The New McGuffey Fourth Reader Part 7

Coming, coming, coming!

Listen! perhaps you'll hear Over the snow the bugles blow To welcome the glad new year.

In the steeple tongues are swinging, There are merry sleigh bells ringing, And the people for joy are singing, It's coming, coming near.

Flying, sighing, dying, Going away to-night, Weary and old, its story told, The year that was full and bright.

Oh, we are half sorry it's leaving Good-by has a sound of grieving; But its work is done and its weaving; G.o.d speed its parting flight!

Tripping, slipping, skipping, Like a child in its wooing grace, With never a tear and never a fear, And a light in its laughing face; With hands held out to greet us, With gay little steps to meet us, With sweet eyes that entreat us, The new year comes to its place.

Coming, coming, coming!

Promising lovely things-- The gold and the gray of the summer day, The winter with fleecy-wings; Promising swift birds glancing, And the patter of raindrops dancing, And the sunbeam's arrowy lancing, Dear gifts the new year brings.

Coming, coming, coming!

The world is a vision of white; From the powdered eaves to the sere-brown leaves That are hidden out of sight.

In the steeple tongues are swinging, The bells are merrily ringing, And "Happy New-Year" we're singing, For the old year goes to-night.

JEANNETTE AND JO.

BY MARY MAPES DODGE.

Two girls I know--Jeannette and Jo, And one if always moping; The other la.s.sie, come what may, Is ever bravely hoping.

Beauty of face and girlish grace Are theirs, for joy or sorrow; Jeannette takes brightly every day, And Jo dreads each to-morrow.

One early morn they watched the dawn-- I saw them stand together; Their whole day's sport, 'twas very plain, Depended on the weather.

"'Twill storm! ' cried Jo. Jeannette spoke low, "Yes, but 'twill soon be over."

And, as she spoke, the sudden shower Came, beating down the clover.

"I told you so!" cried angry Jo: "It always is a-raining!"

Then hid her face in dire despair, Lamenting and complaining.

But sweet Jeannette, quite hopeful yet,-- I tell it to her honor,-- Looked up and waited till the sun Came streaming in upon her.

The broken clouds sailed off in crowds, Across a sea of glory.

Jeannette and Jo ran, laughing, in-- Which ends my simple story.

Joy is divine. Come storm, come shine, The hopeful are the gladdest; And doubt and dread, children, believe Of all things are the saddest.

In morning's light, let youth be bright; Take in the sunshine tender; Then, at the close, shall life's decline Be full of sunset splendor.

And ye who fret, try, like Jeannette, To shun all weak complaining; And not, like Jo, cry out too soon-- "It always is a-raining!"

WATSEKA.

AN INDIAN LEGEND.

Many years ago there lived in the west a tribe of Indians who called themselves Illinois. They were not savage and warlike, as the tribes around them were, but they liked to live in peace, hunting the deer in the great woods, and taking the fish from the shallow streams.

On the bank of a pretty little river that flows into the great Mississippi a small band of these Indians had built their wigwams. All along the stream were tall oaks and spreading walnut trees, with here and there a grove of wild plums or a thicket of hazel bushes. But only half a mile away began the great prairie, where there was neither tree nor bush, but only tall gra.s.s; and it stretched like a green sea as far as the eye could reach.

What there was on the other side of the prairie the Indians did not know. But they had been told that a fierce race of men lived there who loved only war.

"We will live quietly in our own place," they said, "and then these strangers will not molest us."

And so for many years they lived, in a careless, happy way by the side of the pretty river; and few of their young men dared to wander far from the friendly shelter of the woods.

One day in summer, when the woods were full of the songs of birds, and the prairie of the sweet odors of flowers, the Illinois had a festival under the oaks that shaded their village.

The young people played merry games on the greeIr, while their fathers and mothers sat in the doors of the wigwams and talked of the peaceful days that were past.

All at once a savage yell was heard in the hazel thicket by the river; then another from the edge of the prairie; and then a third from the lower end of the village. In a moment all was terror and confusion. Too well the Illinois knew the meaning of these cries. The savage strangers from beyond the prairie had come at last.

The attack had been so sudden and fierce that the Illinois could not defend themselves. They scattered and fled far into the woods on the other side of the little river. Then, one by one, they came together in a rocky glen where they could hide from danger.

But even there they could hear the yells of their foes, and they could see the black smoke that rose from their burning wigwams.

What could they do, now that this ruin had at last come upon them? The bravest among them were in despair. They threw their bows upon the ground. The warriors were gloomy and silent. They said it was useless to fight with foes so strong and fierce. The women and children wept as though heartbroken.

But at the very moment when all seemed lost, a young girl stood up among them. She had been well known in the little village. Her thoughtful, quiet ways had endeared her to old and young alike.

Her name was Watseka.

There were no tears in Watseka's eyes as she turned her face toward the gloomy warriors. All her quietness of manner was gone.

There was no fear in her voice as she spoke.

"Are you men," she said, "and do you thus give up all hope? Turn your faces toward the village. Do you see the smoke of our burning homes? Our enemies are counting the scalps they have taken. They are eating the deer that you killed yesterday on your own hunting grounds. And do you stand here and do nothing?"

Some of the warriors turned their faces toward the burning village, but no one spoke.

"Very well," said Watseka. "If you dare not, then I will show you what can be done. Follow me, women of the Illinois! The strangers shall not laugh because they have driven us so easily from our homes. They shall not feed upon the corn that we have raised. We will show them what the Illinois can do. Follow me!"

As Watseka spoke, her eyes sparkled with a light which filled every heart with new courage. With one accord the women and girls gathered around her.

"Lead us, Watseka!" they cried. "We will follow you. We are not afraid."

They armed themselves with the bows and the hatchets which the warriors had thrown upon the ground. Those who could find nothing else, picked up stones and sticks. The boys joined them, their eyes flashing with eagerness. All felt that Watseka would lead them to victory.

Then it was that courage came into the hearts of the warriors.

"Are we men, and do we let the women and boys thus outdo us?"

they cried. "No, we alone will drive our foes from our home. We alone will avenge our kinsmen whom they have slain. We will fear nothing. We will never rest until we have won back all that we have lost!"

And so Watseka and the women and boys did not go into battle. But the warriors of the Illinois in the darkness of the night crept silently back through the shadows of the wood. While their foes lay sleepng by the fires of the burning wigwams, they swept down upon them like a thunderbolt from the clear sky. Their revenge was swift and terrible.

And so the Illinois were again at peace, for the fierce warriors who dwelt on the other side of the prairie dared never molest them again. And they rebuilt their wigwams by the side of the pleasant river, and there they lived in comfort for many long years. Nor did they ever forget how the maiden, Watseka, had saved them in their hour of greatest need. The story of her bravery was told and retold a thousand times; the warriors talked of her beauty; the women praised her goodness; other tribes heard of her and talked about the hero maiden of the Illinois; and so long as there were Indians in that western land, the name of Watseka was remembered and honored.