The New McGuffey Fourth Reader Part 10

The moon shone through the opening at the mouth of the creek by which I had entered the forest; and, considering this the best way of escape, I darted toward it like an arrow. It was hardly a hundred yards distant, and the swallow could scarcely have excelled me in flight; yet, as I turned my eyes to the sh.o.r.e, I could see several dark objects dashing through the brushwood at a pace nearly double in speed to my own. By their great speed, and the short yells which they occasionally gave, I knew at once that these were the much-dreaded gray wolves.

The bushes that skirted the sh.o.r.e now seemed to rush past with the velocity of lightning, as I dashed on in my flight to pa.s.s the narrow opening. The outlet was nearly gained; a few seconds more, and I would be comparatively safe. But in a moment my pursuers appeared on the bank above me, which here rose to the height of ten or twelve feet. There was no time for thought; I bent my head, and dashed wildly forward. The wolves sprang, but, miscalculating my speed, they fell behind, as I glided out upon the river!

I turned toward home. The light flakes of snow spun from the iron of my skates, and I was some distance from my pursuers, when their fierce howl told me they were still in hot pursuit. I did not look back; I did not feel afraid, or sorry, or glad; one thought of home, of the bright faces awaiting my return, and of their tears if they never should see me,--and then all the energies of body and mind were exerted for escape.

I was perfectly at home on the ice. Many were the days that I had spent on my good skates, never thinking that they would one day prove my only means of safety.

Every half-minute a furious yelp from my fierce attendants made me but too certain that they were in close pursuit. Nearer and nearer they came. At last I heard their feet pattering on the ice; I even felt their very breath, and heard their snuffing scent! Every nerve and muscle in my frame was strained to the utmost.

The trees along the sh.o.r.e seemed to dance in an uncertain light, my brain turned with my own breathless speed, my pursuers hissed forth their breath with a sound truly horrible, when all at once an involuntary motion on my part turned me out of my course.

The wolves close behind, unable to stop, and as unable to turn on smooth ice, slipped and fell, still going on far ahead. Their tongues were lolling out, their white tusks were gleaming from their b.l.o.o.d.y mouths, their dark s.h.a.ggy b.r.e.a.s.t.s were flecked with foam; and as they pa.s.sed me their eyes glared, and they howled with fury.

The thought flashed on my mind that by turning aside whenever they came too near I might avoid them; for, owing to the formation of their feet, they are unable to run on ice except in a straight line. I immediately acted upon this plan, but the wolves having regained their feet sprang directly toward me.

The race was renewed for twenty yards up the stream; they were almost close at my back, when I glided round and dashed directly past them. A fierce yell greeted this movement, and the wolves, slipping on their haunches, again slid onward, presenting a perfect picture of helplessness and disappointed rage. Thus I gained nearly a hundred yards at each turning. This was repeated two or three times, the baffled animals becoming every moment more and more excited.

At one time, by delaying my turning too long, my bloodthirsty antagonists came so near that they threw their white foam over my coat as they sprang to seize me, and their teeth clashed together like the spring of a fox-trap. Had my skates failed for one instant, had I tripped on a stick, or had my foot been caught in a fissure, the story I am now telling would never have been told.

I thought over all the chances. I knew where they would first seize me if I fell. I thought how long it would be before I died, and then of the search for my body: for oh, how fast man's mind traces out all the dread colors of death's picture only those who have been near the grim original can tell!

At last I came opposite the cabin, and my hounds--I knew their deep voices--roused by the noise, bayed furiously from their kennels. I heard their chains rattle--how I wished they would break them!--then I should have had protectors to match the fiercest dwellers of the forest. The wolves, taking the hint conveyed by the dogs, stopped in their mad career, and after a few moments turned and fled.

I watched them until their forms disappeared over a neighboring hill; then, taking off my skates, I wended my way to the cabin with feelings which may be better imagined than described. But even yet I never see a broad sheet of ice by moonlight without thinking of that snuffing breath, and those ferocious beasts that followed me so closely down that frozen river.

DEFINITIONS:--Glinting, glancing, glittering. Zone, belt.

Velocity, swiftness. Fissure, crack.

EXERCISE.--Where is the Kennebec River? In what part of our country is Maine?

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view!

The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it: The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell: The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well: The old oaken bucket, the ironbound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.

How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness it rose from the well: The old oaken bucket, the ironbound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar which Jupiter sips; And now, far removed from thy loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well: The old oaken bucket, the ironbound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.

DEFINITIONS:--Cataract, a great fall of water. Overflowing, running over. Exquisite, exceeding, extreme. Poised, balanced.

Goblet, a kind of cup or drinking vessel. Nectar, the drink of the G.o.ds. Intrusively, without right or welcome. Reverts, returns.

EXERCISE.--Who was the author of "The Old Oaken Bucket"? What does the poem describe? and what feeling does it express?

THE FARMER AND THE FOX.

By JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.

A farmer, whose poultry-yard had suffered severely from the foxes, succeeded at last in catching one in a trap. "Ah, you rascal!" said he, as he saw him struggling, "I'll teach you to steal my fat geese!--you shall hang on the tree yonder, and your brothers shall see what comes of thieving."

The farmer was twisting a halter to do what he threatened, when the fox, whose tongue had helped him in hard pinches before, thought there could be no harm in trying whether it might not do him one more good turn.

"You will hang me," he said, "to frighten my brother foxes. On the word of a fox, they won't care; they'll come and look at me, but they will dine at your expense before they go home again."

"Then I shall hang you for yourself, as a rogue and a rascal,"

said the farmer.

"I am only what nature chose to make me," the fox answered. "I didn't make myself."

"You stole my geese," said the man.

"Why did nature make me like geese, then?" said the fox. "Live and let live; give me my share, and I won't touch yours."

"I don't understand your fine talk," answered the farmer; "but I know that you are a thief, and that you deserve to be hanged."

"His head is too thick to let me catch him so," thought the fox; "I wonder if his heart is any softer! You are taking away the life of a fellow-creature," he said; "that's a responsibility--life is a curious thing, and who knows what comes after it?

"You say I am a rogue--I say I am not; but at any rate, I ought not to be hanged--for if I am not, I don't deserve it; and if I am, you should give me time to repent! I have him now," thought the fox; "let him. get out if he can."

"Why, what would you have me do with you?" said the man.

"My notion is that you should let me go, and give me a lamb, or goose or two, every month, and then I could live without stealing; but perhaps you know better; my education may have been neglected; you should shut me up, and take care of me, and teach me. Who knows but I may turn into a dog? Stranger things than this have happened."

"Very pretty," said the farmer; "we have dogs enough, and more, too, than we can take care of, without you. No, no, Master Fox, I have caught you, and I am determined that you shall swing. There will be one rogue less in the world, anyhow."

"It is mere hate and unchristian vengeance," said the fox.

"No, friend," the farmer answered; "I don't hate you, and I don't want to revenge myself on you; but you and I can't get on together, and I think I am of more importance in this world than you. If nettles and thistles grow in my cabbage garden, I don't try to persuade them to grow into cabbages. I just dig them up.

"I don't hate them; on the contrary, I feel a sense of pity for them. But I feel somehow that they mustn't hinder me with my cabbages, and that I must put them away; and so, my poor friend, I am sorry for you, but I am afraid you must swing."

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

By the sh.o.r.es of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the moon, Nokomis.