Short Stories and Selections for Use in the Secondary Schools
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Emilie Kip Baker >> Short Stories and Selections for Use in the Secondary Schools
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An American writer gives another instance of ursine [Footnote: Ursine:
pertaining to a bear.] irritability. A friend of his would persist in
practising the flute near his tame black bear. Bruin bore this in
silence for a while, went so far indeed as himself to try and play the
flute on his favorite stick; but at last he could stand it no longer,
and one morning knocked the flutist's tall hat over his eyes. If any act
of retribution is justifiable this was. To practise the flute anywhere
within earshot is annoying; to do so in a tall hat would be simply
exasperating.
It would be easy to fill a small volume with anecdotes of captive bears.
They would show that Bruin is not so stupid as he is sometimes painted,
even if they did not altogether justify the Swedish saying that the bear
unites the wit of one man with the strength of ten. Frank Buckland's
bear, Tiglath Pileser, was cute enough to know where to find the sweet
stuff, of which he, in common with his race, was so inordinately fond;
for one day when he had broken his chains he was found in a small
grocer's shop seated on the counter, and helping himself with liberal
paw to brown sugar and lollipops, to the no small discomfort of the good
woman who kept the shop. A black bear in America had a weakness for
chickens. His master noticed the thinning of the poultry yard, and
suspicion fell on Bruin owing to the feathers which lay round his pole.
They could not catch him in the act however. He was too sharp for that,
and if disturbed, when he had but half demolished [Footnote: Demolished:
destroyed.] a pullet he would hastily sit on the remainder and look as
innocent as could be. He was discovered at last, however, by the
cackling of a tough old hen which he had failed to silence.
--LLOYD MORGAN (adapted).
[Footnote: Do the incidents related seem real or exaggerated? Has the
author used the element of surprise effectively? Illustrate. Would you
judge that the writer was a scientist? Why?]
BUCK'S TRIAL OF STRENGTH
John Thornton, owner of the dog, Buck, had said that Buck could draw a
sled loaded with one thousand pounds of flour. Another miner bet sixteen
hundred dollars that he couldn't, and Thornton, though fearing it would
be too much for Buck, was ashamed to refuse; so he let Buck try to draw
a load that Matthewson's team of ten dogs had been hauling.
The team of ten dogs was unhitched, and Buck, with his own harness, was
put into the sled. He had felt the general excitement, and he felt that
in some way he must do a great thing for John Thornton. Murmurs of
admiration at his splendid appearance went up. He was in perfect
condition, without an ounce of superfluous [Footnote: Superfluous:
unnecessary.] flesh, and the one hundred and fifty pounds that he
weighed were so many pounds of grit and virility. His furry coat shone
with the sheen of silk. Down the neck and across the shoulders, his
mane, in repose as it was, half bristled and seemed to lift with every
movement, as though excess of vigor made each particular hair alive and
active. The great breast and heavy forelegs were no more than in
proportion with the rest of the body, where the muscles showed in tight
rolls underneath the skin. Men felt these muscles and proclaimed them
hard as iron, and the odds went down two to one.
"Sir, sir," stuttered a member of the latest dynasty, [Footnote:
Dynasty: race or succession of kings.] a king of the Skookum Benches. "I
offer you eight hundred for him, sir, before the test, sir; eight
hundred just as he stands."
Thornton shook his head and stepped to Buck's side.
"You must stand off from him," Matthewson protested. "Free play and
plenty of room."
The crowd fell silent; only could be heard the voices of the gamblers
vainly offering two to one. Everybody acknowledged Buck a magnificent
animal, but twenty fifty-pound sacks of flour bulked too large in their
eyes for them to loosen their pouch-strings.
Thornton knelt down by Buck's side. He took his head into his two hands
and rested cheek on cheek. He did not playfully shake him, as he was
wont, or murmur soft love curses; but he whispered in his ear. "As you
love me, Buck. As you love me," [Footnote: As you love me, Buck. Compare
this incident with the words whispered to his horse by the rider in
Browning's "Ghent to Aix."] was what he whispered. Buck whined with
suppressed eagerness.
The crowd was watching curiously. The affair was growing mysterious. It
seemed like a conjuration. [Footnote: Conjuration: an invoking of
supernatural aid.] As Thornton got to his feet, Buck seized his mittened
hand between his jaws, pressing in with his teeth and releasing slowly,
half-reluctantly. It was the answer, in terms, not of speech, but of
love. Thornton stepped well back.
"Now, Buck," he said.
Buck tightened the traces, then slacked them for a matter of several
inches. It was the way he had learned.
"Gee!" Thornton's voice rang out, sharp in the tense silence.
Buck swung to the right, ending the movement in a plunge that took up
the slack, and, with a sudden jerk, arrested his one hundred and fifty
pounds. The load quivered, and from under the runners arose a crisp
crackling.
"Haw!" Thornton commanded.
Buck duplicated the maneuver, [Footnote: Maneuver: dexterous movement.]
this time to the left. The crackling turned into a snapping, the sled
pivoting and the runners slipping and grating several inches to the
side.
The sled was broken out. Men were holding their breaths, intensely
unconscious of the fact. "Now, Mush!"
Thornton's command cracked out like a pistol shot. Buck threw himself
forward, tightening the traces with a jarring lunge. His whole body was
gathered tightly together in a tremendous effort, the muscles writhing
and knotting like live things under the silky fur. His great chest was
low to the ground, his head forward and down, while his feet were flying
like mad, the claws scarring the hard-packed snow in grooves. The sled
swayed and trembled, half-started forward. One of his feet slipped, and
one man groaned aloud. Then the sled lurched ahead in what appeared a
rapid succession of jerks, though it really never came to a dead stop
again--half an inch--an inch--two inches. The jerks became less as the
sled gained momentum, he caught them up, till it was moving steadily
along.
Men gasped and began to breathe again, unaware that for a moment they
had ceased to breathe. Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck
with short, cheery words. The distance had been measured off, and as he
neared the pile of firewood which marked the end of the hundred yards, a
cheer began to grow and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed the
firewood and halted at command. Every man was tearing himself loose,
even Matthewson, who had lost his wager. Hats and mittens were flying in
the air. Men were shaking hands, it did not matter with whom, and
bubbling over in a general incoherent babel. But Thornton fell on his
knees beside Buck. Head was against head, and he was shaking him back
and forth.
"I'll give you a thousand for him, sir, a thousand," sputtered the
Skookum Bench king, "twelve hundred, sir."
Thornton rose to his feet. His eyes were wet. The tears were streaming
frankly down his cheeks. "Sir," he said to the Skookum Bench king, "no,
sir. You can hold your tongue, sir. It's the best I can do for you,
sir."
Buck seized Thornton's hand in his teeth. Thornton shook him back and
forth. As though moved by a common feeling, the onlookers drew back to a
respectful distance; nor did they again interrupt.
--JACK LONDON.
[Footnote: Notice the simple direct style of writing. Why does the
writer dwell on the physical fitness of Buck? Does the understanding
between Buck and his master seem unusual? What glimpses of the character
of the miners does the story give you? Show how the element of suspense
adds to the dramatic force of the story. What is the most interesting
point in the narrative?]
ON THE SOLANDER WHALING GROUND
A bright sunny morning; the gentle north-easterly breeze just keeping
the sails full as the lumbering whaling-barque "Splendid" dips jerkily
to the old southerly swell. Astern, the blue hills around Preservation
Inlet [Footnote: Preservation Inlet ... Solander (island) ... Foveaux
(strait) ... Stewart Island: places situated on or near the southern end of
New Zealand.] lie shimmering in the soft spring sunlight, and on the
port beam the mighty pillar of the Solander Rock, lying off the
south-western extremity of the New Zealand, is sharply outlined against
the steel-blue sky. Far beyond that stern sentinel, the converging
shores of Foveaux Strait are just discernible in dim outline through a
low haze. Ahead the jagged and formidable rocks of Stewart Island,
bathed in a mellow golden glow, give no hint of their terrible
appearance what time the Storm-fiend of the south-west cries havoc and
urges on his chariot of war.
The keen-eyed Kanaka [Footnote: Kanaka: a native of the Sandwich
Islands.] in the fore crow's nest [Footnote: Crow's nest: a perch near
the top of the mast to shelter the man on the lookout.] shades his eyes
with his hand, peering earnestly out on the weather bow at something
which has attracted his attention. A tiny plume of vapor rises from the
blue hollows about ten miles away, but so faint and indefinable that it
may be only a breaking wavelet's crest caught by the cross wind. Again
that little bushy jet breaks the monotony of the sea; but this time
there is no mistaking it. Emerging diagonally from the water, not high
and thin, but low and spreading, it is an infallible indication to those
piercing eyes of the presence of a sperm-whale. The watcher utters a
long, low musical cry, "Blo-o-o-o-w," which penetrates the gloomy
recesses of the fo'ksle [Footnote: Fo'ksle: the forward part of the
vessel, under the deck, where the sailors live.] and cuddy, [Footnote:
Cuddy: small cabin.] where the slumberers immediately engage in fierce
conflict with whales of a size never seen by waking eyes. The officer
and white seamen at the main now take up the cry, and in a few seconds
all hands are swiftly yet silently preparing to leave the ship. She is
put about, making a course which shortly brings her a mile or two to
windward of the slowly-moving cachalot. Now it is evident that no
solitary whale is in sight, but a great school, gambolling in the bright
spray. One occasionally, in pure exuberance of its tremendous vitality,
springs twenty feet into the clear air, and falls, a hundred tons of
massive flesh, with earthquake-like commotion, back into the sea.
Having got the weather-gage, the boats are lowered; sail is immediately
set, and, like swift huge-winged birds, they swoop down upon the prey.
Driving right upon the back of the nearest monster, two harpoons are
plunged into his body up to the "hitches." [Footnote: Hitches: a knot or
noose that can be readily undone.] The sheet [Footnote: Sheet: the rope
that regulates the angle of the sail.] is at once hauled aft, [Footnote:
Hauled aft: hauled toward the stern of the ship.] and the boat flies up
into the wind; while the terrified cetacean [Footnote: Cetacean: marine
mammal.] vainly tries, by tremendous writhing and plunging, to rid
himself of the barbed weapon. The mast is unshipped, and preparation
made to deliver the coup de grace. [Footnote: Coup de grace: the
decisive, finishing stroke.] But finding his efforts futile, the whale
has sounded, and his reappearance must be awaited. Two boats' lines are
taken out before the slackening comes, and he slowly rises again. Faster
and faster the line comes in; the blue depths turn a creamy white, and
it is "Stern all" for dear life. Up he comes, with jaws gaping twenty
feet wide, gleaming teeth and livid, cavernous throat glittering in the
brilliant light. But the boat's crew are seasoned hands, to whom this
dread sight is familiar, and orders are quietly obeyed, the boat
backing, circling and darting ahead like a sentient thing under their
united efforts. So the infuriated mammal is baffled and dodged, while
thrust after thrust of the long lances are got home, and streamlets of
blood trickling over the edges of his spouthole give warning that the
end is near. A few wild circlings at tremendous speed, jaws clashing and
blood foaming in torrents from the spiracle, [Footnote: Spiracle: the
nostril of a whale.] one mighty leap into the air, and the ocean monarch
is dead. He lies just awash, gently undulated by the long, low swell,
one pectoral fin slowly waving like some great stray leaf of _Fucus
gigantea_. [Footnote: Fucus gigantea: fucus is a kind of tough
seaweed.] A hole is cut through the fluke and the line secured to it.
The ship, which has been working to windward during the conflict, runs
down and receives the line; and in a short time the great inert mass is
hauled alongside and secured by the fluke [Footnote: Fluke: one of the
lobes of a whale's tail.] chain.
The vessel, bound to that immense body, can only crawl tortoise-like
before the wind--lucky, indeed, to have a harbor ahead where the whale
may be cut in, even though it be forty miles away. Without that refuge
available, she could not hope to keep the sea and hold her prize through
the wild weather, now so near. The breeze is freshening fast, and all
sail is made for Port William. So slow is the progress, that it is past
midnight before that snug shelter is reached, although for the last four
hours the old ship is terribly tried and strained by the press of sail
carried to such a gale.
--FRANK BULLEN.
[Footnote: Show how the rapid action in the narrative makes it more
dramatic. Why does the danger of the enterprise take so small a part in
the narrative? Can you characterize this kind of description?]
AN EPISODE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.
"What has gone wrong?" said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was down in
the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
"Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!" said a ragged and submissive man, "it is
a child."
"Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?"
"Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes."
The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword hilt.
"Killed!" shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
their length above his head, and staring at him. "Dead!"
The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
He took out his purse.
"It is extraordinary to me," said he, "that you people cannot take care
of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
him that."
He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry. "Dead!"
He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
were as silent, however, as the men.
"I know all, I know all," said the last comer. "Be a brave man, my
Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
as happily?"
"You are a philosopher, you there," said the Marquis, smiling. "How do
they call you?"
"They call me Defarge."
"Of what trade?"
"Monsieur the Marquis, vendor [Footnote: Vendor: seller.] of wine."
"Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine," said the Marquis,
throwing him another gold coin, "and spend it as you will. The horses
there; are they right?"
Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his case was suddenly
disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
"Hold!" said Monsieur the Marquis. "Hold the horses! Who threw that?"
He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood a
moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on the
pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
"You dogs!" said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
except as to the spots on his nose; "I would ride over any of you very
willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
should be crushed under the wheels."
So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
a voice or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word "Go on!"
--CHARLES DICKENS.
[Footnote: What things are contrasted in the story? Does the incident
seem probable from what you know of the period? Can you give any
instances from history or fiction to show the attitude of the French
aristocracy before the Revolution? Do you know what happened to the
Marquis in the "Tale of Two Cities"? Compare the condition of the people
in this episode with those in a "Leaf in the Storm."]
THE COMMANDER OF THE FAITHFUL
These events are succeeded by a few moments of silent waiting. Then
suddenly the long lines of soldiers vibrate under a thrill of religious
awe; the band, with its great basses and its drums, strikes up a
deafening, mournful air. The fifty little black slaves run, run as if
their lives were at stake, deploying [Footnote: Deploying: unfolding,
opening out.] from their base like the sticks of a fan, resembling bees
swarming, or a flock of birds. And yonder, in the shadowy light of the
ogive, [Footnote: Ogive: the arch which crosses a Gothic vault
diagonally.] upon which all eyes are turned, there appears a tall,
brown-faced mannikin, all veiled in white muslin, mounted on a splendid
white horse led in hand by four slaves; over his head is held an
umbrella of antique form, such an one as must have protected the Queen
of Sheba, [Footnote: Queen of Sheba: the queen who came to test the
wisdom of Solomon.] and two gigantic negroes, one in pink, the other in
blue, wave fly-flaps around the person of the sovereign.
While the strange mannikin, or mummy, almost shapeless, but majestic
notwithstanding in his robes of snowy white, is advancing towards us,
the music, as if exasperated to madness, wails louder and louder and in
a shriller key; it strikes up a slow and distressful religious air, the
time of which is accentuated by a frightful beating of the bass-drums.
The mannikin's horse rears wildly, restrained with difficulty by the
four black slaves, and this music, so mournful and so strange to us,
affects our nerves with an indescribable agonizing sensation.
Here, at last, drawn up close beside us, stands this last authentic
descendant of Mahomet, crossed with Nubian blood. His attire, of the
finest mousseline-de-laine, is of immaculate whiteness. His charger,
too, is entirely white, his great stirrups are of gold, and his saddle
and equipments are of a very pale green silk, lightly embroidered in a
still paler shade of green. The slaves who hold his horse, the one who
carries the great red umbrella, and the two--the pink and blue ones--who
shake napkins in the monarch's face to drive away imaginary flies, are
all herculean negroes whose countenances are wrinkled into fierce
smiles; they are all old men, and their gray or white beards contrast
with the blackness of their features. This ceremonial of a bygone age
harmonizes with the wailing music, and could not suit better the huge
walls around us, which rear their crumbling summits high in the air.
This man, who thus presents himself before us with the surroundings
which I have described, is the last faithful exponent of a religion, a
civilization that is about to die. He is the personification, in fact,
of ancient Islam. [Footnote: Islam: the religion of the Mohammedans.]
What result can we expect to obtain from an embassy to such a man, who,
together with his people, spends his life torpid and motionless among
ancient dreams of humanity that have almost disappeared from the surface
of the earth? There is not a single point on which we can understand
each other; the distance between us is nearly that which would separate
us from a caliph [Footnote: Caliph: the head of the Moslem state and
defender of the faith.] of Cordova [Footnote: Cordova: a city of Spain.
It is famous for its manufactures of leather and silverware. It contains
many Moorish antiquities, and is celebrated for its cathedral--once a
mosque.] or Bagdad [Footnote: Bagdad: a city of Mesopotamia on the
Tigris. It was formerly a city of great importance, and was a celebrated
centre of Arabic learning and civilization.] who should come to life
again after a slumber of a thousand years. What do we wish to obtain
from him, and why have we brought him forth from his impenetrable
palace?
His brown, parchment-like face in its setting of white muslin, has
regular and noble features; dull, expressionless eyes, the whites of
which appear beneath the balls that are half concealed by the drooping
lashes; his expression is that of exceeding melancholy, a supreme
lassitude, a supreme ennui. He has an appearance of benignity, and is
really kindhearted, according to what they say who know him. (If the
people of Fez [Footnote: Fez: a city in northern Morocco.] are to be
believed, he is even too much so--he does not chop off as many heads as
he ought to for the holy cause of Islam.) But this kindheartedness, no
doubt, is relative in degree, as was often the case with ourselves in
the middle ages; a mildness which is not over-sensitive in the face of
shedding blood when there is a necessity for it, nor in face of an array
of human heads set up in a row over the fine gateway at the entrance to
the palace. Assuredly he is not cruel; he could not be so with that
gentle, sad expression. He punishes with severity sometimes, as his
divine authority gives him the right to do, but it is said that he finds
a still keener pleasure in pardoning. He is a priest and a warrior, and
carries each of these characters perhaps to excess; feeling as deeply as
a prophet the responsibility of his heavenly mission, chaste in the
midst of his seraglio, [Footnote: Seraglio: a harem.] strict in his
attention to onerous [Footnote: Onerous: burdensome.] religious
observances, and hereditarily very much of a fanatic--he aims to form
himself upon Mahomet [Footnote: Mahomet (Mohammed): the founder of
Mohammedanism. Born about 570 in Mecca(?) and died in 632.] as perfectly
as may be: all this, moreover, is legible in his eyes, upon his fine
countenance, in the upright majesty of his bearing. He is a man whom we
can neither understand nor judge in the times we live in, but he is
surely a great man, a man of mark.
--PIERKE LOTI (adapted).
[Footnote: What things in the description would tell you that the scene
was Oriental? What observations does the author make on the difference
between East and West? As a spectator, what things would you find most
interesting in the scene? Do you know why the author calls the Sultan's
palace impenetrable? Why does the author think that his interview with
the Sultan may be useless?]
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