School Reading by Grades: Sixth Year. James Baldwin
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of his pursuer, who goes on with the club in his hand, and is angry and impatient that he has not yet come up with him.
The woman goes to her little dairy for the milk, and the boy thinks she is a long time. He drinks it, thanks her, and takes his leave.
Fast and fast the man runs on, and, as fast as he can, the boy runs after him. It is very dark, but there is a yellow streak in the sky, where the moon is plowing up a furrowed mass of gray cloud, and one or two stars are blinking through the branches of the trees.
Fast the boy follows, and fast the man runs on, with his weapon in his hand. Suddenly he hears the joyish whoop—not before, but behind him. He stops and listens breathlessly. Yes, it is so. He pushes himself into the thicket, and raises his club to strike when the boy shall pass.
On he comes, running lightly, with his hands in his pockets. A sound strikes at the same instant on the ears of both; and the boy turns back from the very jaws of death to listen. It is the sound of wheels, and it draws rapidly nearer. A man comes up, driving a little gig.
"Halloa?" he says, in a loud, cheerful voice. "What! benighted, youngster?"
"Oh, is it you, Mr. Davis?" says the boy; "no, I am not benighted; or, at any rate, I know my way out of the wood."
The man draws farther back among the shrubs. "Why, bless the boy," he hears the farmer say, "to think of our meeting in this way. The parson told me he was in hopes of seeing thee some day this week. I'll give thee a lift. This is a lonely place to be in this time o' night."
"Lonely!" says the boy, laughing. "I don't mind that; and if you know the way, it's as safe as the quarter-deck."
So he gets into the farmer's gig, and is once more out of reach of the pursuer. But the man knows that the farmer's house is a quarter of a mile nearer than the parsonage, and in that quarter of a mile there is still a chance of committing the robbery. He determines still to make the attempt, and cuts across the wood with such rapid strides that he reaches the farmer's gate just as the gig drives up to it.
"Well, thank you, farmer," says the midshipman, as he prepares to get down.
"I wish you good night, gentlemen," says the man, when he passes.
"Good night, friend," the farmer replies. "I say, my boy, it's a dark night enough; but I have a mind to drive you on to the parsonage, and hear the rest of this long tale of yours about the sea serpent."
The little wheels go on again. They pass the man; and he stands still in the road to listen till the sound dies away. Then he flings his club into the hedge, and goes back. His evil purposes have all been frustrated—the thoughtless boy, without knowing anything about it, has baffled him at every turn.
IV.
And now the little midshipman is at home—the joyful meeting has taken place; and when they have all admired his growth, and measured his height on the window frame, and seen him eat his supper, they begin to question him about his adventures, more for the pleasure of hearing him talk than any curiosity.
"Adventures!" says the boy, seated between his father and mother on a sofa. "Why, mother, I wrote you an account of the voyage, and there's nothing else to tell. Nothing happened to-day—at least nothing particular."
"Did you come by the coach we told you of?" asks his father.
"Oh, yes, papa; and when we had got about twenty miles, there came up a beggar, while we changed horses, and I threw down, as I thought, a shilling, but, as it fell, I saw it was a sovereign. She was very honest, and showed me what it was, but I didn't take it back, for you know, it's a long time since I gave anything to anybody."
"Very true, my boy," his mother answers; "but you should not be careless with your money.
"I suppose you got down at the crossroads?" says his elder brother.
"Yes, and went through the wood. I should have been here sooner if I hadn't lost my way there."
"Lost your way!" says his mother, alarmed. "My dear boy, you should not have left the path at dusk."
"Oh, mother," says the little midshipman, with a smile, "you're always thinking we're in danger. If you could see me sometimes sitting at the jib-boom end, or across the main topmast crosstrees, you would be frightened. But what danger can there be in a wood?"
"Well, my boy," she answers, "I don't wish to be over-anxious, and to make my children uncomfortable by my fears. What did you stray from the path for?"
"Only to chase a little owl, mother; but I didn't catch her after all. I got a roll down a bank, and caught my jacket against a thorn bush, which was rather unlucky. Ah! three large holes I see in my sleeve. And so I scrambled up again, and got into the path, and stopped at the cottage for some milk. What a time the woman kept me, to be sure! But very soon Mr. Davis drove up in his gig, and he brought me on to the gate."
"And so this story being brought to a close," his father says, "we find that you had no adventures at all!"
"No, papa, nothing happened; nothing particular, I mean."
Nothing particular! If they could have known, they would have thought lightly in comparison of the dangers of "the jib-boom end, and the main topmast crosstrees." But they did not know, any more than we do, of the dangers that hourly beset us. Some few dangers we are aware of, and we do what we can to provide against them; but, for the greater portion, "our eyes are held that we can not see." We walk securely under His guidance, without whom "not a sparrow falleth to the ground!" and when we have had escapes that the angels have wondered at, we come home and say, perhaps, that "nothing has happened; at least nothing particular."
—Jean Ingelow.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in