Fourth Reader - Various 5 стр.

How good the oak tree is to the ivy! said the ash. The lazy vine has naught to do but to twine herself about the strong oak tree and hear him tell his stories!

The ivy heard these envious words, and they made her very sad; but she said nothing of them to the oak tree, and that night the oak tree rocked her to sleep as he repeated the lullaby a zephyr was singing to him.

There is a storm coming over the hills, said the oak tree one day. The east wind tells me so; the swallows fly low in the air, and the sky is dark. Clasp me round about with thy arms, and nestle close to me, and no harm shall befall thee.

I have no fear, murmured the ivy.

The storm came over the hills and swept down upon the greenwood with deafening thunder and vivid lightning. The storm king himself rode upon the blast; his horses breathed flames, and his chariot trailed through the air like a serpent of fire. The ash fell before the violence of the storm kings fury, and the cedars, groaning, fell, and the hemlocks, and the pines; but the oak tree alone quailed not.

Oho! cried the storm king, angrily, the oak tree does not bow to me; he does not tremble in my presence. Well, we shall see.

With that the storm king hurled a mighty thunderbolt at the oak tree, and the brave, strong monarch of the greenwood was riven. Then, with a shout of triumph, the storm king rode away.

Dear oak tree, you are riven by the storm kings thunderbolt! cried the ivy, in anguish.

Ay, said the oak tree, feebly, my end has come; see, I am shattered and helpless.

But I am unhurt, remonstrated the ivy; and I shall bind up your wounds and nurse you back to health and vigor.

And so it was that, although the oak tree was ever afterwards a riven and broken thing, the ivy concealed the scars upon his shattered form and covered his wounds all over with her soft foliage.

I had hoped, she said, to grow up to thy height, to live with thee among the clouds, and to hear the solemn voices thou didst hear.

But the old oak tree said, Nay, nay, I love thee better as thou art, for with thy beauty and thy love thou comfortest mine age.

Then would the ivy tell quaint stories to the oak tree,  stories she had learned from the crickets, the bees, the butterflies, and the mice when she was a humble little vine and played at the foot of the majestic oak tree towering in the greenwood. And these simple tales pleased the old and riven oak tree; they were not as heroic as the tales the wind, the clouds, and the stars told, but they were far sweeter, for they were tales of contentment, of humility, of love. So the old age of the oak tree was grander than his youth.

And all who went through the greenwood paused to behold and admire the beauty of the oak tree then; for about his scarred and broken trunk the gentle vine had so entwined her graceful tendrils and spread her fair foliage, that one saw not the havoc of the years nor the ruin of the tempest, but only the glory of the oak trees age, which was the ivys love and ministering.  Eugene Field.

HARVEST SONG

HARVEST TIME

HARE-AND-HOUNDS AT RUGBY

The only incident worth recording here, however, was the first run at hare-and-hounds. On the last Tuesday but one of the half-year, Tom was passing through the hall after dinner, when he was hailed with shouts from Tadpole and several other boys. They were seated at one of the long tables; the chorus of their shouts was, Come and help us tear up scent.

Tom approached the table in obedience to the summons, always ready to help, and found the party engaged in tearing up old newspapers, copy-books, and magazines into small pieces, with which they were filling four large canvas bags.

Its the turn of our house to find scent for Big-side hare-and-hounds, exclaimed Tadpole. Tear away; theres no time to lose.

I think its a great shame, said another small boy, to have such a hard run for the last day.

Which run is it? said Tadpole.

Oh, the Barby run, I hear, answered the other. Nine miles at least, and hard ground; no chance of getting in at the finish unless youre a first-rate runner.

Well, Im going to have a try, said Tadpole.

I should like to try, too, said Tom.

Well, then, leave your waistcoat behind, and listen at the door, after roll-call, and youll hear where the meet is.

After roll-call, sure enough, there were two boys at the door, calling out, Big-side hare-and-hounds meet at White Hall. And Tom, having girded himself with leather strap, and left all superfluous clothing behind, set off for White Hall, an old gable-ended house some quarter of a mile from the town, with East, whom he had persuaded to join. At the meet they found some forty or fifty boys; and Tom felt sure, from having seen many of them run at football, that he and East were more likely to get in than they.

After a few minutes waiting, two well-known runners, chosen for the hares, buckled on the four bags filled with scent, compared their watches with those of young Brooke and Thorne, and started off at a long, swinging trot across the fields in the direction of Barby. Then the hounds clustered round Thorne, who explained shortly: Theyre to have six minutes law. We run into the Cock, and every one who comes in within a quarter of an hour of the hares will be counted, if he has been round Barby church.

Then comes a pause of a minute or so, and then the watches are pocketed, and the pack is led through the gateway into the field which the hares had first crossed. Here they break into a trot, scattering over the field to find the first traces of the scent which the hares throw out as they go along.

Then comes a pause of a minute or so, and then the watches are pocketed, and the pack is led through the gateway into the field which the hares had first crossed. Here they break into a trot, scattering over the field to find the first traces of the scent which the hares throw out as they go along.

The old hounds make straight for the likely points, and in a minute a cry of Forward comes from one of them, and the whole pack, quickening their pace, make for the spot. The boy who hit the scent first, and the two or three nearest to him, are over the first fence, and making play along the hedgerow in the long-grass field beyond. The rest of the pack rush at the gap already made, and scramble through, jostling one another. Forward again, before they are half through; the pace quickens into a sharp run, the tail hounds all straining to get up with the lucky leaders.

They are gallant hares, and the scent lies thick right across another meadow and into a ploughed field, where the pace begins to tell; then over a good hedge with a ditch on the other side, and down a large pasture studded with old thorns, which slopes down to the first brook. The brook is a small one, and the scent lies right ahead up the opposite slope, and as thick as ever. Many a youngster now begins to drag his legs heavily, and feel his heart beat like a hammer, and those farthest behind think that after all it isnt worth while to keep it up.

Tom, East, and Tadpole had a good start, and are well along for such young hands. After rising the slope and crossing the next field, they find themselves up with the leading hounds, who have overrun the scent and are trying back. They have come a mile and a half in about eleven minutes, a pace which shows that it is the last day. Only about twenty-five of the original starters show here, the rest having already given in. The leaders are busy making casts into the fields on the left and right, and the others get their second winds.

Then comes the cry of Forward again from young Brooke, at the extreme left, and the pack settles down to work again, steadily and doggedly, the whole keeping pretty well together. The scent, though still good, is not so thick. There is no need of that, for in this part of the run every one knows the line which must be taken, and so there are no casts to be made, but good downright running and fencing to be done.

All who are now up mean coming in, and they come to the foot of Barby Hill without losing more than two or three more of the pack. This last straight two miles and a half is always a vantage-ground for the hounds, and the hares know it well. They are generally viewed on the side of Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the lookout for them to-day. But not a sign of them appears, so now will be the hard work for the hounds, and there is nothing for it but to cast about for the scent, for it is the hares turn, and they may baffle the pack dreadfully in the next two miles.

Ill fares it now with our youngsters that they follow young Brooke; for he takes the wide casts round to the left, conscious of his own powers, and loving the hard work. However, they struggle after him, sobbing and plunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tadpole some thirty yards behind.

Now comes a brook, with stiff clay banks, from which they can hardly drag their legs; and they hear faint cries for help from the wretched Tadpole, who has fairly stuck fast. But they have too little run left in themselves to pull up for their own brothers. Three fields more, and another check, and then Forward called away to the extreme right.

The two boys souls die within them. They can never do it. Young Brooke thinks so, too, and says kindly, Youll cross a lane after next field; keep down it, and youll hit the Dunchurch-road. Then he steams away for the run in, in which hes sure to be first, as if he were just starting. They struggle on across the next field, the Forwards getting fainter and fainter, and then ceasing. The whole hunt is out of ear-shot, and all hope of coming in is over.

Hang it all! broke out East, as soon as he had wind enough, pulling off his hat and mopping his face, all spattered with dirt and lined with sweat, from which went up a thick steam into the still, cold air. I told you how it would be. What a thick I was to come! Here we are dead beat, and yet I know were close to the run in, if we knew the country.

Well, said Tom, mopping away, and gulping down his disappointment, it cant be helped. We did our best, anyhow. Hadnt we better find this lane, and go down it as young Brooke told us?

I suppose so nothing else for it, grunted East. If ever I go out last day again, growl growl growl.

So they turned back slowly and sorrowfully, and found the lane, and went limping down it, plashing in the cold, puddly ruts, and beginning to feel how the run had taken the heart out of them. The evening closed in fast, and clouded over, dark, cold, and dreary.

I say, it must be locking-up, I should think, remarked East, breaking the silence; its so dark.

What if were late? said Tom.

No tea, and sent up to the Doctor, answered East.

The thought didnt add to their cheerfulness. Presently a faint halloo was heard from an adjoining field. They answered it and stopped, hoping for some competent rustic to guide them, when over a gate some twenty yards ahead crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of collapse. He had lost a shoe in the brook, and been groping after it up to his elbows in the stiff, wet clay, and a more miserable creature in the shape of a boy seldom has been seen.

The sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered them, for he was some degree more wretched than they. They also cheered him, as he was now no longer under the dread of passing his night alone in the fields. And so in better heart, the three plashed painfully down the never-ending lane. At last it widened, just as utter darkness set in, and they came out on to a turnpike road, and there paused, bewildered, for they had lost all bearings, and knew not whether to turn to the right or left.

Luckily for them they had not to decide, for lumbering along the road, with one lamp lighted, and two spavined horses in the shafts, came a heavy coach, which after a moments suspense they recognized as the Oxford coach, the redoubtable Pig and Whistle.

It lumbered slowly up, and the boys, mustering their last run, caught it as it passed, and began scrambling up behind, in which exploit East missed his footing and fell flat on his nose along the road. Then the others hailed the old scarecrow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed to take them in for a shilling. So there they sat on the back seat, drubbing with their heels, and their teeth chattering with cold, and jogged into Rugby some forty minutes after locking-up.  Thomas Hughes.

AN ADJUDGED CASE

INDIAN SUMMER