Various - Modern Prose And Poetry; For Secondary Schools

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"He's heavy, too; he's got too unwieldy to tackle a smart coon, I
expect, even if he could do the tall runnin'" said John York, with
sympathy. "They have to get a master grip with their teeth through a
coon's thick pelt this time o' year. No; the young folks get all the
good chances after a while;" and he looked round indulgently at the
chubby faces of his boys, who fed the fire, and rejoiced in being
promoted to the society of their elders on equal terms. "Ain't it time
we heard from the dog?" And they all listened, while the fire snapped
and the sap whistled in some green sticks.

"I hear him," said John Henry suddenly; and faint and far away there
came the sound of a desperate bark. There is a bark that means attack,
and there is a bark that means only foolish excitement.

"They ain't far off!" said Isaac. "My gracious, he's right after him! I
don't know's I expected that poor-looking dog to be so smart. You can't
tell by their looks. Quick as he scented the game up here in the rocks,
off he put. Perhaps it ain't any matter if they ain't stump-tailed,
long's they're yaller dogs. He didn't look heavy enough to me. I tell
you, he means business. Hear that bark!"

"They all bark alike after a coon." John York was as excited as anybody.
"Git the guns laid out to hand, boys; I told you we'd ought to follow!"
he commanded. "If it's the old fellow that belongs here, he may put in
any minute." But there was again a long silence and state of suspense;
the chase had turned another way. There were faint distant yaps. The
fire burned low and fell together with a shower of sparks. The smaller
boys began to grow chilly and sleepy, when there was a thud and rustle
and snapping of twigs close at hand, then the gasp of a breathless dog.
Two dim shapes rushed by; a shower of bark fell, and a dog began to sing
at the foot of the great twisted pine not fifty feet away.

"Hooray for Tiger!" yelled the boys; but the dog's voice filled all the
woods. It might have echoed to the mountain-tops. There was the old
coon; they could all see him half-way up the tree, flat to the great
limb. They heaped the fire with dry branches till it flared high. Now
they lost him in a shadow as he twisted about the tree. John York fired,
and Isaac Brown fired, and the boys took a turn at the guns, while John
Henry started to climb a neighboring oak; but at last it was Isaac who
brought the coon to ground with a lucky shot, and the dog stopped his
deafening bark and frantic leaping in the underbrush, and after an
astonishing moment of silence crept out, a proud victor, to his prouder
master's feet.

"Goodness alive, who's this? Good for you, old handsome! Why, I'll be
hanged if it ain't old Rover, boys; _it's old Rover_!" But Isaac could
not speak another word. They all crowded round the wistful, clumsy old
dog, whose eyes shone bright, though his breath was all gone. Each man
patted him, and praised him and said they ought to have mistrusted all
the time that it could be nobody but he. It was some minutes before
Isaac Brown could trust himself to do anything but pat the sleek old
head that was always ready to his hand.

"He must have overheard us talkin'; I guess he'd have come if he'd
dropped dead half-way," proclaimed John Henry, like a prince of the
reigning house; and Rover wagged his tail as if in honest assent, as he
lay at his master's side. They sat together, while the fire was
brightened again to make a good light for the coon-hunt supper; and
Rover had a good half of everything that found its way into his master's
hand. It was toward midnight when the triumphal procession set forth
toward home, with the two lanterns, across the fields.

V

The next morning was bright and warm after the hard frost of the night
before. Old Rover was asleep on the doorstep in the sun, and his master
stood in the yard, and saw neighbor Price come along the road in her
best array, with a gay holiday air.

"Well, now," she said eagerly, "you wa'n't out very late last night, was
you? I got up myself to let Tiger in. He come home, all beat out, about
a quarter past nine. I expect you hadn't no kind o' trouble gittin' the
coon. The boys was tellin' me he weighed 'most thirty pounds."

"Oh, no kind o' trouble," said Isaac, keeping the great secret
gallantly. "You got the things I sent over this mornin'?"

"Bless your heart, yes! I'd a sight rather have all that good pork an'
potatoes than any o' your wild meat," said Mrs. Price, smiling with
prosperity. "You see, now, 'Liza Jane she's given in. She didn't re'lly
know but 'twas all talk of 'Bijah 'bout that dog's bein' wuth fifty
dollars. She says she can't cope with a huntin' dog same's he could, an'
she's given me the money you an' John York sent over this mornin'; an' I
didn't know but what you'd lend me another half a dollar, so I could
both go to Dipford Centre an' return, an' see if I couldn't make a sale
o' Tiger right over there where they all know about him. It's right in
the coon season; now's my time, ain't it?"

"Well, gettin' a little late," said Isaac, shaking with laughter as he
took the desired sum of money out of his pocket. "He seems to be a
clever dog round the house."

"I don't know's I want to harbor him all winter," answered the
excursionist frankly, striking into a good traveling gait as she started
off toward the railroad station.

NOTES

=Dipford=:--The New England town in which the scenes of some of Miss
Jewett's stories are laid.

=master hot=:--In the New England dialect, _master_ is used in the sense
of _very_ or _extremely_.

=bosom-pin=:--Mourning pins of jet or black enamel were much worn in
times past.

='suage=:--Assuage, meaning to soften or decrease.

=selectman=:--One of a board chosen in New England towns to transact
the business of the community.

=scattereth nor yet increaseth=:--See Proverbs, 11:24.

=right o' dower=:--The right to claim a part of a deceased husband's
property.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

The action takes place in a country district in New England. Judging by
the remarks about the fans, what kind of person do you suppose Old Lady
Price to be? Is there any particular meaning in the word _to-day_? How
is 'Liza Jane related to Mrs. Price? What was the character of Mr.
'Bijah Topliff? Does the old lady feel grieved at his death? What does
Isaac mean by _such_, in the last line, page 190? How does the old lady
live? What is shown of her character when she is called "a chirpin' old
cricket"? Does she feel ashamed of having gone to the circus? How does
she explain her going? What can you tell of 'Bijah from what is said of
'Liza's "memories"? Would the circus people have cared to buy the dog?
Notice how the author makes you feel the pleasantness of the walk in the
woods. Do you know where coons have their dens? How does Isaac show his
affection for old Rover? Is it true that "worthless do-nothings" usually
have "smart" dogs? Why does the author stop to tell all about 'Liza
Jane's arrival? What light is thrown on the old lady's character by
Isaac's words beginning, "Disappointments don't appear to trouble her"?
Are the men very anxious to "give the boys a treat"? Why does the old
lady call Mr. York "dear"? What is meant by the last five lines of Part
III? What sort of dog is Tiger? What is meant by "soon as the coon
trees"? How does the author tell you of old Rover's defects? What person
would you like to have shoot the coon at last? Why could Isaac Brown not
"trust himself to speak"? Do you think old Rover "overheard them
talking," as John Henry suggests? How does the author let you into the
secret of Tiger's behavior? Why does Isaac not tell the old lady which
dog treed the coon? What does he mean by saying that Tiger is "a clever
dog round the house"? Do you think that Mrs. Price succeeded in getting
fifty dollars for the dog? Why does the author not tell whether she does
or not? Try to put into your own words a summing up of the old lady's
character. Tell what you think of the two old men. Do you like the use
of dialect in this story? Would it have been better if the people had
all spoken good English? Why, or why not?

THEME SUBJECTS

Hunting for Squirrels
An Intelligent Dog
A Night in the Woods
An Old Man
Tracking Rabbits
Borrowers
The Circus
Old Lady Price
A Group of Odd Characters
Raccoons
Opossums
The Tree-dwellers
Around the Fire
How to Make a Camp Fire
The Picnic Lunch
An Interesting Old Lady

SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING

Try to write a theme in which uneducated people talk as they do in real
life; as far as possible, fit every person's speech to his character.
Below are given some suggestions for this work:

Mrs. Wicks borrows Mrs. Hall's flat-irons.
Two or three country children quarrel over a hen's nest.
The family get ready to go to the Sunday School picnic.
Sammie tells his parents that he has been whipped at school.
Two old men talk about the crops.
One of the pigs gets out of the pen.
Two boys go hunting.
The farmer has just come back from town.
Mrs. Robbins describes the moving-picture show.

=An Intelligent Dog=:--Tell who owns the dog, and how much you have had
opportunity to observe him. Describe him as vividly as possible. Give
some incidents that show his intelligence.

Perhaps you can make a story out of this, giving the largest amount of
space to an event in which the dog accomplished some notable thing, as
protecting property, bringing help in time of danger, or saving his
master's life. In this case, try to tell some of the story by means of
conversation, as Miss Jewett does.

=An Interesting Old Lady=:--Tell where you saw the old lady; or, if you
know her well, explain the nature of your acquaintance with her.
Describe her rather fully, telling how she looks and what she wears. How
does she walk and talk? What is her chief occupation? If possible, quote
some of her remarks in her own words. Tell some incidents in which she
figures. Try to bring out her most interesting qualities, so that the
reader can see them for himself.

COLLATERAL READINGS

Dogs and Men H.C. Merwin
Stickeen: The Story of John Muir
Another Dog (in _A Gentleman Vagabond_) F.H. Smith
The Sporting Dog Joseph A. Graham
Dogtown Mabel Osgood Wright
Bob, Son of Battle Alfred Ollivant
A Boy I Knew and Four Dogs Laurence Hutton
A Boy I Knew and Some More Dogs " "
A Dog of Flanders Louise de la Ramee
The Call of the Wild Jack London
White Fang " "
My Dogs in the Northland E.R. Young
Dogs of all Nations C.J. Miller
Leo (poem) R.W. Gilder
Greyfriar's Bobby Eleanor Atkinson
The Biography of a Silver Fox E.S. Thompson
Our Friend the Dog (trans.) Maurice Maeterlinck
Following the Deer W.J. Long
The Trail of the Sand-hill Stag Ernest Thompson Seton
Lives of the Hunted " " "
The Wilderness Hunter Theodore Roosevelt
A Watcher in the Woods Dallas Lore Sharp
Wild Life near Home " " "
The Watchers of the Trails C.G.D. Roberts
Kindred of the Wild " "
Little People of the Sycamore " "
The Haunters of the Silences " "
Squirrels and other Fur-bearers John Burroughs
My Woodland Intimates E. Bignell

Stories of old people:--

Aged Folk (in _Letters from my Mill_) Alphonse Daudet
Green Island (chapter 8 of
_The Country of the Pointed Firs_) Sarah Orne Jewett
Aunt Cynthy Dallett " " "
The Failure of David Berry " " "
A Church Mouse Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman
A White Heron and Other Stories Sarah Orne Jewett
Tales of New England " " "
The Country of the Pointed Firs " " "
A Country Doctor " " "
Deephaven " " "
The Queen's Twin and Other Stories " " "
The King of Folly Island and Other People " " "
A Marsh Island " " "
The Tory Lover " " "
A Native of Winby and Other Tales " " "
Betty Leicester's Christmas " " "
Betty Leicester " " "
Country By-ways " " "
Letters of Sarah Orne Jewett Mrs. James T. Fields (Ed.)

For Biographies and criticisms of Miss Jewett, see: Atlantic Monthly,
94:485; Critic, 39:292, October, 1901 (Portrait); New England Magazine,
22:737, August, 1900; Outlook, 69:423; Bookman, 34:221 (Portrait).

ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

RICHARD WATSON GILDER

This bronze doth keep the very form and mold
Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:
That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold;
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
For storms to beat on; the lone agony
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men
As might some prophet of the elder day--
Brooding above the tempest and the fray
With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.
A power was his beyond the touch of art
Or armed strength--his pure and mighty heart.

NOTES

=the life-mask=:--The life-mask of Abraham Lincoln was made by Leonard
W. Volk, in Chicago, in April, 1860. A good picture of it is given as
the frontispiece to Volume 4 of Nicolay and Hay's _Abraham Lincoln, A
History_.

=this bronze=:--A life-mask is made of plaster first; then usually it is
cast in bronze.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

This is not difficult to understand. Read it over slowly, trying first
to get the meaning of each sentence as if it were prose. You may have
to read it several times before you see the exact meaning of each part.
When you have mastered it, read it through consecutively, thinking of
what it tells about Lincoln.

This poem is, as you may know, a sonnet. Notice the number of lines, the
meter, and the rhyme-scheme, referring to page 139 for a review of the
sonnet form. Notice how the thought changes at the ninth line. Find a
sonnet in one of the good current magazines. How can you recognize it?
Read it carefully. If it is appropriate, bring it to class, and read and
explain it to your classmates. Why has the sonnet form been used so much
by poets?

If you can find it, read the sonnet on _The Sonnet_, by Richard Watson
Gilder.

COLLATERAL READINGS

For references on Lincoln, see pages 50 and 51.

For portraits of Richard Watson Gilder, and biographical material,
consult: Current Literature, 41:319 (Portrait); Review of Reviews, 34:
491 (Portrait); Nation, 89:519; Dial, 47:441; Harper's Weekly, 53:6;
World's Work, 17:11293 (Portrait); Craftsman, 16:130, May, 1909
(Portrait); Outlook, 93:689 (Portrait).

For references to material on the sonnet, see page 140.

A FIRE AMONG THE GIANTS

JOHN MUIR

(From _Our National Parks_)

In the forest between the Middle and East forks of the Kaweah, I met a
great fire, and as fire is the master scourge and controller of the
distribution of trees, I stopped to watch it and learn what I could of
its works and ways with the giants. It came racing up the steep
chaparral-covered slopes of the East Fork canon with passionate
enthusiasm in a broad cataract of flames, now bending down low to feed
on the green bushes, devouring acres of them at a breath, now towering
high in the air as if looking abroad to choose a way, then stooping to
feed again,--the lurid flapping surges and the smoke and terrible
rushing and roaring hiding all that is gentle and orderly in the work.
But as soon as the deep forest was reached, the ungovernable flood
became calm like a torrent entering a lake, creeping and spreading
beneath the trees where the ground was level or sloped gently, slowly
nibbling the cake of compressed needles and scales with flames an inch
high, rising here and there to a foot or two on dry twigs and clumps of
small bushes and brome grass. Only at considerable intervals were fierce
bonfires lighted, where heavy branches broken off by snow had
accumulated, or around some venerable giant whose head had been stricken
off by lightning.

I tethered Brownie on the edge of a little meadow beside a stream a good
safe way off, and then cautiously chose a camp for myself in a big
stout hollow trunk not likely to be crushed by the fall of burning
trees, and made a bed of ferns and boughs in it. The night, however, and
the strange wild fireworks were too beautiful and exciting to allow much
sleep. There was no danger of being chased and hemmed in; for in the
main forest belt of the Sierra, even when swift winds are blowing, fires
seldom or never sweep over the trees in broad all-embracing sheets as
they do in the dense Rocky Mountain woods and in those of the Cascade
Mountains of Oregon and Washington. Here they creep from tree to tree
with tranquil deliberation, allowing close observation, though caution
is required in venturing around the burning giants to avoid falling
limbs and knots and fragments from dead shattered tops. Though the day
was best for study, I sauntered about night after night, learning what I
could, and admiring the wonderful show vividly displayed in the lonely
darkness, the ground-fire advancing in long crooked lines gently grazing
and smoking on the close-pressed leaves, springing up in thousands of
little jets of pure flame on dry tassels and twigs, and tall spires and
flat sheets with jagged flapping edges dancing here and there on grass
tufts and bushes, big bonfires blazing in perfect storms of energy where
heavy branches mixed with small ones lay smashed together in hundred
cord piles, big red arches between spreading root-swells and trees
growing close together, huge fire-mantled trunks on the hill slopes
glowing like bars of hot iron, violet-colored fire running up the tall
trees, tracing the furrows of the bark in quick quivering rills, and
lighting magnificent torches on dry shattered tops, and ever and anon,
with a tremendous roar and burst of light, young trees clad in
low-descending feathery branches vanishing in one flame two or three
hundred feet high.

One of the most impressive and beautiful sights was made by the great
fallen trunks lying on the hillsides all red and glowing like colossal
iron bars fresh from a furnace, two hundred feet long some of them, and
ten to twenty feet thick. After repeated burnings have consumed the bark
and sapwood, the sound charred surface, being full of cracks and
sprinkled with leaves, is quickly overspread with a pure, rich, furred,
ruby glow almost flameless and smokeless, producing a marvelous effect
in the night. Another grand and interesting sight are the fires on the
tops of the largest living trees flaming above the green branches at a
height of perhaps two hundred feet, entirely cut off from the
ground-fires, and looking like signal beacons on watch towers. From one
standpoint I sometimes saw a dozen or more, those in the distance
looking like great stars above the forest roof. At first I could not
imagine how these Sequoia lamps were lighted, but the very first night,
strolling about waiting and watching, I saw the thing done again and
again. The thick fibrous bark of old trees is divided by deep, nearly
continuous furrows, the sides of which are bearded with the bristling
ends of fibres broken by the growth swelling of the trunk, and when the
fire comes creeping around the feet of the trees, it runs up these
bristly furrows in lovely pale blue quivering, bickering rills of flame
with a low, earnest whispering sound to the lightning-shattered top of
the trunk, which, in the dry Indian summer, with perhaps leaves and
twigs and squirrel-gnawed cone-scales and seed-wings lodged in it, is
readily ignited. These lamp-lighting rills, the most beautiful
fire-streams I ever saw, last only a minute or two, but the big lamps
burn with varying brightness for days and weeks, throwing off sparks
like the spray of a fountain, while ever and anon a shower of red coals
comes sifting down through the branches, followed at times with
startling effect by a big burned-off chunk weighing perhaps half a ton.

The immense bonfires where fifty or a hundred cords of peeled, split,
smashed wood has been piled around some old giant by a single stroke of
lightning is another grand sight in the night. The light is so great I
found I could read common print three hundred yards from them, and the
illumination of the circle of onlooking trees is indescribably
impressive. Other big fires, roaring and booming like waterfalls, were
blazing on the upper sides of trees on hillslopes, against which limbs
broken off by heavy snow had rolled, while branches high overhead,
tossed and shaken by the ascending air current, seemed to be writhing in
pain. Perhaps the most startling phenomenon of all was the quick death
of childlike Sequoias only a century or two of age. In the midst of the
other comparatively slow and steady fire work one of these tall,
beautiful saplings, leafy and branchy, would be seen blazing up
suddenly, all in one heaving, booming, passionate flame reaching from
the ground to the top of the tree, and fifty to a hundred feet or more
above it, with a smoke column bending forward and streaming away on the
upper, free-flowing wind. To burn these green trees a strong fire of dry
wood beneath them is required, to send up a current of air hot enough to
distill inflammable gases from the leaves and sprays; then instead of
the lower limbs gradually catching fire and igniting the next and the
next in succession, the whole tree seems to explode almost
simultaneously, and with awful roaring and throbbing a round, tapering
flame shoots up two or three hundred feet, and in a second or two is
quenched, leaving the green spire a black, dead mast, bristled and
roughened with down-curling boughs. Nearly all the trees that have been
burned down are lying with their heads up hill, because they are burned
far more deeply on the upper side, on account of broken limbs rolling
down against them to make hot fires, while only leaves and twigs
accumulate on the lower side and are quickly consumed without injury to
the tree. But green, resinless Sequoia wood burns very slowly, and many
successive fires are required to burn down a large tree. Fires can run
only at intervals of several years, and when the ordinary amount of
fire-wood that has rolled against the gigantic trunk is consumed, only a
shallow scar is made, which is slowly deepened by recurring fires until
far beyond the centre of gravity, and when at last the tree falls, it of
course falls up hill. The healing folds of wood layers on some of the
deeply burned trees show that centuries have elapsed since the last
wounds were made.

When a great Sequoia falls, its head is smashed into fragments about as
small as those made by lightning, which are mostly devoured by the first
running, hunting fire that finds them, while the trunk is slowly wasted
away by centuries of fire and weather. One of the most interesting
fire-actions on the trunk is the boring of those great tunnel-like
hollows through which horsemen may gallop. All of these famous hollows
are burned out of the solid wood, for no Sequoia is ever hollowed by
decay. When the tree falls, the brash trunk is often broken straight
across into sections as if sawed; into these joints the fire creeps,
and, on account of the great size of the broken ends, burns for weeks or
even months without being much influenced by the weather. After the
great glowing ends fronting each other have burned so far apart that
their rims cease to burn, the fire continues to work on in the centres,
and the ends become deeply concave. Then heat being radiated from side
to side, the burning goes on in each section of the trunk independent of
the other, until the diameter of the bore is so great that the heat
radiated across from side to side is not sufficient to keep them
burning. It appears, therefore, that only very large trees can receive
the fire-auger and have any shell-rim left.

Fire attacks the large trees only at the ground, consuming the fallen
leaves and humus at their feet, doing them but little harm unless
considerable quantities of fallen limbs happen to be piled about them,
their thick mail of spongy, unpitchy, almost unburnable bark affording
strong protection. Therefore the oldest and most perfect unscarred trees
are found on ground that is nearly level, while those growing on
hillsides, against which fallen branches roll, are always deeply scarred
on the upper side, and as we have seen are sometimes burned down. The
saddest thing of all was to see the hopeful seedlings, many of them
crinkled and bent with the pressure of winter snow, yet bravely aspiring
at the top, helplessly perishing, and young trees, perfect spires of
verdure and naturally immortal, suddenly changed to dead masts. Yet the
sun looked cheerily down the openings in the forest roof, turning the
black smoke to a beautiful brown as if all was for the best.

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