There was no lack of visitors, for the house contained marvels the fame of which was noised abroad to the uttermost confines of the Huron nation. Chief among them was the clock. The guests would sit in expectant silence by the hour, squatted on the ground, waiting to hear it strike. They thought it was alive, and asked what it ate. As the last stroke sounded, one of the Frenchmen would cry “Stop!”—and to the admiration of the company the obedient clock was silent. The mill was another wonder, and they never tired of turning it. Besides these, there was a prism and a magnet; also a magnifying glass, wherein a flea was transformed to a frightful monster, and a multiplying lens which showed them the same object eleven times repeated.
“What does the Captain say?” was the frequent question; for by this title of honor they designated the clock.
“When he strikes twelve times he says, ‘Hang on the kettle’; and when he strikes four times he says, ‘Get up and go home.’ ”
Both interpretations were remembered. At noon visitors were never wanting; but at the stroke of four all arose and departed, leaving the missionaries for a time in peace.—Francis Parkman.
THE BURIAL OF MOSES
By Nebo’s lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan’s wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave;
And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e’er,
For the angels of God upturn’d the sod,
And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral
That ever pass’d on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth—
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes back when night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek
Grows into the great sun;
Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves;
So without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain’s crown,
The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle
On gray Beth-peor’s height
Out of his lonely eyrie
Look’d on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking
Still shuns that hallow’d spot,
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.
But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum,
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.