Read Ebook: The Sea Fairies by Baum L Frank Lyman Frank Neill John R John Rea Illustrator

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Ebook has 1507 lines and 87084 words, and 31 pages

BY CICERO.

I cannot conceive anything more excellent, than to be able, by language, to captivate the affections, to charm the understanding, and to impel or restrain the will of whole assemblies, at pleasure. Among every free people, especially in peaceful, settled governments, this single art has always eminently flourished, and always exercised the greatest sway. For what can be more surprising than that, amidst an infinite multitude, one man should appear, who shall be the only, or almost the only man capable of doing what Nature has put in every man's power? Or, can anything impart such exquisite pleasure to the ear and to the intellect, as a speech in which the wisdom and dignity of the sentiments are heightened by the utmost force and beauty of expression?

Is there anything so commanding, so grand, as that the eloquence of one man should direct the inclinations of the people, the consciences of judges, and the majesty of senates? Nay, farther, can aught be esteemed so great, so generous, so public-spirited, as to assist the suppliant, to rear the prostrate, to communicate happiness, to avert danger, and to save a fellow-citizen from exile? Can anything be so necessary, as to keep those arms always in readiness, with which you may defend yourself, attack the profligate, and redress your own, or your country's wrongs?

But let us consider this accomplishment as detached from public business, and from its wonderful efficacy in popular assemblies, at the bar, and in the senate; can anything be more agreeable, or more endearing in private life, than elegant language? For the great characteristic of our nature, and what eminently distinguishes us from brutes, is the faculty of social conversation, the power of expressing our thoughts and sentiments by words. To excel mankind, therefore, in the exercise of that very talent which gives them the preference to the brute creation, is what everybody must not only admire, but look upon as the just object of the most indefatigable pursuit.

And now, to mention the chief point of all, what other power could have been of sufficient efficacy to bring together the vagrant individuals of the human race; to tame their savage manners, to reconcile them to social life; and, after cities were founded, to mark out laws, forms, and constitutions, for their government?--Let me, in a few words, sum up this almost boundless subject. I lay it down as a maxim, that upon the wisdom and abilities of an accomplished orator, not only his own dignity, but the welfare of vast numbers of individuals, and even of the whole state, must greatly depend.

THE WIND AND THE SEA.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

The Sea is a jovial comrade; He laughs, wherever he goes, And the merriment shines In the dimpling lines That wrinkle his hale repose. He lays himself down at the feet of the sun And shakes all over with glee, And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore In the mirth of the mighty sea.

Welcome are both their voices, And I know not which is best, The laughter that slips From the ocean's lips, Or the comfortless wind's unrest. There's a pang in all rejoicing, A joy in the heart of pain, And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the self-same strain.

CUT BEHIND.

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.

The scene opens on a clear, crisp morning. Two boys are running to get on the back of a carriage, whose wheels are spinning along the road. One of the boys, with a quick spring, succeeds. The other leaps, but fails, and falls on the part of the body where it is most appropriate to fall. No sooner has he struck the ground than he shouts to the driver of the carriage, "Cut behind!"

Human nature is the same in boy as in man--all running to gain the vehicle of success. Some are spry, and gain that for which they strive. Others are slow, and tumble down; they who fall crying out against those who mount, "Cut behind!"

A political office rolls past. A multitude spring to their feet, and the race is on. Only one of all the number reaches that for which he runs. No sooner does he gain the prize, and begin to wipe the sweat from his brow, and think how grand a thing it is to ride in popular preferment, than the disappointed candidates cry out, "Incompetency! Stupidity! Fraud! Now let the newspapers of the other political party 'cut behind.'"

There is a golden chariot of wealth rolling down the street. A thousand people are trying to catch it. They run, they jostle; they tread on each other. Push, and pull, and tug. Those talk most against riches who cannot get there. Clear the track for the racers! One of the thousand reaches the golden prize and mounts. Forthwith the air is full of cries, "Got it by fraud! Shoddy! Petroleum aristocracy! His father was a rag-picker! His mother was a washer-woman! I knew him when he blacked his own shoes! Pitch him off the back part of the golden chariot! Cut behind! cut behind!"

Thank God, there are so many in the world that never "cut behind," but are ready to give a fellow a ride whenever he wants it. There are hundreds of people whose chief joy it is to help others on. Now it is a smile, now a good word, now ten dollars. When such a kind man has ridden to the end of the earthly road, it will be pleasant to hang up the whip with which he drove the enterprises of a lifetime, and feel that with it he never "cut behind" at those who were struggling.

AT THE STAGE DOOR.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

The curtain had fallen, the lights were dim, The rain came down with a steady pour; A white-haired man with a kindly face, Peered through the panes of the old stage door. "I'm getting too old to be drenched like that" He muttered and turning met face to face, The woman whose genius, an hour before, Like a mighty power had filled the place.

"Yes, much too old," with a smile, she said, And she laid her hand on his silver hair; "You shall ride with me to your home to-night, For that is my carriage standing there." The old door-tender stood, doffing his hat And holding the door, but she would not stir, Though he said it was not for the "likes of him To ride in a kerridge with such as her."

"Come, put out your lights," she said to him, "I've something important I wish to say, And I can't stand here in the draught you know-- I can tell you much better while on the way." So into the carriage the old man crept, Thanking her gratefully, o'er and o'er, Till she bade him listen while she would tell A story, concerning that old stage door.

"It was raining in torrents, ten years ago This very night, and a friendless child Stood, shivering there, by that old stage door, Dreading her walk in a night so wild. She was only one of the 'extra' girls, But you gave her a nickle to take the car, And said 'Heaven bless ye, my little one, Ye can pay me back ef ye ever star.'

"So you cast your bread on the waters then, And I pay you back, as my heart demands, And we're even now--no! not quite," she said, As she emptied her purse in his trembling hands. "And if ever you're needy and want a friend, You know where to come, for your little mite Put hope in my heart and made me strive To gain the success you have seen to-night."

Then the carriage stopped, at the old man's door, And the gas-light shone on him, standing there: And he stepped to the curb, as she rolled away, While his thin lips murmured a fervent prayer. He looked at the silver and bills and gold, And he said: "She gives all this to me? My bread has come back a thousandfold, God bless her! God bless all such as she!"

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE LANDLORD.

ANONYMOUS.

A shrewd and wealthy old landlord, away down in Maine, is noted for driving his "sharp bargains," by which he has amassed a large amount of property. He is the owner of a large number of dwelling-houses, and it is said of him that he is not over-scrupulous of his rental charges, whenever he can find a customer whom he knows to be responsible. His object is to lease his house for a term of years to the best tenants, and get the uttermost farthing in the shape of rent.

A diminutive Frenchman called on him last winter, to hire a dwelling he owned in Portland, and which had long remained empty. References were given, and the landlord, ascertaining that the tenant was a man "after his own heart," immediately commenced to "Jew" him. He found that the tenement appeared to suit the Frenchman, and he placed an exorbitant price upon it; the leases were drawn and duly executed, and the tenant removed into his new quarters.

Upon kindling fires in the house, it was found that the chimneys wouldn't "draw," and the building was filled with smoke. The window-sashes rattled in the wind at night, and the cold air rushed through a hundred crevices about the house until now unnoticed. The snow melted upon the roof, and the attics were drenched from the leakage. The rain pelted, and our Frenchman found a "natural" bathroom upon the second floor--but the lease was signed and the landlord chuckled.

Next morning he arose bright and early, and passing down he encountered the landlord.

"Good day, sir. How do you like your house?"

"Ah! What is that?"

"I sal live in zat house but tree little year."

"How so?"

"I have find by vot you call ze lease, zat you have give me ze house but for tree year, and I ver mooch sorrow for zat."

"But you can have it longer if you wish--"

"Oh, certainly, certainly, sir."

"Certainly, sir. You can stay there your lifetime, if you like."

"Ah, monsieur--I have ver mooch tanks for zis accommodation."

The old lease was destroyed and a new one was delivered in form to the French gentleman, giving him possession of the premises for "such a period as the lessee may desire the same, he paying the rent promptly, etc."

The next morning our crafty landlord was passing the house just as the French-man's last load of furniture was being started from the door; an hour afterward, a messenger called on him with a legal tender, for the rent for eight days, accompanied with a note as follows:

It is needless to add that our landlord has never since been known to give up "a bird in the hand for one in the bush."

GUILD'S SIGNAL.

BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE, 1839.

Two low whistles, quaint and clear, That was the signal the engineer-- That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said-- Gave to his wife at Providence, As through the sleeping town, and thence Out in the night, On to the light, Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, Yet to the woman looking out, Watching and waiting, no serenade, Love-song, or midnight roundelay Said what that whistle seemed to say; "To my trust true, So love to you! Working or waiting. Good night!" it said.

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, Old commuters, along the line, Brakesmen and porters, glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, Pierced through the shadows of Providence,-- "Nothing amiss-- Nothing!--it is Only Guild calling his wife," they said.

Summer and winter, the old refrain Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, Pierced through the budding boughs o'er head, Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned! Sang as it flew "To our trust true. First of all, duty! Good night!" it said.

MARK TWAIN AND THE INTERVIEWER.

The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added,--

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."

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