Standard Selections Part 60

LASCA

ANONYMOUS

I want free life, and I want fresh air; And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, The crack of the whips like shots in a battle, The mellay of horns and hoofs and heads That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads; The green beneath and the blue above, And dash and danger, and life and love.

And Lasca!

Lasca used to ride On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side, With blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur; I laughed with joy as I looked at her.

Little knew she of books or of creeds; An _Ave Maria_ sufficed her needs; Little she cared, save to be by my side, To ride with me, and ever to ride, From San Saba's sh.o.r.e to Lavaca's tide.

She was as bold as the billows that beat, She was as wild as the breezes that blow; From her little head to her little feet She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro By each gust of pa.s.sion; a sapling pine, That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff, And wars with the wind when the weather is rough Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.

She would hunger that I might eat, Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; But once, when I made her jealous for fun, At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done, One Sunday in San Antonio, To a glorious girl on the Alamo, She drew from her belt a dear little dagger, And--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger!

An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night; But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound Her torn _rebosa_ about the wound, That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown-- Her hair was darker than her eye; And something in her smile and frown, Curled crimson lip and instep high, Showed that there ran in each blue vein, Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, The vigorous vintage of old Spain.

She was alive in every limb With feeling, to the finger tips; And when the sun is like a fire, And sky one shining, soft sapphire, One does not drink in little sips.

The air was heavy, the night was hot, I sat by her side, and forgot--forgot The herd that were taking their rest, Forgot that the air was close opprest, That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon-- That once let the herd at its breath take fright, Nothing on earth can stop the flight; And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, Who falls in front of their mad stampede!

Was that thunder? I grasped the cord Of my swift mustang without a word.

I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.

Away! on a hot chase down the wind!

But never was fox-hunt half so hard And never was steed so little spared; For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on; There was one chance left, and you have but one, Halt! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance, And if the steers in their frantic course Don't batter you both to pieces at once, You may thank your star; if not, good-by To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, And the open air and the open sky, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande!

The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we, Clinging together, and--what was the rest?

A body that spread itself on my breast.

Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard on my lips were prest; Then came thunder in my ears, As over us surged the sea of steers, Blows that beat blood into my eyes, And when I could rise-- Lasca was dead!

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep; And there she is lying, and no one knows; And the summer shines and the winter snows; For many a day the flowers have spread A pall of petals over her head; And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air, And the sly coyote trots here and there, And the black snake glides and glitters and slides Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree; And the buzzard sails on, And comes and is gone, Stately and still like a ship at sea; And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are like the things that were.

Does half my heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR

JULES VERNE

Russia was threatened by a Tartar invasion. The commander of the Russian troops was the Czar's brother, the Grand Duke, now stationed at Irkutsk.

Suddenly all communication between him and the Czar was cut off by the enemy, under the leadership of Ivan Ogareff, a traitor, who had sworn to betray Russia and to kill the Grand Duke. It became necessary to send a messenger to the Grand Duke to warn him of his danger, and Michael Strogoff was chosen for that purpose. He was brought before the Czar, who looked this magnificent specimen of manhood full in the face. Then: "Thy name?"

"Michael Strogoff, sire."

"Thy rank?"

"Captain in the Corps of Couriers to the Czar."

"Thou dost know Siberia?"

"I am a Siberian."

"A native of--?"

"Omsk, sire."

"Hast thou relations there?"

"Yes, sire, my aged mother."

The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter which he held in his hand: "Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no one but him."

"I will deliver it, sire."

"The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this letter."

"I will traverse it."

"Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet thee on the way."

"I will beware of him."

"Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke." (Hands him letter.)

"This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke."

"Go, thou, for G.o.d, for the Czar, and for your native land."

That very night Michael Strogoff started on his perilous journey. His path was constantly beset with dangers, but not until he reached Omsk did his greatest trial come. He had feared that he might see his mother in pa.s.sing through the town. They stopped only for dinner and the danger was almost past, when, just as they were leaving the posting-house to renew their journey, suddenly a cry made him tremble--a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul--and these two words rushed into his ear, "My son!" His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him!

Trembling she smiled upon him and stretched forth her arms to him.

Michael Strogoff stepped forward; he was about to throw himself--when the thought of duty, the serious danger to himself and mother, in this unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great was his self-command that not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public room, and among them were perhaps spies, and was it not known that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the Corps of Couriers to the Czar?

Michael Strogoff did not move.

"Michael!" cried his mother.

"Who are you, my good woman?"

"Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?"

"You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you."

Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said, "Art thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?"

Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms.

But if he yielded now, it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath! Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother.

"I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman."

"Michael!"

"My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Horparoff, a merchant of Irkutsk," and suddenly he left the room, while for the last time the words echoed in his ears.