Fourth Reader

On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is, they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph: “It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”

“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore.”
“Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.”

They heard no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind has fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;
Cried they: “It is the Inchcape Rock!”

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He cursed himself in his despair:
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But, even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, —
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiends below were ringing his knell.

    – Robert Southey.
Thinking is very far from knowing.

THE BIRD OF THE MORNING

If every bird has his vocation, as a poetical French writer suggests, that of the American robin must be to inspire cheerfulness and contentment in men. His joyous “Cheer up! Cheer up! Cheery! Be cheery! Be cheery!” poured out in the early morning from the top branch of the highest tree in the neighborhood, is one of the most stimulating sounds of spring. He must be unfeeling, indeed, who can help deserting his bed and peering through blinds till he discovers the charming philosopher, with head erect and breast glowing in the dawning light, forgetting the cares of life in the ecstasy of song.

Besides admonishing others to cheerfulness, the robin sets the example. Not only is his cheering voice the first in the morning and the last at night, – of the day birds, – but no rain is wet enough to dampen his spirits. In a drizzly, uncomfortable day, when all other birds go about their necessary tasks of food-hunting in dismal silence, the robin is not a whit less happy than when the sun shines; and his cheery voice rings out to comfort not only the inmates of the damp little home in the maple, but the owners of waterproofs and umbrellas who mope in the house.

The most delightful study of one summer, not long ago, was the daily life, the joys and sorrows, of a family of robins, whose pretty castle in the air rested on a stout fork of a maple-tree branch near my window. Day by day I watched their ways till I learned to know them well.

When I first took my seat I felt like an intruder, which the robin plainly considered me to be. He eyed me with the greatest suspicion, alighting on the ground in a terrible flutter, resolved to brave the ogre, yet on the alert, and ready for instant flight should anything threaten. The moment he touched the ground, he would lower his head and run with breathless haste five or six feet; then stop, raise his head as pert as a daisy, and look at the monster to see if it had moved. After convincing himself that all was safe, he would turn his eyes downwards, and in an instant thrust his bill into the soil where the sod was thin, throwing up a little shower of earth, and doing this again and again, so vehemently that sometimes he was taken off his feet by the jerk. Then he would drag out a worm, run a few feet farther in a panic-stricken way, as though “taking his life in his hands,” again look on the ground, and again pull out a worm; all the time in an inconsequent manner, as though he had nothing particular on his mind, and merely collected worms by way of passing the time.

So he would go on, never eating a morsel, but gathering worms till he had three or four of the wriggling creatures hanging from his firm little beak. Then he would fly to a low branch, run up a little way, take another short flight, and thus having, as he plainly intended by this zigzag course, completely deceived the observer as to his destination, he would slip quietly to the nest and quickly dispose of his load. In half a minute he was back again, running and watching, and digging as before. And this work he kept up nearly all day, – in silence, too, for, noisy and talkative as the bird is, he keeps his mouth shut when on the ground. In all my watching of robins for years in several places, I scarcely ever heard one make a sound when on the ground, near a human dwelling.

I was surprised to discover, in my close attention to them, that although early to rise, robins are by no means early to bed. Long after every feather was supposed to be at rest for the night, I would sit out and listen to the gossip, the last words, the scraps of song, – different in every individual robin, yet all variations on the theme, “Be cheery,” – and often the sharp “He he he he he!” so like a girl’s laugh, out of the shadowy depths of the maple.

One of the most interesting entertainments of the later days was to hear the young birds’ music lesson. In the early morning the father would place himself in the thickest part of the tree, not as usual in plain sight on the top, and with his pupil near him would begin, “Cheery! cheery! be cheery!” in a loud, clear voice; and then would follow a feeble, wavering, uncertain attempt to copy the song. Again papa would chant the first strain, and baby would pipe out his funny notes. This was kept up, till in a surprisingly short time, after much daily practice both with the copy and without, I could hardly tell father from son.

The baby robin taken apart from his kind is an interesting study. Before he can fairly balance himself on his uncertain, wavering little legs, or lay claim to more than the promise of a tail, he displays the brave, self-reliant spirit of his race. He utters loud, defiant calls, pecks boldly at an intruding hand, and stands – as well as he is able – staring one full in the face without blinking, asserting by his attitude and by every bristling feather that he is a living being; and, in the depths of your soul, you cannot gainsay him. If you have already, in his helpless infancy, made him captive, the blush of shame arises, and you involuntarily throw wide the prison-doors.

    – Olive Thorne Miller.
    By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.

THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK

I’ll seek a four-leaved Shamrock in all the fairy dells,
And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I’ll weave my spells!
I would not waste my magic mite on diamond, pearl, or gold,
For treasure tires the weary sense —such triumph is but cold;
But I would play th’ enchanter’s part in casting bliss around —
Oh, not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found.

To worth I would give honor! – I’d dry the mourner’s tears,
And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years,
And hearts that had been long estranged, and friends that had grown cold,
Should meet again – like parted streams – and mingle as of old!
Oh! thus I’d play th’ enchanter’s part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!

The heart that had been mourning, o’er vanished dreams of love,
Should see them all returning – like Noah’s faithful dove;
And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow’s darkening sea,
And Misery’s children have an ark and saved from sinking be.
Oh! thus I’d play th’ enchanter’s part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!

    – Samuel Lover.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, —
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

KING HACON’S LAST BATTLE

All was over; day was ending
As the foemen turned and fled.
Gloomy red
Glowed the angry sun descending;
While round Hacon’s dying bed
Tears and songs of triumph blending
Told how fast the conqueror bled.

“Raise me,” said the king. We raised him —
Not to ease his desperate pain;
That were vain!
“Strong our foe was, but we faced him —
Show me that red field again.”
Then with reverent hands we placed him
High above the battle plain.

Sudden, on our startled hearing,
Came the low-breathed, stern command —
“Lo! ye stand?
Linger not – the night is nearing;