burnt, then？No! For, as I top the ridge,there it is before me, standing as of old—a bright oasis in the desert of burnt country round. Ay! the very haystack is safe! And the paddocks？—all right!

I got home, and Jim came running to meet me.

“I was getting terribly frightened, old man,” said he. “I thought you were caught. You look ten years older than you did this morning!”

I tried to answer, but could not speak for drought. He ran and got me a great tumbler of water; and in the evening,having drunk about a gallon, I felt pretty well revived.

Men were sent out at once to see after the Morgans, and found them perfectly safe, but very much frightened; they had, however, saved their hut, for the fire had passed before the wind had got to its full strength.HENRY KINGSLEYAuthor.—HENRY KINGSLEY(1830-1876), brother of the more famous Charles Kingsley, author of Westward Ho! Henry wrote Geoffrey Hamlyn and Ravenshoe, the former of which is, by some critics, considered to be one of the best Australian novels.General notes.—This excerpt may tempt you to read the whole book Geoffrey Hamlyn, the latter part of which deals with life in South-eastern Australia. Why is February a likely month for bush fires？What tells you that the station was a large one？Was it a sheep or a cattle station？Where would the fire travel quickest—in forest, scrub, or grass？Devon is a country in the south-west of England; find it on the map. Discuss the causes of bush fires. Are bush fires always harmful？What are the best preventives？Recall any poems or stories connected with bush fires.Write a real or an imaginary account of heroism in this connexion. “Dives praying for a drop of water.” Dives (dy’-veez) is a Latin word meaning rich. It is used to indicate the rich man mentioned in the sixteenth chapter of Luke.

LESSON 6 ROSABELLE

　　“Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew !And, gentle lady, deign to stay !Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

　　“ The blackening wave is edged with white;To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;The fishers have heard the water-sprite,Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

　　“Last night the gifted seer did viewA wet shroud swathed round lady gay;Then stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch;Why cross the gloomy firth to-day？”

　　“ ‘Tis not because Lord Lindesay’s heirTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,But that my lady mother thereSits lonely in her castle hall.”

　　’Tis not because the ring they ride,And Lindesay at the ring rides well,But that my sire the wine will chideIf ’tis not filled by Rosabelle. ”O’er Roslin, all that dreary night,A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;’Twas broader than the watch-fire’s light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.

　　It glared on Roslin’s castled rock,It ruddied all the copsewood glen;’Twas seen from Dryden’s groves of oak,And seen from caverned Hawthornden.

　　Seemed all on fire that chapel proud,Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffined lie,Each baron, for a sable shroud,Sheathed in his iron panoply.

　　Seemed all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmered all the dead men’s mail.

　　Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—So still they blaze, when fate is nighThe lordly line of high Saint Clair.There are twenty of Roslin’s barons boldLie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold;—But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!

　　And each Saint Clair was buried thereWith candle, with book, and with knell;But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sungThe dirge of lovely Rosabelle.SIR WALTER SCOTT.Author.—SIR WALTER Scour (1771-1832), the greatest of Scottish novelists and one of the greatest of Scottish poets, was born at Edinburgh. Nearly all of his works deal with history, his chief poems being—The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Marmion, The Lady of the Lake,Rokeby, The Lord of the Isles; his chief prose works Waverley, The Heart of Midlothian, lranhoe, and Quentin Durward. He wrote also a History of Scotland and Tales of a Grandfather. “Scott exalted and purified the novel,and made Scotland known throughout the world.”General notes.—The poem is written in ballad measure; note that lines of four and three stresses alternate. It was Scott’s custom to begem his longer poems, which are rhymed chronicles, with songs and ballads.This one comes in “ The Lay of the Last Minstrel” and is supposed to be sung by young Harold from the northern isles, the “bard of brave St.Clair.” St. Clair is now Sinclair. Ravensheuch, now a ruin, is in Fifeshire on the north shore of the Firth of Forth ( “the stormy firth”), and Roslin is on the south side. Dryden is near Edinburgh, Hawthornden is a glen on the Esk, near Roslin. Riding the ring meant tilting with the lance at a small suspended ring. An inch is an island. The sacristy is the part of a church where robes and books are kept; the pale is the railing round the altar. A pinnet is a peak or pinnacle of a building. Look up any other hard words in a dictionary, and the places on a map. Why would the song be addressed to ladies？What motive induced Rosabelle to tempt the stormy firth？What was the light that glowed over Roslin？Compare “ fearful lights that never beacon save when kings and heroes die”(Aytoun). Why“chapelle” instead of chapel？Name other tragic Poems— “A chieftain to the Highlands bound, ” “Harry Dale the Drover,” etc. Write the story of Rosabelle in prose, making her father or her lover tell it.Drawn by W.S. Wemyss“Lindesay at the ring rides well.”

LESSON 7 MR. WINKLE ON SKATES

On Christmas morning, Mr. Wardle invited Mr. Pickwick,Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and his other guests to go down to the pond.

“You skate, of course, Winkle？”said Mr. Wardle.

“Ye—si oh, yes!” resplied Mr. Winkle. “I—I—am rather out of practice.”

“Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle,” said Arabella. “I like to see it so much.”

“Oh, it is so graceful,” said another young lady.

A third young lady said it was “elegant,” and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was “swanlike.”

“I should be very happy, I am sure,” said Mr. Winkle,reddening; “but I have no skates.”

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pairs, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

Mr. Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice;and, the fat boy and Mr. Weller having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr.Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr.Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies, which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when Mr. Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions which they called a reel.

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his shoes, and putting his skates on, with the points behind,and getting the straps into a very complicated state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindu. At length however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

“ Now then, sir,” said Sam, in an encouraging tone, “off vith you, and show ’em how to do it.”

“Stop, Sam, stop!” said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently and clutching hold of Sam’s arms with the grasp of a drowning man. “How slippery, it is, Sam !”

“Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir,” replied Mr.Weller. “Hold up, sir !”

This last observation of Mr. Weller’s bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.

“These—these—are very awkward skates; aren’t they,Sam？”inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering.

“I’m afeerd there’s an orkard gen’l’m’n in ’em, sir,” replied Sam.

“Now, Winkle,” cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter, “come; the ladies are all anxiety.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. “I’m coining.”

“Just a-goin’ to begin,” said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself. “Now, sir, start off!”

“Stop an instant, Sam,” gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. “I find I have a couple of coats at home that I don’t want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.”

“Thank ’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.

“Never mind touching your hat, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle,hastily. “You needn’t take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmasbox, Sam. I’ll give it to you this afternoon, Sam.”

“You’re very good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.

“Just hold me at first, Sam, will you？”said Mr. Winkle.“There—that’s right. I shall soon get into the way of it, Sam.Not too fast, Sam; not too fast !”

Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller in a very singular and unswanlike manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the bank : “ Sam !”

“Sir？”

“Here. I want you.”

“Let go, sir!” said Sam. “Don’t you hear the governor a-callin’？Let go, sir !”

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian, and in so doing administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr.Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have ensured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him,and with a loud crash they both fell heavily. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind on skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his face.

“Are you hurt？”inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.

“Not much,” said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice: “Take his skates off.”

“No, but really, I had scarcely begun,” remonstrated Mr.Winkle.

“Take his skates off,” repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly.

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in silence.

“Lift him up,” said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low but distinct and emphatic tone these remarkable words: “You’re a humbug,sir.”

“A what？”said Mr. Winkle, starting.

“A humbug, sir. I shall speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir.” With those words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends.CHARLES DICXENS, in Pickwick Papers.Author.—CHARLES DICKENS (1812—1870) was one of the most famous of English novelists. He was poor as a boy, and was self-educated.As a youth, he became a lawyer’s clerk, then a journalist. His keen observation and wide sympathy make him popular as a novelist. Among his works are David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, A Tale of Two Cities, The Pickwick Papers, Bleak House, Little Dorrit, The Old Curiosity Shop, Great Expectations, Martin Chuzzlewit, Our Mutual Friend, The Mystery Edwin Drood (unfinished).General notes.—Nathaniel Winkle, in The Pickwick Papers, was a young Cockney sportsman, believed by his companions to be a dead shot, a mighty hunter, a skilful skater, etc., but these accomplishments were imaginary. What does the story reveal of his character？What traits distinguish each of the other persons in the story？You will need to read the whole book to answer this question fully. In this part of the story, Mr. Pickwick and his three companions are guests at a Christmas party at Mr. Wardle’s home in the country. Sam Weller is Mr. Pickwick’s servant.Charles Dickons.

LESSON 8 AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

　　Just as perhaps he mused, “My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,” —Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.

　　Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse’s mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through) —You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.

　　“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s graceWe’ve got you Ratisbon!The Marshal’s in the market-place,And you’ll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart’s desire,Perched him ! ” The chief’s eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.

　　The chief ’s eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle’s eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s prideTouched to the quick, he said,“I’m killed, Sire!” And, his chief beside,Smiling the boy fell dead.—ROBERT BROWNING.Author.—ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889) is considered one of the greatest of modern English poets, Many of his best-known poems describe happenings in the lives of men and women, and often some intensely dramatic dialogue is included in the story. Find in this book other poems by Browning and note the use of dialogue in them also.General notes.—This story of a brave young French soldier is true.Ratisbon is the former name of Regensburg, a town on the Danube in Germany. It was besieged by Napoleon in 1809; one of the French marshals was Jean Lannes. Flag-bird—the French flag in Napoleon’s time bore a representation of an eagle.

LESSON 9 BRANDING CATTLE

The afternoon was half-way through, and most of the smaller calves were branded. So far no ropes had been used,for the boys were so skilful that they were able to throw an ordinary calf with one hand and hold it on the ground in such a way that it could not move while the brand was being applied. The blacks love these hand- to-hand tussles,and everybody in the yards was in high good humour; but,as the youngest calves were all done and the yearlings also,it became a test of real strength and skill to tackle some of the older stock. There were one or two failures which raised shouts of laughter at the expense of the unfortunate black,who had either missed his hold or been rolled in the sand;but nothing serious happened, for Dick and Jim were on the watch and always came to the rescue at the critical time.

At last the numbers were reduced to three, two steers nearly full grown and a young bull that had somehow escaped the musterers for three or four years. He was a powerful animal with heavy shoulders, a broad, curl- decked forehead,and thick, short horns—a very nasty animal to tackle. In spite of his formidable appearance. several of the boys tried to throw him, dashing to the rails and climbing them when there was danger, like Spanish bull-fighters. But time was passing,and the three unbranded cattle were getting more and more excited, so Dick O’Keefe sent one of the boys to the shed for a special lasso which was kept there.

He and Jim were sitting smoking on the rails, and the boy was half-way back to the yards with the rope, when an unexpected thing happened. By some mistake the three clean-skins were in the branding-yard together. They rushed round and round, snorting and pawing the sand into the air,and, in order to get them back through the gate, one of the boys flicked them with his whip when the manager was not looking, for Dick 0’Keefe never allowed the use of a whip in the yards. This irritated the cattle to such an extent that they missed the gate-opening again and again and became quite mad. standing with heads down and tails up for a moment or two: then they charged the fence just below where Dick O’Keefe and Jim McCulloch were sitting. The two men toppled off—on the other side, fortunately—and one of the rails cracked. The oldest bull stood back and charged again,this time breaking through. With a wild bellow of rage and triumph, it stood free, shaking its head and snorting defiance at all the world. Everybody climbed into safety except the manager, who quickly jammed the broken rail across the opening the bull had made, to prevent the others from following their companion.

The bull saw the boy walking across the sand, and the sight must have reminded it of its tormentors, for it rushed straight at him. Larry, for that was the boy’s name, had not seen the smash, and his first hint of danger was a shout of warning from the yards. Petrified with fear, he stood stockstill, and this hesitation probably saved him from the first mad onslaught, for the animal stopped too, uncertain what to do with an enemy that did not run away. Then Larry turned,and the bull’s doubts were at once dispelled, for it lowered its head and charged with no uncertainty as to what it meant to do. The native stepped aside as he had been accustomed to do in the yards, and the huge beast lumbered past, but,recovering at once, turned and charged back. There was only one end to such a deadly game. Sooner or later the boy would slip or become exhausted, and then the cruel forehead would catch him and toss him high in the air, either breaking his back at once, or maiming him so that he would be an easy prey when he fell to the ground again.Drawn by Allan T. Bernaldo“O’Keefe unwound the lasso round his head.”

But the old cattle-man O’Keefe was watching, and, while the others were stunned with astonishment at the sudden turn of events, he grasped the situation and saw the only possible way to save the boy.

Running swiftly across the sand, he came level with the terrified native as he dodged another onslaught, but only just dodged it this time, for one polished horn tore his shirt.O’Keefe grabbed the lasso from the boy’s arm and stepped back. Seeing two antagonists, the bull paused, but the black was still its quarry, and it prepared to charge again, the last time probably, for the boy was too dazed to look after himself.O’Keefe unwound the lasso round his head and looked as if he were running away, but in reality he was getting more room for his throw.

Down came the bull. The boy stood limp and silly, directly in its pathway. The old stockman threw. With grace and unerring aim, the pliant rope shot out, the loop opened as it went, and fell over the shoulders of the helpless black boy, just as the bull was on him. With a jerk he was pulled back into safety.

Dick O’Keefe lost no time. Dexterously he freed the rope,and once more coiled it round his head, waiting to see what the thwarted bull would do. He did not have to wait long,for the animal came straight towards them. Dick jumped aside, pushing the boy out of harm’s way, and, as the beast thundered past, he dropped the loop over its head and entangled the off-side front leg. Down it crashed in a smother of sand, and, before it could get over its astonishment, the rope was trussing it in several other places and it was helpless.CONRAD SAYCE, in The Golden Valley.Author.—CONRAD HARVEY SAYCE, a Melbourne architect, born in England, has written several books dealing with Central Australia—Golden Buckles, In the Musgrove Ranges, The Golden Valley, The Valley of a Thousand Deaths, and The Splendid Savage. All but the first are adventure books for boys.General notes.—Why are cattle branded？Should branding be prohibited (a) because it is cruel, (b) because it spoils a valuable part of the hide？In what parts of Australia are there wide cattle stations？Write the bull’s side of the story.

LESSON 10 SEA-FEVER

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

A nd the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

A nd the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gipsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow- rover.

A nd quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.JOHN MASEFIELD.Author.—JOHN MASEFIELD, an English poet and novelist, born in 1876,was chosen as Poet-Laureate in 1930. He has led an adventurous life,much of it at sea. His sea songs and poems ring true. His published books include Saltwater Ballads, Poems and Ballads, The Everlasting Mercy,Dauber, in verse; and, among prose works, Gallipoli, A Mainsail Haul, A Tarpaulin Muster, Odtaa, and Victorious Troy. He has also written several plays. Dauber is one of the finest of sea-poems.General notes.—Is Masefield’s love of the sea genuine？What makes you think so？A “ trick” is the helmsman’s spell at the wheel, generally two hours. But the “long trick” is in the morning watch, when the relieving helmsman goes on at a quarter to eight a.m., and remains till10 a.m., thus lengthening his “trick.” Collect some more poems about the sea.

LESSON 11 STALKED BY ALION

After this dismal failure there was, of course, nothing to do but to return to camp. Before doing so, however, I proceeded to view the dead donkey, which I found to have been only slightly devoured at the quarters. It is a curious fact that lions always begin at the tail of their prey and eat upwards towards the head. As their meal had thus been interrupted evidently at the very beginning, I felt sure that one or other of the brutes would return to the carcass at nightfall.

Accordingly, as there was no tree of any kind close at hand, I had a staging erected some ten feet away from the body. This was about twelve feet high, and was composed of four poles stuck into the ground and inclined towards each other at the top, where a plank was lashed to serve as a seat.Further, as the nights were still pitch dark, I had the donkey’s carcass secured by strong wires to a neighbouring stump, so that the hons might not be able to drag it away before I could get a shot at them.

At sundown, therefore, I took up my position on my airy perch, and much to the disgust of my gun-bearer, Mahina,I decided to go alone. I would gladly have taken him with me indeed, but he had a bad cough, and I was afraid lest he should make any noise or movement which might spoil all.Darkness fell almost immediately, and everything became extraordinarily still. The silence of an African jungle on a dark night needs to he experienced to be realized; it is most impressive, especially when one is absolutely alone and isolated from one’s fellow creatures, as I was then.

Suddenly I was startled by the snapping of a twig: and,straining my ears for a further sound, I fancied I could hear the rustling of a large body forcing its way through the bush.“The man-eater,” I thought to myself; “surely to-night my luck will change and I shall bag one of the brutes.” Profound silence again succeeded; I sat on my eyrie like a statue, every nerve tense with excitement. Very soon, however, all doubt was dispelled. A deep, long-drawn sigh—sure sign of hunger—came up from the bushes, and the rustling commenced again as he cautiously advanced. In a moment or two a sudden stop, followed by an angry growl, told me that my presence had been noticed; and I began to fear that disappointment awaited me once more.

But no; matters quickly took an unexpected turn. The hunter became the hunted; and, instead of either making off or coming for the bait prepared for him, the lion began stealthily to stalk me! For about two hours he horrified me by slowly creeping round and round my crazy structure,gradually edging his way nearer and nearer. Every moment I expected him to rush it; and the staging had not been constructed with an eye to such a possibility. If one of the rather flimsy poles should break, or if the lion could spring the twelve feet which separated me from the ground … the thought was scarcely a pleasant one. I began to feel distinctly“ creepy,” and heartily repented my folly in having placed myself in such a dangerous position.

I kept perfectly still, however, hardly daring even to blink my eyes; but the long-continued strain was telling on my nerves. About midnight, suddenly something came flop and struck me on the back of the head. For a moment I was so terrified that I nearly fell off the plank, as I thought that the lion had sprung on me from behind. Regaining my senses in a second or two, I realized that l had been hit by nothing more formidable than an owl, which had doubtless mistaken me for the branch of a tree—not a very alarming thing to happen in ordinary circumstances, I admit, but coming at the time it did, it almost paralyzed me. The start which I could not help giving was immediately answered by a sinister growl from below.

After this I again kept as still as I could, though trembling with excitement; and in a short while I heard the lion begin to creep stealthily towards me. I could barely make out his form as he crouched among the whitish undergrowth; but I saw enough for my purpose, and before he could come any nearer. I took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was at once followed by a most terrific roar, and then I could hear him leaping about in all directions. I was no longer able to see him, however, as his first bound had taken him into the thick bush; but, to make assurance doubly sure,I kept blazing away in the direction in which I heard him plunging about. At length came a series of mighty groans.gradually subsiding into deep sighs, and finally ceasing altogether; and I felt convinced that one of the “devils” that had so long harried us would trouble us no more.

As soon as I ceased firing, a tumult of inquiring voices was borne across the dark jungle from the men in camp about a quarter of a mile away. I shouted back that I was safe and sound, and that one of the lions was dead; whereupon such a mighty cheer went up from all the camps as must have astonished the denizens of the jungle for miles around.Shortly after I saw scores of lights twinkling through the bushes; every man in camp turned out, and with tom-toms beating and horns blowing came running to the scene. They surrounded my eyrie, and to my amazement prostrated themselves on the ground before me, saluting me with cries of“Mabarak! Mabarak!” which, I believe, means “ blessed one” or“saviour.”

All the same, I refused to allow any search to be made that night for the body of the lion, in case his companion might be close by; besides, it was possible that he might be still alive, and capable of making a last spring. Accordingly we all returned in triumph to the camp, where great rejoicings were kept up for the remainder of the night, the Swahili and other African natives celebrating the occasion by an especially wild and savage dance.

For my part, I anxiously awaited the dawn; and even before it was thoroughly light I was on my way to the eventful spot, as I could not completely persuade myself that even yet the “devil” might not have eluded me in some uncanny and mysterious way. Happily my fears proved groundless, and I was relieved to find that my luck—after playing me so many exasperating tricks—had really turned at last. On rounding a bush, I was startled to see a huge lion right in front of me seemingly alive and crouching for a spring. On looking closer,however,1 satisfied myself that he was really and truly stonedead, whereupon my followers crowded round, laughed and danced and shouted with joy like children, and bore me in triumph shoulder-high round the dead body.

These thanksgiving ceremonies being over, I examined the body and found that two bullets had taken effect— one close behind the left shoulder, evidently penetrating the heart,and the other in the off hind leg. The prize was indeed one to be proud of; his length from tip of nose to tip of tail was nine feet eight inches, he stood three feet nine inches high,and it took eight men to carry him back to camp. The only blemish was that the skin was much scored by the thorns through which he had so often forced his way in carrying off his victims.

The news of the death of one of the notorious maneaters soon spread far and wide over the country; telegrams of congratulation came pouring in, and scores of people flocked from up and down the railway to see the skin for themselves.From The Man-Eaters of Tsavo, by J. H. PATTERSON.Author.—Lieutenant-Colonel J. H. PATTERSON (born 1867) served in the South African war (1900-1902) and in the World War in Egypt,Gallipoli, France, and Palestine. He is the author of the following books:—The Man-eaters of Tsavo (1907), In the Grip of the Nyika (1909),With the Zionists in Gallipoli (1916), With the Judeans in the Palestine Campaign (1922).General notes.—The Uganda railway runs from Mombasa on the eastern coast to Kisum on the north shore of Lake Victoria. You will probably find the railway marked in your atlas. Tsavo is about 100 miles from Mombasa. This part of Africa is noted for its big game. The Swahili are East African people living on Zanzibar and the neighbouring coast of the mainland.

LESSON 12 THE PLOUGH

From Egypt, behind my oxen with their stately step and slow,

Northward and east and west I went, to the desert sand and the snow;

Down through the centuries, one by one, turning the clod to the shower,

Till there’s never a land beneath the sun but has blossomed behind my power.

I slid through the sodden rice-fields with my grunting,hump-backed steers;

I turned the turf of the Tiber plain in Rome’s imperial years;

I was left in the half-drawn furrow when Cincinnatus came,

Giving his farm for the Forum’s stir to save his nation’s name.

Over the seas to the north I went—white cliffs and a seaboard blue;

And my path was glad in the English grass as my stout,red Devons drew;

My path was glad in the English grass, for behind me rippled and curled

The corn that was life to the sailor-men that sailed the ships of the world.

And later I went to the north again, and day by day drew down

A little more of the purple hills to join to my kingdom brown;

And the whaups wheeled out to the moorland, but the grey gulls stayed with me,

Where the Clydesdales drummed a marching song with their feathered feet on the lea.

Then the new lands called me westward. I found, on the prairies wide,

A toil to my stoutest daring and a foe to test my pride;

But I stooped my strength to the stiff, black loam, and I found my labour sweet,

As I loosened the soil that was trampled firm by a million buffaloes’ feet.

Then farther away to the northward; outward and outward still

(But idle I crossed the Rockies, for there no plough may till!)

Till I won to the plains unending, and there, on the edge of the snow,

I ribbed them the fenceless wheat-fields, and taught them to reap and sow.

The sun of the Southland called me; I turned her the rich,brown lines

Where her Parramatta peach-trees grow and her green Mlldura vines;

I drove her cattle before me and her slowly-dying sheep;

I painted her rich plains golden, and taught her to sow and reap.

From Egypt, behind my oxen with stately step and slow,

I have carried your weightiest burden, ye toilers that -reap and sow!

I am the Ruler, the King, and I hold the world in fee;

S word upon sword may ring, but the triumph shall rest with me!WILL H.OGILVIE.Author.—WILLIAM HENRY OGILVIE was born in Scotland in 1869 and educated there. He arrived in Australia in 1889, and engaged in bush occupations for two years, during which time he was a contributor to several Australian papers and magazines. He returned to Scotland in 1908. His works include Fair Girls and Grey Horses, Hearts of Gold.,Rainbows and Witches, My Life in the Open, Whaup o’　the Rede, The Land We Love, The Overlander, The Honour of the Station, The Australian, Galloping Shoes, Scattered Scarlet. From Australia he went to Scotland and to Canada, where he was a teacher in an agricultural college.General notes.—Egypt, Rome, England, America, Australia—what intervals of time and distance separate these civilizations？Name leading men in each of the countries. Cincinnatus, a Roman hero, was, in 485B.C., called from the plough to be dictator. The Forum was the Roman market- place and scene of public meetings. Have a debate on “The Plough is greater than the Sword”.

LESSON 13 HOW HORATIUS KEPT THE BRIDGE(A Legend of Ancient Rome.)

But the Consul’s brow was sad, and the Consul’s speech was low,

And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe.

“Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down;

And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town？”

Then out spake brave Horatius, the Captain of the gate:

“To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late;

And how can man die better than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods!

“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may;

I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play.

In yo n strait path a thousand may well be stopped by three;

Now , who will stand on either hand and keep the bridge with me？”

The n out spake Spurius Lartius,—a Ramnian proud was he:

“Lo,I will stand at thy right hand and keep the bridge with thee.”

And out spake strong Herminius, of Titian blood was he:

“I will abide on thy left side and keep the bridge with thee.”

“Horatius,” quoth the Consul, “as thou sayest, so let it be,”

And straight against that great array forth went the dauntless three.

For Romans in Rome’s quarrel spared neither land nor gold,

Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life, in the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party; then all were for the state;

Then the great man helped the poor, and the poor man loved the great;

Then lands were fairly portioned; then spoils were fairly sold;

The Romans were like brothers in the brave days of old.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold,Came flashing back the noonday light,Rank behind rank, like surges bright

Of a broad sea of gold.

Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee,As that great host, with measured tread,And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,Rolled slowly toward the bridge’s head,

Where stood the dauntless three.

The three stood calm and silent, and looked upon the foes;

And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose;

And forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array;

To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,

And lifted high their shields, and flew

To win the narrow way.But the laughter of the Tuscans was soon changed to wrath, for one chief after another from their army was laid low by the three Romans.

But hark! the cry is “ Astur”; and lo! the ranks divide,

And the great lord of Luna comes with his stately stride.

Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the fourfold shield,

And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can wield.

Then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height,

He rushed against Horatius, and smote with all his might.

Wit h shield and blade Horatius right deftly turned the blow.

The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;

It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh;

The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow.

He reeled, and on Herminius he leaned one breathingspace :

Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur’s face.

Thr ough teeth and skull and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped,

The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan’s head !

This was the last great tight, for the axes had been plied so vigorously that the bridge now tottered and fell. The two friends of Horatius had leapt across to safety at the last moment, but Horatius did not move. At last, the bridge being quite destroyed, he turned his back upon the foe for the first time and faced the River Tiber.

“Oh, Tiber, father Tiber, to whom the Romans pray!

A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms, take thou in charge this day !”

So he spake, and speaking sheathed the good sword by his side,

And with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank;

But friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips and straining eyes,

Stood gazing where he sank;

And when above the surges they saw his crest appear

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks of Tuscany

Could scarce forbear to cheer.

“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus; “Will not the villain drown？

But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the town !”

“He aven help him !” quoth Lars Porsena, “And bring him safe to shore;

For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before.”

And now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands;

Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands:

And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud.

He enters through the River-Gate, borne by the joyous crowd.

They gave him of the corn-land, that was of public right,

As much as two strong oxen could plough from morn till night;

And they made a molten image, and set it up on high,

And there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie.

And in the nights of winter, when the cold north winds blow,

And the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow;

When young and old in circle around the firebrands close;

When the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shaping bows;

When the goodman mends his armour, and trims his helmet’s plume;

When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily goes flashing through the loom;

With weeping and with laughter still is the story told,

How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.LORD MACAULAY.Author.—THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1800—1859), afterwards Lord Macaulay, was a famous English historian, essayist, and poet. His History of England (5 volumes) made history popular. “ He saw history as a great pageant, a series of pictures in which the doings of the people,great and small, appear for the first time along with the chroniclings of court, camp, and Parliament. He made it interesting, first of all to the average man and woman, and he set a new fashion.” His little volume of poems, which he called Lays of Ancient Rome, contain many narrative poems which delight young and old with their stirring melody and incident.Genera Notes.—Which stanza do you think is the most stirring？Which contains the beet picture？In which ones does the sound of the words suit the picture or the incident？Find lines in the poem that tell that the ancient Romans were not Christians, that they lived in a walled town, and that much of the land was owned by all the people. Some lines are often quoted :— “Then none was for the party, then all were for the state”; “ Even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer.”Can you think of any happenings in school life to which these quotations could apply？

LESSON 14 DOUBTING CASTLE AND GIANT DESPAIR

Then, with a grim and surly voice, he bade them awake and asked them whence they were and what they did in his grounds. They told him they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their way. Then said the Giant: “ You have this night trespassed on me by trampling in and lying on my grounds,and therefore you must go along with me.”

So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they. They also had but little to say, for they knew themselves in fault. The Giant, therefore, drove them before him and put them into his castle, in a very dark dungeon. Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday night, without one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask how they did; they were, therefore, here in evil case and were far from friends and acquaintance. Now in this place Christian had double sorrow, because it was through his unadvised counsel that they were brought into this distress.

Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence. So he told his wife what he had done; that he had taken a couple of prisoners and had cast them into his dungeon for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked her what he had best do further to them. So she asked what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound; and he told her.Then she counselled him that when he arose in the morning he should beat them without mercy.

So when he arose he getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel, and goes down into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if they were dogs. Then he falls upon them and beats them fearfully, in such sort that they were not able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor. This done, he withdraws, and leaves them there to condole their misery, and to mourn under their distress.

The next thing, she, talking with her husband further about them and understanding that they were yet alive,did advise him to counsel them to make away with themselves. So, when morning was come, he goes to them in a surly manner as before, and, perceiving them to be very sore with the stripes that he had given them the day before,he told them that, since they were never like to come out of that place, their only way would be forthwith to make an end of themselves: “ For why,” said he, “should you choose life,seeing it is attended with so much bitterness？”

But they desired him to let them go. With that, he looked ugly upon them, and, rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them himself, but that he fell into one of his fits (for he sometimes in sunshiny weather fell into fits), and lost for a time the use of his hands. Where- fore he withdrew and left them as before to consider what to do.From an etching by Wm.Strang, R.AChristian and Hopeful in the Dungeon.

Well, towards evening, the Giant went down into the dungeon again, to see if his prisoners had taken his counsel;but when he came there he found them alive, and, truly, alive was all. For now, for want of bread and water, and by reason of the wounds they received when he beat them, they could do little but breathe.

But, I say, he found them alive; at which he fell into a grievous rage and told them that, seeing that they had disobeyed his counsel, it should be worse with them than if they had never been born. At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell into a swoon; but, coming a little to himself again, they renewed their discourse about the Giant’s counsel, and whether yet they had best take it or no.

Now the Giant’s wife asked him concerning the prisoners,and if they had taken his counsel. To which he replied, “They axe sturdy rogues; they choose rather to bear all hardships than to make away with themselves.”

Then said she, “Take them into the castle-yard to-morrow,and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou hast already dispatched; and make them believe, ere a week comes to an end, thou wilt tear them in pieces as thou hast done their fellows before them.”

So when the motoring was come, the Giant goes to them again, and takes them into the castle-yard, and shows them as his wife had bidden him.

“These,” said he, “ were once pilgrims as you are, and they trespassed on my grounds as you have done, and I tore them in pieces; and so within ten days I will do you. Go, get you down to your den again !” And with that he beat them all the way thither. They lay therefore all day on Saturday in lamentable case as before.

Now, when night was come, Mistress Diffidence and her husband the Giant began to renew their discourse of their prisoners; and the old Giant wondered that he could neither by his blows nor counsel bring them to an end. And with that his wife replied:

“I fear,” said she, “that they live in hopes that some will come to relieve them; or that they have picklocks about them,by the means of which they hope to escape.”

“And sayest thou so, my dear？”said the Giant; “I will therefore search them in the morning.”

Well, on Saturday about midnight they began to pray, and continued in prayer till almost break of day.

Now a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half amazed, brake out into this passionate speech: “What a fool,”quoth he, “am I thus to lie in a dungeon when I may as well walk at liberty; I have a key in my bosom called Promise, that will, I am persuaded, open any lock in Doubting Castle.”

“Then,” said Hopeful, “that’s good news, good brother;pluck it out of thy bosom and try.”

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the dungeon door, whose bolt, as he turned the key,gave back, and the door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the outer door that leads into the castle-yard, and with this key opened that door also. After that he went to the iron gate, but that lock went desperately hard; yet the key did open it. Then they thrust open the gate to make their escape with speed. But that gate, as it opened, made such a creaking that it waked Giant Despair, who, hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail, for his fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. Then they went on and came to the King’s highway, and so were safe.

Now when they were gone over the stile, they began to contrive with themselves what they should do at that stile to prevent those that come after from falling into the hands of Giant Despair. So they consented to erect there a pillar, and to engrave upon the side thereof this sentence: “Over this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair,who despiseth the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to destroy His holy pilgrims.” Many, therefore, that followed after read what was written and escaped the danger.JOHN BUNYAN, in The Pilgrim’s Progress.Author.—JOHN BUNYAN (1628-1688) was the son of a poor tinker.He joined the Parliamentary Army against Charles？., and afterwards became a Baptist preacher, a sect that was then persecuted. “He had lived in the Bible till its words became his own.” His fame depends on four books—Grace Abounding, The Pilgrim’s Progress, Life and Death of Mr.Badman, and The Holy War. Spiritual sublimity and superb desoriptive power are the secrets of his success.General notes.—Bunyan’s popularity depends on his vivid description of what goes on in men’s minds. Young readers cannot yet realize Doubt and Despair. The moral, however, will appeal to them.Hope will enable them to triumph over Despair and Diffidence, his wife,and to go on the way to the heavenly city of one’s dreams. Things are never so bad as they seem to be, and there’s always a way out. Write an essay entitled “ Never Despair!” and illustrate it by stories of those who have won through.

LESSON 15 THE BURIAL OF MOSES

　　That was the grandest funeralThat ever passed on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth.Noiselessly as the daylightComes back when night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheekGrows into the great sun;

　　Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves;So, without sound of musicOr voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain’s crownThe great procession swept.

　　Perchance the bald old eagleOn grey Beth-peor’s heightOut of his lonely eyrieLooked on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalkingStill shuns that hallowed spot,For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.

　　But, when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drums,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steed,While peals the minute-gun.

　　Amid the noblest of the landWe lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honoured place,With costly marble dressed,In the great minster transept,Where lights like glories fall,And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings,Along the emblazoned wall.

　　This was the truest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth’s philosopherTraced, with his golden pen,On the deathless page, truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.

　　And had he not high honour—The hillside for a pall,To lie in state while angels waitWith stars for tapers tall,And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave,And God’s own hand in that lonely landTo lay him in the grave,In that strange grave without a name,Whence his uncoffined clayShall break again—oh, wondrous thought!—Before the judgment-day,And stand with glory wrapt aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our lifeWith the Incarnate Son of God.

　　Olonely grave in Moab’s land !Odark Beth-peor’s hill !Speak to these curious hearts of oursAnd teach them to be still.God hath His mysteries of grace,Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep, like the hidden sleepOf him He loved so well.MRS. ALEXANDER.Author.—MRS. CECIL FRANCIS ALEXANDER was an Irish writer of hymns;born in County Wicklow, 1818; married the Archbishop of Armagh;died 1895. Other well-known poems of hers are “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” “Once in Royal David’s City,” “ There is a Green Hill far away.”General.—This, strangely enough, was Mark Twain’s favourite poem.The scriptural allusions can be understood by reading the 34th chapter of Deuteronomy; and the geographical allusions by consulting a map of Palestine. “ No man knoweth his sepulchre.” Write an essay mentioning various men (Sir John Franklin, Ludwig Leichhardt, etc.), to whom this saying would also apply. What claims had Moses to the titles of “ truest warrior,” “ most gifted poet,” “ sage philosopher”？What served the purposes of pall, tapers, plumes？Who were in the procession？Which is the most majestic stanza？Which breathes of quiet？Which gives the greatest praise to Moses？

LESSON 16 THE GREAT BARRIER REEF

The Northern sea is a sea of pearls, as the Northern land is a land of gold. Who knows what flotsam and jetsam may not yet be discoverable？There are rumours of old coins and ingots of silver found along the East coast of Australia. One might even come upon the remains of a Spanish galleon somewhere between Percy Island and Cape York.

Why not？

The Jardines of Somerset, near Cape York,—they hold the farthest-north cattle station in Australia and have long been owners of pearl-fishing craft,—thirty years ago were rewarded with just such a discovery of treasure trove.

The story goes that Frank Jardine’s lugger, exploring the reef (which is very near the mainland at Somerset), was driven by a sudden wind to take shelter in an inlet cove. As the tide fell, the trained eyes of some sea-going wight fell upon the flukes of a rusted anchor. They presently made fast to this relic of an ancient sea mystery and, in dragging it from the coral, bared a mass of minted coin !

They say that the whole of this sea hoard took several trips from Somerset to recover—a booty worth thousands of pounds. It consisted chiefly of Spanish silver dollars and gold coins of the early nineteenth century, none of the dates being later than 1820.

The treasure is said to have belonged to a lost ship, laden with coin for the payment of Spanish troops and Government officials in Manila. That ship was following the old Spanish route along the Australian coast when she was cast away!

Many a lusty galleon preceded her. Unless the coral has grown over their brave old bones, the treasure-seeker along the Barrier stands a safer, if less likely, chance than Captain Tom Cavendish when he lay alongside the Santa Anna on the4th of November of 1587, and after four hours’ fighting found himself in possession of a booty of 122,000 pesos of gold, to say nothing of “divers merchandise ” and several sorts of very good wine!Drawn by W.S. WemyssSpanish Treasure.

Nor are chance galleons of New Spain our only possibilities in the way of Northern salvage. The unfortunate Quetta alone took down 60 tons of silver with her when those sharp coral teeth tore out her iron flanks at the gates of Torres on the fatal night of February 28, 1890. Before the Barrier was charted properly in 1842-6, many a stout vessel was cast away.

If we failed of finding Spanish or other seaward riches,there would still be compensations. We would not lack for adventure; nor the good fare that should go with it. Of a surety, there would be much provender and creature comforts on this voyage of adventure to Northern Seas. With the ports of Bowen, Townsville, Cairns, Cooktown, and Thursday Island to fall back upon when the ship’s stores ran low, there would be little risk of starvation.

Furthermore, we would have fresh coconuts, turtle and beche-de-mer soups in abundance, luscious fruits, stewed pigeons, fresh fish, oysters, and tropical dainties won by our own hands from sea or shore. At low tide we would land on exposed reefs to gather food, curiosities, pearls, and coral.

Of the latter there is a variety enough to keep a collector’s heart in constant ecstasy. These reefs are, in fact, vast natural marine gardens, filled with brilliant flowers of the sea. No earthly growths present such a diversity of form and colour.We have (all moulded in the same medium by the hand of the Great Artist) stag-horns, organ-pipes, cup corals, mushrooms,bouquets, stars, brain-corals, and labyrinths.

Coloration spreads over all gradations and shades. There are violets, magentas, browns, bronzes, lemons, mauves,whites, pinks, greens, lilacs, purples, turquoises, peacock blues—all the shades of the palettes of a Royal Academy and a Paris Salon, and more.

Every growth, from the most delicate and fragile of those beautiful branched corals one sees under glass covers to 19-foot specimens described by W. Seville Kent,had its beginning in the dead body of a single polyp, a microscopic insect! Think of the countless myriads of deaths in the uncountable years to build up a reef 1,500miles in length along the coast of Queensland. One learns with satisfaction that the world is much older than the scientists thought it.

Wonder and admiration are not lessened by knowledge that the coral insect is, in scientific eyes, no insect at all,but a “simple polyp resembling a sea-anemone, possessing the property of secreting a calcareous skeleton out of the lime held abundantly in suspension in probably every sea!”

It is this simple property which enables the reef-building Barrier corals to live and die, from low water mark to a depth of 20 or 30 fathoms in the warm East sea.

It is this simple property which has been a highly important factor in the making of geography, and has added to the anxieties of navigators, particularly of those who tread a careful course from Lion Island to Bligh’s Entrance down the Eastern coast of Queensland.E. J. BRADY, in The Land of the Sun.Author.—EDWIN JAMES BRADY, a living Australian poet and journalist,was born in Carcoar, N.S.W., and educated in that State and in America.Engaged in various occupations for some years in New South Wales.Was editor of The Worker and The Australian Workman. Contributed as a free lance to many papers and magazines. Author of The Ways of Many Waters (verse), The Earthen Floor (verse), Bushland Ballads, The King’s Caravan (prose), River Rovers (prose), Bells and Hobbles (verse), Australia Unlimited (prose), The House of the Winds (nautical verse), The Land of the Sun, and The Prince’s Highway (prose).General notes.—See the Great Barrier Reef on a map of Australia.Where are pearls and gold found in Queensland？Flotsam and jetsam—chance findings; literally, flotsam is floating wreckage; jetsam, what is cast on the shore. When did Spanish galleons sail the sea？Name any Spanish sailors connected with early Australian maritime exploration.What English monarch was reigning in 1587？Peso (payso) was a Spanish dollar, also called “ piece of eight ” (think of Treasure Island).Beche-de-mer, or sea snail, a kind of large marine slug, which is dried and used for soup. A polyp is not an insect, but a boneless creature with a cylindrical body closed and attached at one end and opening at the other by a central mouth, furnished with tentacles. Write an essay on “ Creatures that Wear their Bones outside. ” Beche-de-mer is a French name, meaning sea spade.

LESSON 17 A SYLVAN SOLITUDE

LESSON 18 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

　　Rats!They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,And bit the babies in the cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women’s chatsBy drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.

　　Atlast the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking:“ ’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy;And as for our Corporation—shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermineFor dolts that can’t or won’t determineWhat’s best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you’re old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease？Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a rackingTo find the remedy we’re lacking,Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.

　　An hour they sat in council,At length the Mayor broke silence:“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;I wish I were a mile hence!It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—I’m sure my poor head aches again,I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!”Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber door but a gentle tap？“Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “ what’s that？Only a scraping of shoes on the mat？Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pit-a-pat !”

　　“Come in !”—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:And in did come the strangest figure!His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow and half of red;And he himself was tall and thin,With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,But lips where smiles went out and in;There was no guessing his kith and kin,And nobody could enough admireThe tall man and his quaint attire.Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire,Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”

　　He advanced to the council table;And,“ Please your honours,” said he, “I’m able,By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun,That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,After me so as you never saw!And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm—The mole, the toad, and newt, and viper;And people call me the Pied Piper.”(And here they noticed round his neckA scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the self-same check;And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever strayingAs if impatient to be playingUpon this pipe, as low it dangledOver his vesture so old-fangled.)“Yet,” said he, “ poor piper as I am,In Tartary I freed the Cham,Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampire-bats;And as for what your brain bewilders,If I can rid your town of ratsWill you give me a thousand guilders？”“One？Fifty thousand!”—was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.IIInto the street the Piper stepped,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic sleptIn his quiet pipe the while;Then, like a musical adept,To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew to a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,Families by tens and dozens,Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—Followed the Piper for their lives.From street to street he piped advancing,And step for step they followed dancing,Until they came to the river Weser,Wherein all plunged and perished!—Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,Swam across and lived to carryTo Rat-land home his commentary:Which was, “ At the first shrill notes of the pipe,I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,And putting apples, wondrous ripe,Into a cider-press’s gripe;And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks,And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;And it seemed as if a voiceCalled out, ‘Oh rats, rejoice!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said: ‘Come, bore me!’—I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”You should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple.“Go,” cried the Mayor, “ and get long poles!Poke out the nests and block up the holes !Consult with carpenters and builders,And leave in our town not even a traceOf the rats !”—When suddenly up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market-place,With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”

　　A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;So did the Corporation too.To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gipsy coat of red and yellow!“Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,“Our business was done at the river’s brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something for drink,And a matter of money to put in your poke;But, as for the guilders, what we spokeOf them, as you very well know, was in joke.Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty !”The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!I’ve promised to visit by dinner-timeBagdad, and accept the primeOf the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,For having left. in the Caliph’s kitchen,Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—With him I proved no bargain-driver,With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe after another fashion.”

　　“How!” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I’ll brookBeing worse treated than a Cook？

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