Word Exercise.

LVIII.—TRUST IN GOD AND DO THE RIGHT.

Norman Macleod.

Courage, brother! do not stumble;

Though thy path be dark as night,

There’s a star to guide the humble:

Trust in God, and do the right.

Though the road be long and dreary,

And the goal be out of sight,

Foot it bravely, strong or weary:

Trust in God, and do the right.

Perish, policy and cunning,

Perish, all that fears the light:

Whether losing, whether winning,

Trust in God, and do the right.

Fly all forms of guilty passion;

Fiends can look like angels bright;

Heed no custom, school, or fashion:

Trust in God, and do the right.

Some will hate thee, some will love thee,

Some will flatter, some will slight;

Cease from Man, and look above thee:

Trust in God, and do the right.

Simple rule and surest guiding,

Inward peace and shining light;

Star upon our path abiding:

Trust in God, and do the right.

LIX.—SOMEBODY’S DARLING.

Marie Lacoste.

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,

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 so 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 mould—

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 had rested there,—

Was it a mother’s, soft and white?

And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in those waves of light?

God knows best; he has 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 waiting and watching for him,

Yearning to hold him again to the 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.”

LX.—SONG FROM “THE PRINCESS.”

Tennyson.

Home they brought her warrior dead:—

She nor swooned nor uttered cry:

All her maidens, watching, said,

“She must weep, or she will die.”

Then they praised him, soft and low,

Called him worthy to be loved,

Truest friend and noblest foe;—

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,

Lightly to the warrior stept,

Took the face-cloth from the face;—

Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee;—

Like summer tempest came her tears—

“Sweet my child, I live for thee.”

LXI.—ANTS AND THEIR SLAVES.

Michelet.

Peter Huber, the son of the celebrated observer of the manners and habits of bees, walking one day in a field near Geneva, saw on the ground a strong detachment of reddish-colored ants on the march, and bethought himself of following them. On the flanks of the column, as if to dress its ranks, a few sped to and fro in eager haste. After marching for about a quarter of an hour, they halted before an ant-hill belonging to some small black ants, and a desperate struggle took place at its gates.

A small number of blacks offered a brave resistance; but the great majority of the people thus assailed fled through the gates remotest from the scene of combat, carrying away their young. It was just these which were the cause of the strife, what the blacks most feared being the theft of their offspring. And soon the assailants, who had succeeded in penetrating into the city, might be seen emerging from it, loaded with the young black progeny.

The red ants, encumbered with their living booty, left the unfortunate city in the desolation of its great loss, and resumed the road to their own habitation, whither their astonished and almost breathless observer followed them. But how was his astonishment augmented when, at the threshold of the red ants’ community, a small population of black ants came forward to receive the plunder, welcoming with visible joy these children of their own race, which would perpetuate it in the foreign lands!

This, then, is a mixed city, where the strong warrior-ants live on a perfectly good understanding with the little blacks. But what of the latter? Huber speedily discovered that, in fact, they do everything. They alone build; they alone bring up the young red ants and the captives of their own species; they alone administer the affairs of the community, provide its supplies of food, and wait upon and feed their red masters, who, like great infant giants, indolently allow their little attendants to feed them at the mouth. No other occupations are theirs but war, theft, and kidnapping. No other movements in the intervals than to wander about lazily, and bask in the sunshine at the doors of their barracks.

Huber made an experiment. He was desirous of observing what would be the result if the great red ants found themselves without servants,—whether they would know how to supply their own wants. He put a few into a glass case, and put some honey for them in a corner, so that they had nothing to do but to take it. Miserable the degradation, cruel the punishment with which slavery afflicts the enslavers! They did not touch it; they seemed to know nothing; they had become so grossly ignorant that they could no longer feed themselves. Some of them died from starvation, with food before them!

Huber, to complete the experiment, then introduced into the case one black ant. The presence of this sagacious slave changed the face of things, and re-established life and order. He went straight to the honey, and fed the great dying simpletons.

The little blacks in many things carry a moral authority whose signs are very visible. They do not, for example, permit the great red ants to go out alone on useless expeditions, but compel them to return into the city. Nor are they even at liberty to go out in a body, if their wise little slaves do not think the weather favorable, if they fear a storm, or if the day is far advanced. When an excursion proves unsuccessful, and they return without children, the little blacks are stationed at the gates of the city to forbid their ingress, and send them back to the combat; nay more, you may see them take the cowards by the collar, and force them to retrace their route.

These are astounding facts; but they were seen, as here described, by our illustrious observer. Not being able to trust his eyes, he summoned one of the greatest naturalists of Sweden, Jurine, to his side, to make new investigations, and decide whether he had been deceived. This witness, and others who afterwards pursued the same course of experiments, found that his discoveries were entirely accurate. Yet after all these weighty testimonies, I still doubted. But on a certain occasion I saw it—with my own eyes saw it—in the park of Fontainebleau. I was accompanied by an illustrious philosopher, an excellent observer, and he too saw exactly what I saw.

It was half-past four in the afternoon of a very warm day. From a pile of stones emerged a column of from four to five hundred red or reddish ants. They marched rapidly towards a piece of turf, kept in order by their sergeants or “pivot-men,” whom we saw on the flanks, and who would not permit any one to straggle. (This is a circumstance known to everyone who has seen a file of ants on the march.)

Suddenly the mass seemed to sink and disappear. There was no sign of ant-hills in the turf; but after a while we detected an almost imperceptible orifice, through which we saw them vanish in less time than it takes me to write these words. We asked ourselves if it was an entrance to their domicile; if they had re-entered their city. In a minute at the utmost they gave us a reply, and showed us our mistake. They issued in a throng, each carrying a captive in its mandibles.

From the short time they had taken, it was evident that they had a previous knowledge of the locality, the place where the eggs were deposited, the time when they were to assemble, and the degree of resistance they had to expect. Perhaps it was not their first journey. The little blacks on whom the red ants made this raid sallied out in considerable numbers; and I truly pitied them. They did not attempt to fight. They seemed frightened and stunned. They endeavored only to delay the red ants by clinging to them. A red ant was thus stopped; but another red one, who was free, relieved him of his burden, and thereupon the black ant relaxed his grasp.

It was, in fact, a pitiful sight. The blacks offered no serious resistance. The five hundred ants succeeded in carrying off nearly three hundred children. At two or three feet from the hole, the blacks ceased to pursue them, and resigned themselves to their fate. All this did not occupy ten minutes between the departure and the return. The two parties were very unequal. It was very probably an outrage often repeated—a tyranny of the great, who levied a tribute of children from their poor little neighbors.

LXII.—THE GRAY SWAN.

Alice Cary.

“Oh! tell me, sailor, tell me true,

Is my little lad, my Elihu,

A-sailing with your ship?”

The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,—

“Your little lad, your Elihu?”

He said with trembling lip,—

“What little lad? What ship?”

“What little lad? as if there could be

Another such a one as he!

What little lad, do you say?

Why, Elihu, that took to sea

The moment I put him off my knee!

It was just the other day

The Gray Swan sailed away!”

“The other day?” The sailor’s eyes

Stood open with a great surprise:—

“The other day?—The Swan?”

His heart began in his throat to rise.

“Ay, ay, sir! here in the cupboard lies

The jacket he had on!”

“And so your lad is gone?”

“Gone with the Swan!”—“And did she stand

With her anchor clutching hold of the sand,

For a month and never stir?”

“Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the land

Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand,

The wild sea kissing her,—

A sight to remember, sir!”

“But, my good mother, do you know

All this was twenty years ago?

I stood on the Gray Swan’s deck,

And to that lad I saw you throw

(Taking it off, as it might be, so)

The kerchief from your neck,”—

“Ay, and he’ll bring it back!”

“And did the little lawless lad,

That has made you sick, and made you sad,

Sail with the Gray Swan’s crew?”

“Lawless! The man is going mad!

The best boy mother ever had:—

Be sure he sailed with the crew!

What would you have him do?”

“And he has never written line,

Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,

To say he was alive?”

“Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine;

Besides, he may be in the brine;

And could he write from the grave?

Tut, man! What would you have?”

“Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,

’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse!

But if the lad still live,

And come back home, think you, you can

Forgive him?”—“Miserable man!

You’re mad as the sea; you rave,—

What have I to forgive?”

The sailor twitched his shirt of blue;

And from within his bosom drew

The kerchief. She was wild.

“Oh God, my Father! is it true?

My little lad, my Elihu!

And is it—is it—is it you?

My blessed boy, my child,

My dead, my living child!”

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The child is father of the man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

—Wordsworth.

LXIII.—THE CAPTURE OF A WHALE.

Cooper.

“Tom,” cried Barnstable, starting, “there is the blow of a whale!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” returned the cockswain with undisturbed composure: “here is his spout, not half a mile to seaward. The easterly gale has driven the creature to leeward; and he begins to find himself in shoal water. He’s been sleeping while he should have been working to windward.”

“The fellow takes it coolly, too. He’s in no hurry to get an offing.”

“I rather conclude, sir,” said the cockswain, rolling over his tobacco in his mouth very composedly, while his little sunken eyes began to twinkle with pleasure at the sight, “the gentleman has lost his reckoning, and doesn’t know which way to head to take himself back into blue water.”

“’Tis a fin-back!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “He will soon make headway, and be off.”

“No, sir, ’tis a right whale,” answered Tom; “I saw his spout. He threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as one could wish to see. He’s a real oil-butt, that fellow!”

Barnstable laughed, and exclaimed in joyous tones,—“Give strong way, my hearties! There seems nothing better to be done; let us have a stroke of a harpoon at that impudent rascal.” The men shouted spontaneously; and the old cockswain suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while the whale-boat sprang forward like a courser for the goal.

During the few minutes they were pulling toward their game, Long Tom arose from his crouching attitude in the stern-sheets, and transferred his huge frame to the bows of the boat, where he made such preparations to strike the whale as the occasion required. The tub, containing about half a whale line, was placed at the feet of Barnstable, who had been preparing an oar to steer with in place of the rudder which was unshipped, in order that, if necessary, the boat might be whirled round when not advancing.

Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the monster of the deep, who continued to amuse himself with throwing the water in two circular spouts high into the air; occasionally flourishing the broad flukes of his tail with graceful but terrific force until the hardy seamen were within a few hundred feet of him, when he suddenly cast his head downward, and without apparent effort, reared his immense body for many feet above the water, waving his tail violently, and producing a whizzing noise that sounded like the rushing of winds.

The cockswain stood erect, poising his harpoon, ready for the blow; but, when he beheld the creature assuming this formidable attitude, he waved his hand to his commander, who instantly signed to his men to cease rowing. In this situation the sportsman rested a few minutes; while the whale struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, the noise of which re-echoed along the cliffs like the hollow reports of so many cannon. After this wanton exhibition of his terrible strength, the monster sank again into his native element and slowly disappeared.

“Which way did he head, Tom?” cried Barnstable, the moment the whale was out of sight.

“Pretty much up and down, sir,” returned the cockswain, his eye brightening with the excitement of the sport. “He’ll soon run his nose against the bottom if he stands long on that course, and will be glad to get another snuff of pure air. Send her a few fathoms to starboard, sir, and I promise we shall not be out of his track.”

The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved true; for in a few minutes the water broke near them, and another spout was cast into the air, when the huge animal rushed for half his length in the same direction, and fell on the sea with a turbulence and foam equal to that which is produced by the launching of a vessel for the first time into its proper element. After this evolution, the whale rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts.

His slightest movements were closely watched by Barnstable and his cockswain; and when he was in a state of comparative rest, the former gave the signal to his crew to ply their oars once more. A few long and vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up to the broadside of the whale, with its bows pointing towards one of the fins, which was at times, as the animal yielded sluggishly to the action of the waves, exposed to view. The cockswain poised his harpoon with much precision, and then darted it from him with a violence that buried the iron in the body of their foe. The instant the blow was made, Long Tom shouted with singular earnestness:—

“Starn, all!”

“Stern, all!” echoed Barnstable; when the obedient seamen, by united efforts, forced the boat in a backward direction, beyond the reach of any blow from their formidable antagonist. The alarmed animal, however, meditated no such resistance. Ignorant of his own power, and of the insignificance of his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. One moment of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of the iron; then casting his huge tail into the air with a violence that threw the sea around him into increased commotion, he disappeared with the quickness of lightning amid a cloud of foam.

“Snub him!” shouted Barnstable. “Hold on, Tom! he rises already.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” replied the composed cockswain, seizing the line, which was running out of the boat with a velocity that rendered such a manœuvre rather hazardous, and causing it to yield more gradually round the large loggerhead that was placed in the bows of the boat for that purpose. Presently the line stretched forward; and, rising to the surface with tremulous vibrations, it indicated the direction in which the animal might be expected to reappear. Barnstable had cast the bows of the boat towards that point before the terrified and wounded victim rose to the surface. His time was, however, no longer wasted in his sports, but as he ploughed his way along the surface he forced the waters aside with prodigious energy. The boat was dragged violently in his wake, and it cut through the billows with a terrific rapidity, that at moments appeared to bury it in the ocean.

When Long Tom beheld his victim throwing his spouts on high again, he pointed with exultation to the jetting fluid, which was streaked with the deep red of blood, and cried,—“Ay, I’ve touched the fellow’s life! It must be more than two foot of blubber that stops my iron from reaching the life of any whale that ever sculled the ocean.”

“I believe you have saved yourself the trouble of using the bayonet you have rigged for a lance,” said his commander, who entered into the sport with all the ardor of one whose youth had been chiefly passed in such pursuits. “Feel your line, Master Coffin: can we haul alongside of our enemy? I like not the course he is steering, as he tows us from the schooner.”

“’Tis the creatur’s way, sir,” said the cockswain. “You know they need the air in their nostrils when they run, the same as a man. But lay hold, boys, and let us haul up to him.”

The seamen now seized their whale-line, and slowly drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of the fish, whose progress became sensibly less rapid as he grew weak with the loss of blood. In a few minutes he stopped running, and appeared to roll uneasily on the water, as if suffering the agony of death.

“Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom?” cried Barnstable. “A few sets from your bayonet would do it.”

The cockswain stood examining his game with cool discretion, and replied to this interrogatory,—

“No, sir! no! He’s going into his flurry; there’s no occasion for using a soldier’s weapon in taking a whale. Starn off, sir! starn off! the creatur’s in his flurry.”

The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly obeyed; and the boat cautiously drew off to a distance, leaving to the animal a clear space while under its dying agonies. From a state of perfect rest, the terrible monster threw its tail on high as when in sport; but its blows were trebled in rapidity and violence, till all was hid from view by a pyramid of foam that was deeply dyed with blood. The roarings of the fish were like the bellowings of a herd of bulls, and it seemed as if a thousand monsters were engaged in deadly combat behind the bloody mist that obstructed the view.

Gradually these efforts subsided; and, when the discolored water again settled down to the long and regular swell of the ocean, the fish was seen exhausted, and yielding passively to its fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass rolled to one side; and when the white and glistening skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen well knew that their victory was achieved.