Read Ebook: Up Terrapin River by Read Opie Percival

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1087 lines and 40159 words, and 22 pages

With what philosophy sublime The institutions are discussed, Which foolish men of olden time Were well content to take on trust! "Is life one great mistake?" we cry, "Our modern teachers deem it so;" "Man's place shall woman occupy?" And now this last--"Shall Christmas go?"

They mock at any plea for mirth, With fine derision they allude To any wish for peace on earth As just a pulpit platitude; This Christmas-time, it seems, is fraught With fancies anything but clever; The lessons that CHARLES DICKENS taught Are obsolete, and gone for ever!

Nor only these: In every land When Christmas brings, to brighten life, The sturdy grip of hand with hand, The softened heart, the ended strife,-- Then air your pessimistic views, Then ask again, "Shall Christmas go?" And find your answer, if you choose, In one emphatic, hearty--"NO!"

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

I am overwhelmed with congratulations, from all classes, from all sections, from all ranks, and I am acclaimed on all hands as a worthy head man for a Mudford, if not yet a model, village. Not the least welcome have been the communications which have reached me from those who have made my acquaintance in these published Chronicles. The mayor of a borough whose charter dates well back into the beginning of the second half of the present century, wrote to say that he is emboldened by the fact that his wife's maiden name commenced with a W to write to tell me how rejoiced he is to hear of my success. A gentleman writes from "The Burning Plains of the Sahara" to say that he is always proud of the triumphs of a TIMOTHY. Then there is a very important letter from Birmingham, of which I will only say that WINKINS, who has backed many a Bill, may yet live to indorse a Programme. I may here add that there has been an attempt in some quarters to decry these Chronicles as absurd and imaginary. My Birmingham correspondent describes them as "an important picture of things as they actually are." He is right. I am as serious as a Prime Minister.

My wife is back--which reminds me that I received a post-card, which his had the effect usually produced by a bomb. Here is what was on it:--

AFTER THE POLL.

After the poll is over, After the voting's done, Mudford will be much duller, No more election fun. But ONE man will be more happy, Not so disturbed in his soul , WINKINS'S wife is come back now-- After the Poll!

Of course, I should have destroyed the card at once--but I was out when it came, and MARIA read it first! What happened was a good instance of the monstrous way in which one man's sin is another man's punishment. In this case it was my wife who had persisted in going away, and it was an unknown post-cardist who had written the insulting doggerel. Yet I paid the entire penalty.

The great puzzle--who is the seventh councillor?--is still unsolved. All that has happened so far is that Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT and Mrs. ARBLE MARCH are no longer on speaking terms. It has leaked out that Mrs. MARCH had more plumpers than Mrs. HAVITT, whereupon ructions--as JACKY, who has just come home for the Christmas holidays says. I think he's quite right.

Our Parish Council meets next Monday--on the 7th. With the New Year we commence our reign of beneficent activity. I need hardly say that it is certain that I am to be Chairman. My position on the poll suggests it, common decency demands it, moreover I expect it. I refuse to believe that I shall be disappointed.

A GLAD NEW YEAR.

"A Glad New Year!" Why, bless my heart, how fast The time flies by! The year's no sooner here Than it is gone and numbered with the past-- A Glad New Year!

For some the sun shines bright, the sky is clear, No threatening clouds o'erhead exist to cast A single shadow. Yet, ah me, how drear The sad estate in which some lives are passed! The day when none are sad may not be near, But then--and not till then--there'll be at last A Glad New Year!

THE OLD FERRYMAN'S NEW FARE.

O-hoi-ye-ho! Ho-ye-ho! Who's for the ferry? A light gleams afar, and the church chimes are merry, Their message goes pealing o'er country and town. The ferryman's grey, and the ferryman's old; But the passenger's young, and the passenger's bold; And he's fresh as a pippin, and brown as a berry, He laughs at the night, and he heeds not the cold. O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!

O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho! One flits slow from the ferry, With shadowy form, and with footfall unsteady; You'd think 'twas a ghost at the dawn-signal flown. The ferryman turns on the phantom a glance, But the eyes of the youngster there glitter and dance, And with youth like a star in the stern of the wherry There is but one watchword for Time,--tis "Advance!" O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!

O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho! Old is that ferry, Still, older that steersman, though stalwart and steady, And many a journey and fare hath he known. For the Ferryman's Time, and his fares are the Years, And they greet him with smiles, and oft leave him in tears, And the youth who to-night takes his seat in that wherry, Knows not how 'tis freighted with hopes and with fears. O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!

O-hoi-ye-ho-Ho! 'NINETY-FIVE tries the ferry, There's a smile on his lips, and his laughter is merry; Right little he bodeth of Fortune's dark frown. But the Ferryman's old, and the Ferryman knows That River of Years, with its joys and its woes; But we'll wish the young fare a snug seat in Time's wherry, And sun on his way, though he starts 'midst the snows. O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!!

THE WINTER ACADEMY OF 1995.

The Committee this year has wisely been recruited from the Master Bill Posters' Guild; the old-fashioned method of "hanging" is abandoned, and advertisements are now "stuck" on the walls by the New "B" Guanything that don't take no trouble. Stands thar now, grinnin' like er possum. Don't peer like he'd kere whuther we raise a crap or not. Thar, drive on with you, now. Never seed sich a fool caper in my life. Bet you all starve to death."

It was so early when they drove off that the dew was still dripping from a vine-covered tree. Alf and his daughter hummed a tune. John, placing one hand on Potter's knee, looked earnestly into his face and said:

"This is the happiest day uv my life."

"Ah, my boy, we may spend many happy days together. I was just thinking how, in my case, a few hours had brought such a change--the change from a tramp to a man who is driving toward his own home."

"Whoa, whoa," exclaimed Alf, pulling on the lines. "John, reach back dar an' han' me Ole Nance . Come back yere, Pete, you triflin' raskil ."

"What's the matter?" Potter asked.

"Matter? Is you so blind dat you kaint see dat monst'us rattlesnake crossin' de road right up dar?"

"My gracious, what a monster!" Potter exclaimed.

"Yas," replied Alf, as he took his gun and cautiously climbed down out of the wagon, "an' he ain't eat no less'n er ha'f er dozen squirrels fur his breakfast. Git out, generman, an' watch de 'formance."

Potter and John got out. Alf continued: "Wait till he curls an' hol's up his head. Doan git up too close, caze he blow at you an' make you sick. Greshus, how pizen he is. Now hol' on."

The snake was holding up its head. Alf took deliberate aim and fired. Instantly the reptile was a twisting and tumbling mass of yellow and black and green.

"He's lookin' round fur his head," Alf remarked, "but he ain't gwine ter find it dis mawnin'. Wait till I pull off his rattles. Wants 'em ter put in my fiddle."

He pulled off the rattles while the snake was still writhing, and, as he climbed back into the wagon, remarked: "It's allus a sign o' good luck ter kill er rattlesnake dat's crossin' yo' road. Get-ep, boys."

They crossed the beautiful river and drove up the stream.

"Yander is de place," said Alf, pointing.

Yes, it was the place--a place from which John's life was to turn in a new direction--a place of learning, romance, and adventure--a place of laughter and of tears.

The house was situated on a hill near the river. From one of its windows the crystal stream could be seen. Every surrounding was attractive to a lover of nature. The house was built of logs and contained two rooms. In one of the rooms there was a great fireplace. It did not take the new occupants long to arrange their scanty collection of furniture. The girl, woman-like, regretted that no better show was made, but the men declared that the house contained everything that was strictly necessary. The third day after their arrival Potter, upon getting up from the breakfast-table , turned to his friends and remarked: "I am going over to Sunset to-day , to get a Winchester rifle--saw one in a store as I came through the other day--and the books necessary for the beginning of our educational course. I have a few dollars, not many, it is true, but quite enough. John, you and Alf get as much work done as you can. Of course, the season is so far advanced that we can not get in much of a crop, but we must try to raise enough corn to run us during the winter."

Never before had John gone to work with such enjoyment. He sang as he turned over the soil. Encouragement had put a song in his mouth. Alf was delighted, and Jule was so light-hearted and so improved that she sometimes ventured out without her crutch. There was much work to be done, but they all regarded its accomplishment as a pleasure.

Potter did not return until late at night, but his friends had sat up waiting to receive him. He brought the Winchester rifle and a supply of cartridges; he brought the books, some needed dishes, a pair of shoes for John, a Sunday hat for Alf, and a calico dress for Jule.

"Oh, it's de putties thing I eber seed in my life," the girl exclaimed. "W'y dady, jes' look yere at de flowers."

"Grasshoppers, aint da?" said Alf, slyly winking at Potter.

"You know da aint. Whut you come talk dat way fur, say?" She took hold of his ears with a tender pretense of anger, and shook his head. "I'll l'arn you how ter talk dater way 'bout deze flowers. W'y da's so much like sho nuff flowers dat I ken almos' smell de 'fume. Look yere dady, we mus' git Mr. Potter suthin' ter eat."

"Aint I dun heatin' de skillet?" Alf replied. "Cose I is." He went to a box, which, nailed up against the wall, served as a "cubbard," and took out several pieces of white-looking meat.

"What sort of meat do you call that?" Potter asked.

"Dis, sah," Alf rejoined, as he began to dip the meat into a tin plate containing flour, "is some slices offen de breast o' one o' de fines' turkey gobblers I eber seed. John ken tell you how it got here."

"I wuz plowin' 'long jest before dinner," said John, "an' I hearn the gentleman gobblin' out in the woods. I wuz sorter 'stonished, too, fur it's gittin' putty late in the season fur turkeys ter be struttin' erbout. I slipped to the house an' got my rifle an' went into the woods airter him. He wuz so high up in er tree that he didn't pay no 'tention ter me, not b'lievin' I could reach him, I reckon, but I drawed a bead on his head an' down he come."

"I am glad you got him," Potter replied. "You are an excellent shot, I suppose?"

"Wall, I mout not hit er pin-head, but I reckon I could hit er steer."

"Mr. Potter," said Alf, as he stood over the fire frying the turkey breast, "wush I had axed you ter fetch de ole man some fiddle strings."

"Well, if I didn't bring you some I hope, as John's aunt would say, 'I may never stir agin.' Here they are."

"Wall, fo' greshus, ef you ain't de thoughtfules' white man I eber seed. Thankee, sah, thankee. Man mus' almos' be 'spired ter think erbout ever'thing diser way. Now, sah, we gwine ter hab some music in dis yere house. Bible say er man kaint lib by meat an' bread by itse'f; means dat folks aughter hab er little music. Ole Mars David uster play on er harp, an' I lay he done it well, too."

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet