The Literary World Seventh Reader Part 15

SUPPLEMENTARY READING

Watchers of the Trail--Charles C. D. Roberts.

Monarch, the Bear--Ernest Thompson Seton.

Wild Animals I Have Known--Ernest Thompson Seton.

African Game Trails--Theodore Roosevelt.

MIDWINTER

The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery veil; And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; The snow sails round him as he sings, White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall On bank and briar and broken wall; Over the orchard, waste and brown, All noiselessly they settle down, Tipping the apple-boughs, and each Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; It paves with pearl the garden-walk; And lovingly round tattered stalk And s.h.i.+vering stem its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

All day it snows: the sheeted post Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; All day the blasted oak has stood A m.u.f.fled wizard of the wood; Garland and airy cap adorn The sumach and the wayside thorn, And cl.u.s.tering spangles lodge and s.h.i.+ne In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; In [v]surplice white the cedar stands, And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree: But in my inmost ear is heard The music of a holier bird; And heavenly thoughts as soft and white As snow-flakes on my soul alight, Clothing with love my lonely heart, Healing with peace each bruised part, Till all my being seems to be Transfigured by their purity.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

=HELPS TO STUDY=

When did this storm begin? Read lines which show this. Give reasons for your answer. What comparisons are used by the poet in describing the snowfall? Which comparison do you like best? What healing thought does the storm bring to the poet? Compare it with the same thought in _The First Snowfall_.

A GEORGIA FOX HUNT[177-*]

I

In the season of 1863, the Rockville Hunting Club, which had been newly organized, was at the height of its success. It was composed of men too old to go in the army, and of young men who were not old enough, or who, from one cause and another, were exempted from military service.

Ostensibly, its object was to encourage the n.o.ble sport of fox-hunting and to bind by closer ties the congenial souls whose love for horse and hound and horn bordered on enthusiasm. This, I say, was its [v]ostensible object, for it seems to me, looking back upon that terrible time, that the main purpose of the a.s.sociation was to devise new methods of forgetting the sickening [v]portents of disaster that were even then thick in the air. Any suggestion or plan calculated to relieve the mind from the weight of the horror of those desperate days was eagerly seized upon and utilized. With the old men and the fledgling boys in the neighborhood of Rockville, the desire to escape momentarily the realities of the present took the shape of fox-hunting and other congenial amus.e.m.e.nts. With the women--ah well! Heaven only knows how they sat dumb and silent over their great anguish and grief, cheering the helpless and comforting and succoring the sick and wounded. It was a mystery to me then, and it is a mystery to me now.

About the first of November the writer hereof received a long-expected letter from Tom Tunison, the secretary of the club, who was on a visit to Monticello. It was brief and breezy.

"Young man," he wrote, "they are coming. They are going to give us a [v]ruffle. Their dogs are good, but they lack form and finish as well as discipline--plenty of bottom but no confidence. I haven't hesitated to put up our horn as the prize. Get the boys together and tell them about it, and see that our own eleven are in fighting trim. You won't believe it, but Sue, Herndon, Kate, and Walthall are coming with the party; and the fair de Compton, who set all the Monticello boys wild last year when she got back from Macon, vows and declares she is coming, too. Remember the 15th. Be prepared."

I took in the situation at a glance. Tom, in his reckless style, had bantered a party of Jasper county men as to the superiority of their dogs, and had even offered to give them an opportunity to gain the silver-mounted horn won by the Rockville club in Hanc.o.c.k county the year before. The Jasper county men, who were really breeding some excellent dogs, accepted the challenge, and Tom had invited them to share the hospitality of the plantation home called "Bachelors' Hall."

If the truth must be confessed, I was not at all grieved at the announcement in Tom's letter, apart from the agreeable change in the social atmosphere that would result from the presence of ladies in "Bachelors' Hall." I was eagerly anxious to test the mettle of a favorite hound--Flora--whose care and training had cost me a great deal of time and trouble. Although it was her first season in the field, she had already become the pet and pride of the Rockville club, the members of which were not slow to sound her praises. Flora was an experiment.

She was the result of a cross between the Henry hound (called in Georgia the "Birdsong dog," in honor of the most successful breeder) and a Maryland hound. She was a grand-daughter of the famous Hodo and in everything except her color (she was white with yellow ears) was the exact reproduction of that magnificent fox-hound. I was anxious to see her put to the test.

It was with no small degree of satisfaction, therefore, that I informed Aunt Patience, the cook, of Tom's programme. Aunt Patience was a privileged character, whose comments upon people and things were free and frequent; when she heard that a party of hunters, accompanied by ladies, proposed to make the hall their temporary headquarters, her remarks were ludicrously indignant.

"Well, ef dat Ma.r.s.e Tom ain't de beatinest white man dat I ever sot eyes on--'way off yander givin' way his vittles fo' he buy um at de sto'!

How I know what Ma.r.s.e Tom want, an' tel I know, whar I gwineter git um?

He better be home yer lookin' atter deze lazy n.i.g.g.e.rs, stidder high-flyin' wid dem Jasper county folks. Ef dez enny vittles on dis plan'ash'n, hits more'n I knows un. En he'll go runnin' roun' wid dem harum-skarum gals twell I boun' he don't fetch dat pipe an' dat 'backer what he said he would. Can't fool me 'bout de gals what grows up deze days. Dey duz like dey wanter stan' up an' cuss dersef' case dey wuzent borned men."

"Why, Aunt Patience, your Ma.r.s.e Tom says Miss de Compton is as pretty as a pink and as fine as a fiddle."

"Law, chile! you needn't talk 'bout de gals to dis ole 'omen. I done know um fo' you wuz borned. W'en you see Miss Compton you see all de balance un um. Deze is new times. Ma.r.s.e Tom's mammy useter spin her fifteen cents o' wool a day--w'en you see Miss Compton wid a hank er yarn in 'er han', you jes' sen' me word."

Whereupon, Aunt Patience gave her head handkerchief a vigorous wrench, and went her way--the good old soul--even then considering how she should best set about preparing a genuine surprise for her young master in the shape of daily feasts for a dozen guests. I will not stop here to detail the character of this preparation or to dwell upon its success.

It is enough to say that Tom Tunison praised Aunt Patience to the skies; and, as if this were not sufficient to make her happy, he produced a big clay pipe, three plugs of real "manufac terbacker," which was hard to get in those times, a red shawl, and twelve yards of calico.

The fortnight that followed the arrival of Tom's guests was one long to be remembered, not only in the [v]annals of the Rockville Hunting Club but in the annals of Rockville itself. The fair de Compton literally turned the heads of old men and young boys, and even succeeded in conquering the critics of her own s.e.x. She was marvelously beautiful, and her beauty was of a kind to haunt one in one's dreams. It was easy to perceive that she had made a conquest of Tom, and I know that every suggestion he made and every project he planned had for its sole end and aim the enjoyment of Miss Carrie de Compton.

It was several days before the minor details of the contest, which was at once the excuse for and the object of the visit of Tom's guests, could be arranged, but finally everything was "[v]amicably adjusted,"

and the day appointed. The night before the hunt, the club and the Jasper county visitors a.s.sembled in Tom Tunison's parlor for a final discussion of the event.

"In order," said Tom, "to give our friends and guests an opportunity fully to test the speed and bottom of their kennels, it has been decided to pay our respects to 'Old Sandy'."

"And pray, Mr. Tunison, who is 'Old Sandy'?" queried Miss de Compton.

"He is a fox, Miss de Compton, and a tough one. He is a trained fox. He has been hunted so often by the inferior packs in his neighborhood that he is well-nigh [v]invincible. He is so well known that he has not been hunted, except by accident, for two seasons. He is not as suspicious as he was two years ago, but we must be careful if we want to get within hearing distance of him to-morrow morning."

"Do any of the ladies go with us?" asked Jack Herndon.

"I go, for one," responded Miss de Compton, and in a few minutes all the ladies had decided to go along, even if they found it inconvenient to partic.i.p.ate actively in the hunt.

"Then," said Tom, rising, "we must say good night. Uncle Plato will sound 'Boots and Saddle' at four o'clock to-morrow morning."

"Four o'clock!" exclaimed the ladies in dismay.

"At four precisely," answered Tom, and the ladies with pretty little gestures of mock despair swept upstairs while Tom brought out cigars for the boys.

My friend little knew how delighted I was that "Old Sandy" was to be put through his paces. He little knew how carefully I had studied the peculiarities of this famous fox--how often when training Flora I had taken her out and followed "Old Sandy" through all his ranges, how I had "felt of" both his speed and bottom and knew all his weak points.

II

Morning came, and with it Uncle Plato's bugle call. Aunt Patience was ready with a smoking hot breakfast, and everybody was in fine spirits.

As the eager, happy crowd filed down the broad avenue that led to the hall, the fair de Compton, who had been delayed in mounting, rode by my side.

"You choose your escort well," I ventured to say.

"I have a weakness for children," she replied; "particularly for children who know what they are about. Plato has told me that if I desired to see all of the hunt without much trouble, to follow you. I am selfish, you perceive."