Private William Baum, of the Prussian army, as he stood peering into the darkness, was almost wishing that the Austrians and Russians, whose camp-fires he could see along the other side of the valley, would make an attack, and give him something else to do than shiver in the wet. But they did not; and Baum, growing colder and wetter every minute, wished himself back in his snug little apple-orchard at the foot of the Giant Mountains, where he used to be in bed every night before the village clock tolled ten, after a good supper of brown bread and cabbage.
“If the king had to be out in a night of this sort,” he said aloud, “he’d soon be as tired of war as I am.”
“And how do you know he hasn’t?” broke in a sharp voice, close beside him.
At once Baum was himself again. The first sign of a stranger approaching his post recalled him to his duty as a soldier.
His musket was at his shoulder in a moment, and his voice rang out clear and stern,—
“Stand! Who goes there?”
“A friend,” replied the unknown.
“Advance, friend, and give the pass-word.”
“‘The Prussian eagle.’”
“Pass, friend; all’s well.”
But instead of passing on, the stranger came close up to the sentry, who could just make out by a stray gleam of moonlight, that his visitor was wrapped in a horseman’s cloak, and had a hat drawn over his eyes in such a way as to hide his face.
“You seem to have rather damp quarters here, comrade,” said he. “Why don’t you have a smoke to warm yourself a bit?”
“Smoke!” replied the sentry. “Why, where do you come from, brother, not to know that smoking on duty is forbidden?”
“But suppose the king gave you leave to smoke?” said the stranger.
“The king!” answered the soldier, gruffly. “What would my captain say? Long before the king could hear of it, the drummer’s cane would make acquaintance with my back.”
“Pooh! the captain’s not here to see you. Out with your pipe, man. I’ll tell no tales.”
“Look here, you rascal!” cried the soldier, in an angry tone, “I half suspect you’re some fellow who wants to get me into trouble. Now, if that’s so, you had better be off before worse comes of it; for if you say any more, I’ll give you a cuff you won’t like.”
“I’d like to see you try it,” said the other, with a laugh.
The soldier’s only reply was a blow which sent the stranger’s battered old hat flying into the air, while he himself staggered back several paces.
“Very good,” said he, recovering himself, and speaking in quite a different tone. “You’ll hear of this to-morrow, my man, and get what you deserve, never fear. Goodnight to you.”
He stooped as he spoke, and picking up something from the ground, vanished into the darkness.
The sudden change in his unknown visitor’s tone and manner, and his parting threat, caused some uneasiness to Baum. He began to fear that he had insulted an officer of high rank—a colonel at the very least, perhaps even a general.
“However,” thought he, “he doesn’t know my name, that’s one comfort; and he won’t find it very easy to describe the spot where I was posted, seeing that the night is so dark.”
But the next moment he gave a terrible start, for he had just missed his tobacco-pouch, which usually hung at his belt; and he remembered having seen the stranger pick up something as he went off. It must have been the pouch, and his name was upon it in full.
There was not much sleep for poor Baum that night, although he was relieved from guard half an hour later. He tried to keep up his courage by telling himself over and over again that the general could hardly punish him for obeying orders; but even this did not comfort him much, for in those days there were very few things which a general could not do to a private soldier.
The next morning, sure enough, a corporal and four men came to conduct Private William Baum to headquarters; and when he got there, he found all the generals standing around a little, lean, bright-eyed man, in a very shabby dress, whom Baum knew at once to be the king himself—Frederick the Great of Prussia.
“Gentlemen,” said Frederick, and with a sharp glance at the unlucky sentry, “what does a Prussian soldier deserve, who strikes his king?”
“Death,” answered the generals with one voice.
“Good!” said Frederick. “Here is the man.” And he held out a tobacco-pouch marked with the name of “William Baum.”
“Mercy, sire, mercy!” cried Baum, falling on his knees. “I never thought it was Your Majesty with whom I was speaking.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did,” said the king, clapping him on the shoulder; “and I hope all my soldiers will obey orders as well as you do. I said you should get what you deserve, and so you shall; for I’ll make you a sergeant this very day.”
And the king kept his word.—Selected.
He has enough who is content.
One day Tom had a new adventure. He was sitting on a water-lily leaf, he and his friend the dragon-fly, watching the gnats dance. The dragon-fly had eaten as many as he wanted, and was sitting quite still and sleepy, for it was very hot and bright.
The gnats danced a foot over his head quite happily, and a large black fly settled within an inch of his nose and began washing his own face and combing his hair with his paws. But the dragon-fly never stirred, and kept on chatting to Tom about the times when he lived under the water.
Suddenly Tom heard the strangest noise up the stream. He looked up the water, and there he saw a sight as strange as the noise; a great ball rolling over and over down the stream, seeming one moment of soft brown fur, and the next of shining glass. Yet it was not a ball; for sometimes it broke up and streamed away into pieces, and then it joined again; and all the while the noise came out of it louder and louder.
Tom asked the dragon-fly what it could be; but of course, with his short sight, he could not even see it, though it was not ten yards away. So Tom set off to see for himself; and when he came near, the ball turned out to be four or five beautiful otters, many times larger than Tom, who were swimming about, and rolling and diving, and twisting and scratching in the most charming fashion that ever was seen.
But when the biggest of them saw Tom, she darted out from the rest, and cried in the water-language sharply enough, “Quick, children, here is something to eat, indeed!” and came at poor Tom, showing such a wicked pair of eyes and such a set of sharp teeth in a grinning mouth, that Tom, who had thought her very handsome, said to himself, “Handsome is that handsome does,” and slipped in between the water-lily roots as fast as he could, and then turned around and laughed at her.
“Come out,” said the wicked old otter, “or it will be the worse for you.”
But Tom looked at her from between two thick roots, and shook them with all his might.
“Come away, children,” said the otter. “It is not worth eating, after all. It is only an eft, which nothing eats.”
“I am not an eft!” said Tom. “Efts have tails.”
“You are an eft,” said the otter. “I see your two hands quite plainly, and I know that you have a tail.”
“I tell you I have not,” said Tom. “Look here!” and he turned his pretty little self quite round; and sure enough, he had no more tail than you have.
The otter might have got out of it by saying that Tom was a frog; but, like a great many other people, when she had once said a thing she stood to it, right or wrong.
“I say you are an eft,” said the otter, “and therefore you are, and not fit food for gentlefolk like me and my children; you may stay there till the salmon eat you.” She knew the salmon would not, but she wished to frighten poor Tom.
“What are salmon?” asked Tom.
“Fish, you eft; great fish, nice to eat. They are the lords of the fish, and we are lords of the salmon;” and she laughed again. “They are coming soon, children, coming soon; I can smell the rain coming up off the sea. Then hurrah for fresh salmon and plenty of eating all day long.”
The otter grew so proud that she turned head over heels twice, and then stood upright half out of the water, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“And where do they come from?” asked Tom.
“Out of the sea, eft,—the great wide sea, where they might stay and be safe if they liked.”
Then the otter sailed away down the brook, and Tom saw her no more for that time. And lucky it was for her that she did so; for no sooner was she gone than down the bank came seven little rough terrier dogs, snuffing and yapping, grubbing and splashing, in full cry after the otter.
Tom hid among the water-lilies till they were gone; for he could not guess that they were the water-fairies come to help him. But he could not help thinking of what the otter had said about the great river and the broad sea. As he thought, he longed to go and see them. He could not tell why; but the more he thought, the more he grew discontented with the narrow little stream in which he lived, and with all his companions. He wished to get out into the wide, wide world, and enjoy all the wonderful sights of which he was sure it was full.
Once he set off to go down the stream, but the stream was very low, and when he came to the shallows he could not keep under water, for there was no water left to keep under. So the sun burned his back and made him sick; and he went back again and lay quiet in the pool for a whole week more.
Then on the evening of a very hot day he saw a wonderful sight. He had been very stupid all day, and so had the trout; for they would not move an inch to take a fly, though there were thousands on the water; but lay dozing on the bottom under the shade of the stones. Tom lay dozing too, and was glad to cuddle their smooth, cool sides, for the water was warm and unpleasant.
Towards evening it grew suddenly dark, and Tom looked up and saw a blanket of black clouds lying across the valley above his head. He felt not quite frightened, but sat very still; for everything was still. There was not a whisper of wind nor a chirp of a bird to be heard. Next a few drops of rain fell into the water. One hit Tom on the nose, and made him pop his head down quickly enough. Then the thunder roared, and the lightning flashed from cloud to cloud and cliff to cliff, till the rocks in the stream seemed to shake.
Tom looked up at it through the water, and thought it the finest thing he ever saw in his life. Out of the water he dare not put his head; for the rain came down by bucketsful, and the hail fell like shot on the stream, and churned it into foam. Soon the stream rose and rushed down, higher and higher, full of beetles and sticks and straws. Tom could hardly stand against the stream, and hid behind a rock. But the trout did not hide; for out they rushed from among the stones, and began gobbling the beetles and leeches in the most greedy and quarrelsome way; swimming about with great worms in their mouths, tugging and kicking to get them away from each other.
By the flashes of lightning Tom saw a new sight—all the bottom of the stream alive with great eels, turning and twisting along, all down stream and away. They had been hiding for weeks past in the cracks of the rocks and in burrows in the mud. Tom had hardly ever seen them except now and then at night; but now they were all out, and went hurrying past him so fiercely and wildly that he was quite frightened.
As they hurried past he could hear them say to each other, “We must hurry! We must hurry! What a jolly thunder-storm! Down to the sea! Down to the sea!”
Then the otter came by with all her brood, twining and sweeping along as fast as the eels themselves.
She spied Tom as she came by and said, “Now is your time, eft, if you wish to see the world. Come along, children, never mind those eels; we shall breakfast on salmon to-morrow. Down to the sea! Down to the sea!”
Then came a flash brighter than all the rest, and by the light of it—in the thousandth part of a second they were gone again—but he had seen them, he was certain of it—three beautiful little white girls, with their arms twined round each other’s necks, floating down the torrent, as they sang, “Down to the sea! Down to the sea!”
“Oh, stay! Wait for me!” cried Tom; but they were gone. Yet he could hear their voices clear and sweet through the roar of thunder and water and wind, singing as they died away, “Down to the sea!”
“Down to the sea?” said Tom. “Everything is going to the sea, and I shall go, too. Good-by, trout.”
Now down the rushing stream he went, guided by the bright flashes of the storm; past tall birch-fringed rocks, which shone out one moment as clear as day, and the next were dark as night.
Past dark coves under the banks, from which great trout rushed out on Tom, thinking him to be good to eat, but turned back quickly, for the fairies sent them home again with a scolding for daring to meddle with a water-baby. Along deep reaches, where the white water-lilies tossed and flapped beneath the wind and hail; past sleeping villages; under dark bridges, and away and away to the sea. Tom could not stop, and did not care to stop; he would see the great world below, and the salmon, and the breakers, and the wide, wide sea.—Charles Kingsley.
In the year 1812 the United States of America declared war against Great Britain. They were eager to conquer Canada and seemed confident of success. The Canadians were filled with dismay at the news, for their country was then in a desperate position. In the whole of Canada there were less than forty-five hundred regular troops. Great Britain was at war with Napoleon and could not lend much aid; but the brave men who responded to the call to arms were determined to repel the invaders and to save their country.
One of the most terrible battles of the war was fought in October, at Queenston Heights on the Niagara River. It resulted in a victory for the Canadians, but the victory was dearly bought. Brave General Brock was killed, and the battle-field was strewn with the bodies of volunteers who had died or been wounded in defence of their homes.
Among those who had been wounded, and lay helpless on the hillside, was Captain James Secord of Queenston. Laura Secord, his wife, had watched the battle from a distance, and hearing of his danger rushed up the hill to his aid. While she knelt at his side, three American soldiers attempted to kill him, but the slender, pale-faced woman stood in front of her wounded husband and called for help. The captain of the cowardly soldiers ordered them away, and Laura Secord, believing her husband to be dead, lifted him in her arms and carried him to their home. It was soon found that he still lived, and his wife’s tender nursing saved his life. When the summer came again, he was still an invalid and unable to walk.
The Canadians had retired from Queenston and the town was occupied by an American force. The Secords had been compelled to remain in the neighborhood on account of the captain’s health, and were frequently forced to entertain the enemy in their home.
One June day a number of officers entered the house and commanded Mrs. Secord to give them food. She pretended to be a very humble and dull person, and began at once to prepare the meal. In the meantime the officers discussed their general’s plans, and did not pay much attention to the woman who had appeared so simple. Laura Secord, however, listened to all they said, and discovered that they intended to surprise the little handful of soldiers who were defending Beaver Dam, and capture Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, the officer in charge.
When James Secord heard this news, he was in despair. The defenders of Beaver Dam should be warned of the attack, but how could he, a crippled soldier, carry the message? He was trying to think of a way out of the difficulty when his wife startled him by saying, “I shall take the message, to-morrow at daybreak. You are unable to go, and there is no one else.”
This meant that she would have to pass the American pickets, and travel in the heat, through twenty miles of bush. The woods were infested with fierce Indians belonging to both armies, and attacks from them were always to be expected. Her husband was unwilling to let her go, but seeing no other way, he finally consented.
Laura Secord arose at daybreak on the morning of the 23d of June, and began to prepare for her journey. Dressed in a short flannel skirt and cotton jacket, without shoes or stockings, her milking-stool in one hand, her pail in the other, she drove one of her cows close to the American lines and sat down to milk it. Immediately the cow kicked over the milking-pail and ran towards the bush. This happened two or three times and the soldiers laughed heartily, and chaffed at the sullen milkmaid’s clumsiness. She mumbled something about the cow being “contrary” and ran past the sentry into the bush to catch it. Her scant clothing and her evident anger at the cow deceived the man, who let her pass without asking any questions. He did not know that the cow’s antics had been caused by the pinches Mrs. Secord had given it, and that the angry milkmaid was hurrying on her way to Beaver Dam.
A mile away she hid the pail and stool under the bushes, first milking the cow to prevent her returning too soon to the clearing. Hour after hour she tramped on, going over unbeaten paths to avoid the American scouts. The underbrush in the first of the forest was tangled and dense. Soon her feet were torn and bleeding, and every step she took gave her pain. The slopes of the hills were thick with brush and hard to climb, and swamps and streams had to be crossed in the most dangerous ways. When night came, it was hard to tell which of the many blazed trails she should take, and faint with hunger and pain she fell to the ground many times.
About midnight she came to a clearing and began to hope her journey was nearly ended, when the air was filled with the war-whoop of the Red Indians. She was soon surrounded by a dozen savages who were covered with warpaint and decked with feathers. Thinking her to be a spy, one of them stepped close to her and demanded, “Woman! what does woman want?” She was terrified, but knew that everything depended upon her self-possession. She asked for the “Big Chief” and explained by signs that the “Long knives” (the Americans) were coming, and that she must reach the British. She soon discovered that the Indians were scouts of the British and that she need have no fear. With a hearty “Ugh” of understanding, one of them beckoned her to follow, and led the way through the meadows to the British lines.
She gave her message to Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, who praised her bravery and made her comfortable for the rest of the night. Her warning prepared the little garrison for the attack which took place next day, and so well were the plans made that the fifty men under Fitzgibbon compelled the American force of five hundred soldiers to surrender, almost without a struggle.
Laura Secord lived to be ninety-three years old, and when she died in 1868, she was buried beside her husband on the ground which had been the old battle-field of Lundy’s Lane. A handsome monument was erected over her grave by Canadians, who wished to do honor to the great courage of the woman who saved her countrymen from danger and defeat.—Helen Palk.
There was a deep gorge between two mountains. Through this gorge a large full stream flowed heavily over a rough and stony bottom. Both sides were high and steep, and one side was bare; but close to its foot, and so near the stream that the latter sprinkled it with moisture every spring and autumn, stood a group of fresh-looking trees gazing upwards and onwards, yet unable to advance this way or that.
“What if we should clothe the mountain,” said the juniper one day to the foreign oak, to which it stood nearer than all others. The oak looked down to find out who it was that spoke, and then it looked up again without deigning a reply. The river rushed along so violently that it worked itself into a white foam; the north wind forced its way through the gorge, and shrieked in the clefts of the rocks; the naked mountain, with its great weight, hung heavily over and felt cold. “What if we should clothe the mountain?” said the juniper to the fir on the other side. “If anybody is to do it, I suppose it must be we,” said the fir, taking hold of its beard and glancing towards the birch. “What do you think?” But the birch peered cautiously up the mountain, which hung over it so threateningly that it seemed as if it could scarcely breathe. “Let us clothe it in God’s name!” said the birch. And so, though there were but these three, they undertook to clothe the mountain. The juniper went first.
When they had gone a little way they met the heather. The juniper seemed as though about to pass it. “Nay, take the heather along,” said the fir. And the heather joined them. Soon it began to glide on before the juniper. “Catch hold of me,” said the heather. The juniper did so, and where there was only a wee crevice the heather thrust in a finger, and where it first had placed a finger, the juniper took hold with its whole hand. They crawled and crept along, the fir laboring on behind, the birch also. “This is well worth doing,” said the birch.
But the mountain began to ponder on what manner of objects these might be that were clambering up over it. And after it had been considering the matter a few hundred years, it sent a little brook down to inquire. It was yet in the time of the spring freshets, and the brook stole on until it reached the heather. “Dear, dear heather, cannot you let me pass? I am so small.” The heather was very busy; only raised itself a little and pressed onwards. In, under, and onwards went the brook. “Dear, dear juniper, cannot you let me pass? I am so small.” The juniper looked sharply at it; but if the heather had let it pass, why, in all reason, it must do so too. Under it and onwards went the brook; and now came to the spot where the fir stood puffing on the hillside. “Dear, dear fir, cannot you let me pass? I am really so small,” said the brook, and it kissed the fir’s feet and made itself so very sweet. The fir became bashful at this, and let it pass, but the birch raised itself before the brook asked it. “Hi, hi, hi!” said the birch, and grew. “Ha, ha, ha!” said the brook, and grew. “Ho, ho, ho!” said the brook, and flung the heather and the juniper and the fir and the birch flat on their faces and backs, up and down these great hills. The mountain sat up for many hundred years musing on whether it had not smiled a little that day.
It was plain enough the mountain did not want to be clad. The heather fretted over this until it grew green again, and then started forward. “Fresh courage!” said the heather.
The juniper had half raised itself to look at the heather, and continued to keep this position, until at length it stood upright. It scratched its head, and set forth again, taking such a vigorous foothold that it seemed as though the mountain must feel it. “If you will not have me, then I shall have you.” The fir crooked its toes a little to find out whether they were whole, then lifted one foot, found it whole, then the other, which proved also to be whole, then both of them. It first examined the ground it had been over; next, where it had been lying; and finally, where it should go. After this, it began to wend its way slowly along, and acted as though it had never fallen. The birch had become most wretchedly soiled, but now rose up and made itself tidy. Then they sped onwards, faster and faster upwards, and on either side in sunshine and in rain. “What in the world can this be?” said the mountain, all glittering with dew, as the summer sun shone down on it. The birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare hopped along, and the ermine hid itself and screamed.
Then the day came when the heather could peep with one eye over the edge of the mountain. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” said the heather, and away it went. “Dear me! what is it the heather sees?” said the juniper, and moved on until it could peer up. “Oh dear, oh dear!” it shrieked, and was gone.
“What’s the matter with the juniper to-day?” said the fir, and took long strides onwards in the heat of the sun. Soon it could raise itself on its toes and peep up. “Oh dear!” Branches and needles stood on end in wonderment. It worked its way forward, came up, and was gone. “What is it all the others see, and not I?” said the birch; and lifting well its skirts it tripped after. It stretched its whole head up at once. “Oh—oh—is not here a great forest of fir and heather, of juniper and birch standing on the table-land waiting for us?” said the birch; and its leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew trembled. “Ay, this is what it is to reach the goal!” said the juniper.
—From the Norwegian of Björnstjerne Björnson.
By permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.