The Ontario Readers: Fourth Book Part 10

I may not know each plant as some men know them, As children gather beasts and birds to tame; But I went 'mid them as the winds that blow them, From childhood's hour, and loved without a name.

There is more beauty in a field of weeds Than in all blooms the hothouse garden breeds.

For they are nature's children; in their faces I see that sweet obedience to the sky That marks these dwellers of the wilding places, Who with the season's being live and die; Knowing no love but of the wind and sun, Who still are nature's when their life is done.

They are a part of all the haze-filled hours, The happy, happy world all drenched with light, The far-off, chiming click-clack of the mowers, And yon blue hills whose mists elude my sight; And they to me will ever bring in dreams Far mist-clad heights and br.i.m.m.i.n.g rain-fed streams.

W. Wilfred Campbell

WORK AND WAGES

There will always be a number of men who would fain set themselves to the acc.u.mulation of wealth as the sole object of their lives.

Necessarily, that cla.s.s of men is an uneducated cla.s.s, inferior in intellect, and, more or less, cowardly. It is physically impossible for a well-educated, intellectual, or brave man to make money the chief object of his thoughts; just as it is for him to make his dinner the princ.i.p.al object of them. All healthy people like their dinners, but their dinner is not the main object of their lives. So all healthily-minded people like making money--ought to like it, and to enjoy the sensation of winning it: but the main object of their life is not money; it is something better than money. A good soldier, for instance, mainly wishes to do his fighting well. He is glad of his pay--very properly so, and justly grumbles when you keep him ten years without it--still, his main notion of life is to win battles, not to be paid for winning them. So of clergymen. They like pew-rents, and baptismal fees, of course; but yet, if they are brave and well-educated, the pew-rent is not the sole object of their lives, and the baptismal fee is not the sole purpose of the baptism; the clergyman's object is essentially to baptize and preach, not to be paid for preaching. So of doctors. They like fees no doubt,--ought to like them; yet if they are brave and well-educated, the entire object of their lives is not fees.

They, on the whole, desire to cure the sick; and,--if they are good doctors, and the choice were fairly put to them--would rather cure their patient, and lose their fee, than kill him, and get it. And so with all other brave and rightly-trained men; their work is first, their fee second--very important always, but still _second_. But in every nation, as I said, there are a vast cla.s.s who are ill-educated, cowardly, and more or less stupid. And with these people, just as certainly the fee is first, and the work second, as with brave people the work is first, and the fee second. And this is no small distinction. It is the whole distinction in a man; distinction between life and death _in_ him, between heaven and h.e.l.l _for_ him. You cannot serve two masters:--you _must_ serve one or other. If your work is first with you, and your fee second, work is your master, and the lord of work, who is G.o.d. But, if your fee is first with you, and your work second, fee is your master, and the lord of fee, who is the Devil; and not only the Devil but the lowest of devils--the 'least erected fiend that fell.' So there you have it in brief terms; Work first--you are G.o.d's servants; Fee first--you are the Fiend's. And it makes a difference, now and ever, believe me, whether you serve Him who has on His vesture and thigh written, 'King of Kings,' and whose service is perfect freedom; or him on whose vesture and thigh the name is written, 'Slave of Slaves,' and whose service is perfect slavery.

Ruskin

UNTRODDEN WAYS

Where close the curving mountains drew To clasp the stream in their embrace, With every outline, curve, and hue, Reflected in its placid face,

The ploughman stopped his team, to watch The train, as swift it thundered by; Some distant glimpse of life to catch, He strains his eager, wistful eye.

His glossy horses mildly stand With wonder in their patient eyes, As through the tranquil mountain land The snorting monster onward flies.

The morning freshness is on him, Just wakened from his balmy dreams; The wayfarers, all soiled and dim, Think longingly of mountain streams:--

O for the joyous mountain air!

The long, delightful autumn day Among the hills!--the ploughman there Must have perpetual holiday!

And he, as all day long he guides His steady plough with patient hand, Thinks of the flying train that glides Into some fair, enchanted land;

Where day by day no plodding round Wearies the frame and dulls the mind; Where life thrills keen to sight and sound, With plough and furrows left behind!

Even so to each the untrod ways Of life are touched by fancy's glow, That ever sheds its brightest rays Upon _the page we do not know_!

Agnes Maule Machar

THE FIRST PLOUGHING

Calls the crow from the pine-tree top When the April air is still.

He calls to the farmer hitching his team In the farmyard under the hill.

"Come up," he cries, "come out and come up, For the high field's ripe to till.

Don't wait for word from the dandelion Or leave from the daffodil."

Cheeps the flycatcher--"Here old earth Warms up in the April sun; And the first ephemera, wings yet wet, From the mould creep one by one.

Under the fence where the flies frequent Is the earliest gossamer spun.

Come up from the damp of the valley lands, For here the winter's done."

Whistles the high-hole out of the grove His summoning loud and clear: "Chilly it may be down your way But the high south field has cheer.

On the sunward side of the chestnut stump The woodgrubs wake and appear.

Come out to your ploughing, come up to your ploughing, The time for ploughing is here."

Then dips the coulter and drives the share, And the furrows faintly steam.

The crow drifts furtively down from the pine To follow the clanking team.

The flycatcher tumbles, the high-hole darts In the young noon's yellow gleam; And wholesome sweet the smell of the sod Upturned from its winter's dream.

Charles G. D. Roberts

THE ARCHERY CONTEST

"The day," said Waldemar, "is not yet very far spent--let the archers shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be adjudged."

One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two within the inner ring were shot by Hubert, a forester in the service of Malvoisin, who was accordingly p.r.o.nounced victorious.

"Now, Locksley," said Prince John with a bitter smile, "wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert?"

"Sith it be no better," said Locksley, "I am content to try my fortune; on condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert's, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose."

"That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused thee. If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver pennies for thee."

"A man can but do his best," answered Hubert; "but my grandsire drew a good long bow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonour his memory."

The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size placed in its room. Hubert took his aim with great deliberation, long measuring the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his bended bow, with the arrow placed on the string. At length he made a step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm, till the centre or grasping-place was nigh level with his face, he drew his bow-string to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the centre.

"You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his antagonist, bending his bow, "or that had been a better shot."

So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim, Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He was speaking almost at the same instant that the shaft left the bow-string, yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which marked the centre than that of Hubert.

"By the light of heaven!" said Prince John to Hubert, "an thou suffer that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!"

"An your highness were to hang me," said Hubert, "a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my grandsire drew a good bow----"