The Ontario Readers Part 15

Tom resumed his whitewas.h.i.+ng, and answered carelessly--

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know is, it suits Tom Sawyer."

"Oh, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth--stepped back to note the effect--added a touch here and there--criticised the effect again, Ben watching every move, and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said--

"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."

Tom considered; was about to consent; but he altered his mind: "No, no; I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence--right here on the street, you know--but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind, and she wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

"No--is that so? Oh, come now; lemme just try, only just a little. I'd let you, if you was me, Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly--well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let Sid. Now, don't you see how I am fixed? If you was to tackle this fence, and anything was to happen to it--"

"Oh, shucks; I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say--I'll give you the core of my apple."

"Well, here. No, Ben; now don't; I'm afeard--"

"I'll give you all of it!"

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while Ben worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash.

By the time Ben was f.a.gged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with; and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor, poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth.

He had, besides the things I have mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jew's harp, a piece of blue bottle-gla.s.s to look through, a spool-cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a gla.s.s stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a bra.s.s door-k.n.o.b, a dog-collar--but no dog--the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window-sash. He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while--plenty of company--and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash, he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it, namely, that, in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, he would have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is _obliged_ to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is _not_ obliged to do.

MARK TWAIN: "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer."

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moon-beam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

C. WOLFE

THE WHISTLE

When I was a boy of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children, and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing in my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself: "Don't give too much for the whistle;" and I saved my money.

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.

When I saw any one fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in politics, neglecting his own affairs and ruining them by that neglect, "He pays, indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."

If I saw one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine horses, all above his fortune, for which he contracted debts and ended his career in poverty, "Alas!" said I, "he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."

In short, I believed that a great part of the miseries of mankind were brought upon them by the false estimates they had made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Soon as the woods on sh.o.r.e look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl; But, when the wind blows off the sh.o.r.e, Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon.

Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

MOORE