Fourth Reader

When he sees you, he lifts his lip and lets a flash of his teeth out, and then turns a little out of the course he was pursuing, depresses his head a bit, and strikes a long, soft-footed trot through the brush, glancing over his shoulder at you, from time to time, till he is about out of easy pistol range, and then he stops and takes a deliberate survey of you; he will trot fifty yards and stop again – another fifty and stop again; and, finally, the gray of his gliding body blends with the gray of the brush, and he disappears.

All this is when you make no demonstration against him; but if you do, he develops a livelier interest in his journey, and instantly electrifies his heels and puts such a deal of real estate between himself and your weapon, that by the time you have raised the hammer you see that you need a rifle, and by the time you have got him in line you need a cannon, and by the time you have drawn a bead on him you see well enough that nothing but an unusually long-winded streak of lightning could reach him where he is now.

But if you start a swift-footed dog after him, you will enjoy it ever so much – especially if it is a dog that has a good opinion of himself, and has been brought up to think that he knows something about speed. The coyote will go swinging gently off on that deceitful trot of his, and every little while he will smile a fraudful smile over his shoulder that will fill that dog entirely full of encouragement and worldly ambition, and make him lay his head still lower to the ground, and stretch his neck farther to the front, and pant more fiercely, and stick his tail out straighter behind, and move his furious legs with a yet wilder frenzy, and leave a broader and broader, and higher and denser cloud of dust behind, marking his long wake across the level plain!

And all this time the dog is only a short twenty feet behind the coyote, and to save the life of him he cannot understand why it is that he cannot get perceptibly closer; and he begins to get aggravated, and it makes him more and more angry to see how gently the coyote glides along and never pants or sweats or ceases to smile; and he grows still more and more incensed to see how shamefully he has been taken in by an entire stranger, and what an ignoble swindle that long, calm, soft-footed trot is; and next he notices that he is getting fagged, and that the coyote actually has to slacken speed a little to keep from running away from him – and then that town dog is angry in earnest, and he begins to strain, and weep, and paw the sand higher than ever, and reach for the coyote with concentrated and desperate energy.

This spurt finds him six feet behind the gliding enemy, and two miles from his friends. And then, in the instant that a wild new hope is lighting up his face, the coyote turns and smiles blandly upon him once more, and with a something about it which seems to say: “Well, I shall have to tear myself away from you, – business is business, and it will not do for me to be fooling along this way all day,” – and forthwith there is a rushing sound, and the sudden splitting of a long crack through the atmosphere, and behold that dog is solitary and alone in the midst of a vast solitude!

It makes his head swim. He stops, and looks all around; climbs the nearest mound, and gazes into the distance; shakes his head reflectively, and then, without a word, he turns and jogs along back to his train, and takes up a humble position under the hindmost wagon, and feels unspeakably mean, and looks ashamed, and hangs his tail at half-mast for a week. And for as much as a year after that, whenever there is a great hue and cry after a coyote, that dog will merely glance in that direction without emotion, and apparently observe to himself, “I believe I do not wish any of the pie.”

    – Samuel Langhorne Clemens [Mark Twain].

STEP BY STEP

Heaven is not reached by a single bound,
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit, round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true,
That a noble deed is a step towards God,
Lifting the soul from the common clod
To a purer air and a fairer view.

We rise by the things that are ’neath our feet;
By what we have mastered of good; and gain
By the pride deposed, and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls to life and light;
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray;
And we think that we mount the air on wings
Beyond the recall of earthly things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings are for angels, but feet for men!
We may borrow the wings to find the way;
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray,
But our feet must rise or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;
But the dreams depart and the ladder falls,
And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.

    – Josiah Gilbert Holland.
A right thought is as a true key.

A SUMMER STORM

Last night a storm fell on the world
From height of drouth and heat,
The surly clouds for weeks were furled,
The air could only sway and beat;

The beetles clattered at the blind,
The hawks fell twanging from the sky,
The west unrolled a feathery wind,
And the night fell sullenly.

A storm leaped roaring from its lair,
Like the shadow of doom;
The poignard lightning searched the air,
The thunder ripped the shattered gloom;

The rain came down with a roar like fire,
Full-voiced and clamorous and deep;
The weary world had its heart’s desire,
And fell asleep.

And now in the morning early,
The clouds are sailing by;
Clearly, oh! so clearly,
The distant mountains lie.

The wind is very mild and slow,
The clouds obey his will,
They part and part and onwards go,
Travelling together still.

’Tis very sweet to be alive,
On a morning that’s so fair,
For nothing seems to stir or strive,
In the unconscious air.

A tawny thrush is in the wood,
Ringing so wild and free;
Only one bird has a blither mood,