Various - Modern Prose And Poetry; For Secondary Schools

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For a coon hates snow. He will invariably sleep off the first light
snowfalls, and even in the late winter he will not venture forth in
fresh snow unless driven by hunger or some other dire need. Perhaps,
like a cat or a hen, he dislikes the wetting of his feet. Or it may be
that the soft snow makes bad hunting--for him. The truth is, T believe,
that such a snow makes too good hunting for the dogs and the gunner. The
new snow tells too clear a story. His home is no inaccessible den among
the ledges; only a hollow in some ancient oak or tupelo. Once within, he
is safe from the dogs; but the long fierce fight for life taught him
generations ago that the nest-tree is a fatal trap when behind the dogs
come the axe and the gun. So he has grown wary and enduring. He waits
until the snow grows crusty, when, without sign, and almost without
scent, he can slip forth among the long shadows and prowl to the edge of
dawn.

Skirting the stream out toward the higher back woods, I chanced to spy a
bunch of snow in one of the great sour gums, that I thought was an old
nest. A second look showed me tiny green leaves, then white berries,
then mistletoe.

It was not a surprise, for I had found it here before,--a long, long
time before. It was back in my school-boy days, back beyond those twenty
years, that I first stood here under the mistletoe and had my first
romance. There was no chandelier, no pretty girl, in that romance,--only
a boy, the mistletoe, the giant trees, and the somber, silent swamp.
Then there was his discovery, the thrill of deep delight, and the wonder
of his knowledge of the strange unnatural plant! All plants had been
plants to him until, one day, he read the life of the mistletoe. But
that was English mistletoe; so the boy's wonder world of plant life was
still as far away as Mars, when, rambling alone through the swamp along
the creek, he stopped under a big curious bunch of green, high up in one
of the gums, and--made his first discovery.

So the boy climbed up again this Christmas Day at the peril of his
precious neck, and brought down a bit of that old romance.

I followed the stream along through the swamp to the open meadows, and
then on under the steep wooded hillside that ran up to the higher land
of corn and melon fields. Here at the foot of the slope the winter sun
lay warm, and here in the sheltered briery border I came upon the
Christmas birds.

There was a great variety of them, feeding and preening and chirping in
the vines. The tangle was a-twitter with their quiet, cheery talk. Such
a medley of notes you could not hear at any other season outside a city
bird store. How far the different species understood one another I
should like to know, and whether the hum of voices meant sociability to
them, as it certainly meant to me. Doubtless the first cause of their
flocking here was the sheltered warmth and the great numbers of
berry-laden bushes, for there was no lack either of abundance or variety
on the Christmas table.

In sight from where I stood hung bunches of withering chicken or frost
grapes, plump clusters of blue-black berries of the greenbrier, and
limbs of the smooth winterberry bending with their flaming fruit. There
were bushes of crimson ilex, too, trees of fruiting dogwood and holly,
cedars in berry, dwarf sumac and seedy sedges, while patches on the
wood slopes uncovered by the sun were spread with trailing partridge
berry and the coral-fruited wintergreen. I had eaten part of my dinner
with the 'possum; I picked a quantity of these wintergreen berries, and
continued my meal with the birds. And they also had enough and to spare.

Among the birds in the tangle was a large flock of northern fox
sparrows, whose vigorous and continuous scratching in the bared spots
made a most lively and cheery commotion. Many of them were splashing
about in tiny pools of snow-water, melted partly by the sun and partly
by the warmth of their bodies as they bathed. One would hop to a
softening bit of snow at the base of a tussock keel over and begin to
flop, soon sending up a shower of sparkling drops from his rather chilly
tub. A winter snow-water bath seemed a necessity, a luxury indeed; for
they all indulged, splashing with the same purpose and zest that they
put into their scratching among the leaves.

A much bigger splashing drew me quietly through the bushes to find a
marsh hawk giving himself a Christmas souse. The scratching, washing,
and talking of the birds; the masses of green in the cedars, holly, and
laurels; the glowing colors of the berries against the snow; the blue of
the sky, and the golden warmth of the light made Christmas in the heart
of the noon that the very swamp seemed to feel.

Three months later there was to be scant picking here, for this was the
beginning of the severest winter I ever knew. From this very ridge, in
February, I had reports of berries gone, of birds starving, of whole
coveys of quail frozen dead in the snow; but neither the birds nor I
dreamed to-day of any such hunger and death. A flock of robins whirled
into the cedars above me; a pair of cardinals whistled back and forth;
tree sparrows, juncos, nuthatches, chickadees, and cedar-birds cheeped
among the trees and bushes; and from the farm lands at the top of the
slope rang the calls of meadowlarks.

Halfway up the hill I stopped under a blackjack oak where, in the thin
snow, there were signs of something like a Christmas revel. The ground
was sprinkled with acorn shells and trampled over with feet of several
kinds and sizes,--quail, jay, and partridge feet; rabbit, squirrel, and
mice feet, all over the snow as the feast of acorns had gone on.
Hundreds of the acorns were lying about, gnawed away at the cup end,
where the shell was thinnest, many of them further broken and cleaned
out by the birds.

As I sat studying the signs in the snow, my eye caught a tiny trail
leading out from the others straight away toward a broken pile of cord
wood. The tracks were planted one after the other, so directly in line
as to seem like the prints of a single foot. "That's a weasel's trail,"
I said, "the death's-head at this feast," and followed it slowly to the
wood. A shiver crept over me as I felt, even sooner than I saw, a pair
of small sinister eyes fixed upon mine. The evil pointed head, heavy but
alert, and with a suggestion of fierce strength out of all relation to
the slender body, was watching me from between the sticks of cordwood.
And so he had been watching the mice and birds and rabbits feasting
under the tree!

I packed a ball of snow round and hard, slipped forward upon my knees,
and hurled it. "Spat!" it struck the end of a stick within an inch of
the ugly head, filling the crevice with snow. Instantly the head
appeared at another crack, and another ball struck viciously beside it.
Now it was back where it first appeared, and did not flinch for the
next, or the next ball. The third went true, striking with a "chug" and
packing the crack. But the black, hating eyes were still watching me a
foot lower down.

It is not all peace and good-will in the Christmas woods. But there is
more of peace and good-will than of any other spirit. The weasels are
few. More friendly and timid eyes were watching me than bold and
murderous. It was foolish to want to kill--even the weasel. For one's
woods are what one makes them; and so I let the man with the gun, who
chanced along, think that I had turned boy again, and was snowballing
the woodpile, just for the fun of trying to hit the end of the biggest
stick.

I was glad he had come. As he strode off with his stained bag, I felt
kindlier toward the weasel. There were worse in the woods than
he,--worse, because all of their killing was pastime. The weasel must
kill to live, and if he gloated over the kill, why, what fault of his?
But the other weasel, the one with the blood-stained bag, he killed for
the love of killing. I was glad he was gone.

The crows were winging over toward their great roost in the pines when I
turned toward the town. They, too, had had good picking along the creek
flats and ditches of the meadows. Their powerful wing-beats and constant
play told of full crops and no fear for the night, already softly gray
across the white silent fields. The air was crisper; the snow began to
crackle under foot; the twigs creaked and rattled as I brushed along; a
brown beech leaf wavered down and skated with a thin scratch over the
crust; and pure as the snow-wrapped crystal world, and sweet as the
soft gray twilight, came the call of a quail.

The voices, colors, odors, and forms of summer were gone. The very face
of things had changed; all had been reduced, made plain, simple, single,
pure! There was less for the senses, but how much keener now their joy!
The wide landscape, the frosty air, the tinkle of tiny icicles, and, out
of the quiet of the falling twilight, the voice of the quail!

There is no day but is beautiful in the woods; and none more beautiful
than one like this Christmas Day,--warm and still and wrapped, to the
round red berries of the holly, in the magic of the snow.

NOTES

=cripple=:--A dense thicket in swampy land.

=good-will=:--See the Bible, Luke 2:13, 14.

=Cohansey=:--A creek in southern New Jersey.

QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

Read the selection through once without stopping. Afterward, go through
it with these questions:--

Why might the snow mean a "hungry Christmas"? Note the color words in
paragraph three: Of what value are they? Why does the pond seem small to
the visitor? Does the author mean anything more than persimmons in the
last part of the paragraph beginning "I filled both pockets"? What sort
of man do you think he is? What is the meaning of "broken bread"? What
is meant by entering the woods "at Nature's invitation"? What do you
understand by "the long fierce fight for life"? What was it that the
coon learned "generations ago"? What does the author mean here? Do you
know anything of the Darwinian theory of life? What has it to do with
what is said here about the coon? How does the author make you feel the
variety and liveliness of the bird life which he observes? What shows
his keenness of sight? What do you know about weasels? Is it, true that
"one's woods are what one makes them"? Do you think the author judges
the hunter too harshly? How does the author make you feel the charm of
the late afternoon? Go through the selection and see how many different
subjects are discussed! How is the unity of the piece preserved? Notice
the pictures in the piece. What feeling prevails in the selection? How
can you tell whether the author really loves nature? Could you write a
sketch somewhat like this, telling what you saw during a walk in the
woods?

THEME SUBJECTS

A Walk in the Winter Woods
An Outdoor Christmas Tree
A Lumber Camp at Christmas
The Winter Birds
Tracking a Rabbit
Hunting Deer in Winter
A Winter Landscape
Home Decorations from the Winter Fields
Wild Apples
Fishing through the Ice
A Winter Camp
A Strange Christmas
Playing Santa Claus
A Snow Picnic
Making Christmas Gifts
Feeding the Birds
The Christmas Guest
Turkey and Plum Pudding
The Children's Christmas Party
Christmas on the Farm
The Christmas Tree at the Schoolhouse
What he Found in his Stocking
Bringing Home the Christmas Tree
Christmas in the South
Christmas away from Home
A "Sensible" Christmas
Christmas at our House

SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING

=A Walk in the Winter Woods=:--Tell of a real or imaginary stroll in the
woods when the snow is on the ground. If possible, plan the theme some
time before you write, and obtain your material through actual and
recent observation. In everything you say, be careful and accurate. You
might speak first of the time of day at which your walk was taken; the
weather; the condition of the snow. Speak of the trees: the kinds; how
they looked. Were any of the trees weighted with snow? Describe the
bushes, and the berries and grasses; use color words, if possible, as
Mr. Sharp does. What sounds did you hear in the woods? Did you see any
tracks of animals? If so, tell about these tracks, and show what they
indicated. Describe the animals that you saw, and tell what they were
doing. What did you gather regarding the way in which the animals live
in winter? Speak in the same way of the birds. Re-read what Mr. Sharp
says about the birds he saw, and try to make your own account clear and
full of action. Did you see any signs of human inhabitants or visitors?
If so, tell about them. Did you find anything to eat in the woods? Speak
briefly of your return home. Had the weather changed since your entering
the woods? Was there any alteration in the landscape? How did you feel
after your walk?

=The Winter Birds=:--For several days before writing this theme, prepare
material for it by observation and reading. Watch the birds, and see
what they are doing and how they live. Use a field glass if you can get
one, and take careful notes on what you see. Make especial use of any
interesting incidents that come under your observation.

When you write, take up each kind of bird separately, and tell what you
have found out about its winter life: how it looks; where you have seen
it; what it was doing. Speak also of its food and shelter; the perils it
endures; its intelligence; anecdotes about it. Make your theme simple
and lively, as if you were talking to some one about the birds. Try to
use good color words and sound words, and expressions that give a vivid
idea of the activities and behavior of the birds.

When you have finished, lay the theme aside for a time; then read it
again and see how you can touch it up to make it clearer and more
straightforward.

=Christmas at our House=:--Write as if you were telling of some
particular occasion, although you may perhaps be combining the events of
several Christmas days. Tell of the preparations for Christmas: the
planning; the cooking; the whispering of secrets. Make as much use of
conversation as possible, and do not hesitate to use even very small
details and little anecdotes. Perhaps you will wish to tell of the
hanging of the stockings on Christmas Eve; if there are children in the
family, tell what they did and said. Write as vividly as possible of
Christmas morning, and the finding of the gifts; try to bring out the
confusion and the happiness of opening the parcels and displaying the
presents. Quote some of the remarks directly, and speak of particularly
pleasing or absurd gifts. Go on and tell of the sports and pleasures of
the day. Speak of the guests, describing some of them, and telling what
they said and did. Try to bring out contrasts here. Put as much emphasis
as you wish upon the dinner, and the quantities of good things consumed.
Try to quote the remarks of some of the people at the table. If your
theme has become rather long, you might close it by a brief account of
the dispersing of the family after dinner. You might, however, complete
your account of the day by telling of the evening, with its enjoyments
and its weariness.

COLLATERAL READINGS

Wild Life Near Home D.L. Sharp
A Watcher in the Woods " "
The Lay of the Land " "
Winter " "
The Face of the Fields " "
The Fall of the Year " "
Roof and Meadow " "
Wild Life in the Rockies Enos A. Mills
Kindred of the Wild C.G.D. Roberts
Watchers of the Trail " " "
Haunters of the Silences " " "
The Ways of Wood Folk W.J. Long
Eye Spy W.H. Gibson
Sharp Eyes " "
Birds in the Bush Bradford Torrey
Everyday Birds " "
Nature's Invitation " "
Bird Stories from Burroughs (selections) John Burroughs
Winter Sunshine " "
Pepacton " "
Riverby " "
Wake-Robin " "
Signs and Seasons " "
How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar Bret Harte
Santa Claus's Partner T.N. Page
The First Christmas Tree Henry Van Dyke
The Other Wise Man " "
The Old Peabody Pew K.D. Wiggin
Miss Santa Claus of the Pullman Annie F. Johnson
Christmas Zona Gale
A Christmas Mystery W.J. Locke
Christmas Eve on Lonesome John Fox, Jr.
By the Christmas Fire S.M. Crothers
Colonel Carter's Christmas F.H. Smith
Christmas Jenny (in _A New England Nun_) Mary E. Wilkins
A Christmas Sermon R.L. Stevenson
The Boy who Brought Christmas Alice Morgan
Christmas Stories Charles Dickens
The Christmas Guest Selma Lagerloef
The Legend of the Christmas Rose " "

GLOUCESTER MOORS

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY

A mile behind is Gloucester town
Where the fishing fleets put in,
A mile ahead the land dips down
And the woods and farms begin.
Here, where the moors stretch free
In the high blue afternoon,
Are the marching sun and talking sea,
And the racing winds that wheel and flee
On the flying heels of June.

Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
Blue is the quaker-maid,
The wild geranium holds its dew
Long in the boulder's shade.
Wax-red hangs the cup
From the huckleberry boughs,
In barberry bells the grey moths sup,
Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up
Sweet bowls for their carouse.

Over the shelf of the sandy cove
Beach-peas blossom late.
By copse and cliff the swallows rove
Each calling to his mate.
Seaward the sea-gulls go,
And the land birds all are here;
That green-gold flash was a vireo,
And yonder flame where the marsh-flags grow
Was a scarlet tanager.

This earth is not the steadfast place
We landsmen build upon;
From deep to deep she varies pace,
And while she comes is gone.
Beneath my feet I feel
Her smooth bulk heave and dip;
With velvet plunge and soft upreel
She swings and steadies to her keel
Like a gallant, gallant ship.

These summer clouds she sets for sail,
The sun is her masthead light,
She tows the moon like a pinnace frail
Where her phospher wake churns bright,
Now hid, now looming clear,
On the face of the dangerous blue
The star fleets tack and wheel and veer,
But on, but on does the old earth steer
As if her port she knew.

God, dear God! Does she know her port,
Though she goes so far about?
Or blind astray, does she make her sport
To brazen and chance it out?
I watched where her captains passed:
She were better captainless.
Men in the cabin, before the mast,
But some were reckless and some aghast,
And some sat gorged at mess.

By her battered hatch I leaned and caught
Sounds from the noisome hold,--
Cursing and sighing of souls distraught
And cries too sad to be told.
Then I strove to go down and see;
But they said, "Thou art not of us!"
I turned to those on the deck with me
And cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be:
Our ship sails faster thus."

Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
Blue is the quaker-maid,
The alder clump where the brook comes through
Breeds cresses in its shade.
To be out of the moiling street
With its swelter and its sin!
Who has given to me this sweet,
And given my brother dust to eat?
And when will his wage come in?

Scattering wide or blown in ranks,
Yellow and white and brown,
Boats and boats from the fishing banks
Come home to Gloucester town.
There is cash to purse and spend,
There are wives to be embraced,
Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend,
And hearts to take and keep to the end,--
O little sails, make haste!

But thou, vast outbound ship of souls,
What harbor town for thee?
What shapes, when thy arriving tolls,
Shall crowd the banks to see?
Shall all the happy shipmates then
Stand singing brotherly?
Or shall a haggard ruthless few
Warp her over and bring her to,
While the many broken souls of men
Fester down in the slaver's pen,
And nothing to say or do?

NOTES

=Gloucester town=: Gloucester is a seaport town in Massachusetts, the
chief seat of the cod and mackerel fisheries of the coast.

=Jill-o'er-the-ground=: Ground ivy; usually written
_Gill-over-the-ground_.

=Quaker-maid=: Quaker ladies; small blue flowers growing low on the
ground.

=wax-red=: The huckleberry blossom is red and waxy.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

Read the poem slowly through to yourself, getting what you can out of
it, without trying too hard. Note that after the third stanza the earth
is compared to a ship. After you have read the poem through, go back and
study it with the help of the following questions and suggestions:--

The author is out on the moors not far from the sea: What details does
he select to make you feel the beauty of the afternoon? What words in
the first stanza suggest movement and freedom? Why does the author stop
to tell about the flowers, when he has so many important things to say?
Note a change of tone at the beginning of the fourth stanza. What
suggests to the author that the earth is like a ship? Why does he say
that it is not a steadfast place? How does the fifth stanza remind you
of _The Ancient Mariner_? Why does the author speak so passionately at
the beginning of the sixth stanza? Here he wonders whether there is
really any plan in the universe, or whether things all go by chance. Who
are the captains of whom he speaks? What different types of people are
represented in the last two lines of stanza six? What is the "noisome
hold" of the Earth ship? Who are those cursing and sighing? Who are
_they_ in the line, "But they said, 'Thou art not of us!'"? Who are
_they_ in the next line but one? Why does the author turn back to the
flowers in the next few lines? What is omitted from the line beginning
"To be out"? Explain the last three lines of stanza eight. How do the
ships of Gloucester differ from the ship _Earth_? What is the "arriving"
spoken of in the last stanza? What two possibilities does the author
suggest as to the fate of the ship? Why does he end his poem with a
question? What is the purpose of the poem? Why is it considered good?
What do you think was the author's feeling about the way the poor and
helpless are treated? Read the poem through aloud, thinking what each
line means.

ROAD-HYMN FOR THE START

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY

Leave the early bells at chime,
Leave the kindled hearth to blaze,
Leave the trellised panes where children linger out the waking-time,
Leave the forms of sons and fathers trudging through the misty ways,
Leave the sounds of mothers taking up their sweet laborious days.

Pass them by! even while our soul
Yearns to them with keen distress.
Unto them a part is given; we will strive to see the whole.
Dear shall be the banquet table where their singing spirits press;
Dearer be our sacred hunger, and our pilgrim loneliness.

We have felt the ancient swaying
Of the earth before the sun,
On the darkened marge of midnight heard sidereal rivers playing;
Rash it was to bathe our souls there, but we plunged and all was done.
That is lives and lives behind us--lo, our journey is begun!

Careless where our face is set,
Let us take the open way.
What we are no tongue has told us: Errand-goers who forget?
Soldiers heedless of their harry? Pilgrim people gone astray?
We have heard a voice cry "Wander!" That was all we heard it say.

Ask no more: 'tis much, 'tis much!
Down the road the day-star calls;
Touched with change in the wide heavens, like a leaf the
frost winds touch,
Flames the failing moon a moment, ere it shrivels white and falls;
Hid aloft, a wild throat holdeth sweet and sweeter intervals.

Leave him still to ease in song
Half his little heart's unrest:
Speech is his, but we may journey toward the life for which we long.
God, who gives the bird its anguish, maketh nothing manifest,
But upon our lifted foreheads pours the boon of endless quest.

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