Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

Basil was astride, his face turned to the tree and towards his pursuer. The long snout of the latter was within three feet of his head, and he could feel her warm breath, as, with open jaws, she stretched forward, snorting fiercely.

At this moment, the ring end of the lasso struck the branch directly between them, passing a few feet over it. Before it could slip back again, and fall off, the young hunter had grasped it, and double knotted it around the limb. The next moment, and just as the great claws of the bear were stretched forth to clutch him, he slipped off the branch, and glided down the lasso.

The rope did not reach the ground by at least twenty feet. Lucien and Francis had observed this as soon as it first hung down, and prepared themselves accordingly; so that when Basil reached the end of the rope, he saw his brothers standing below, and holding a large buffalo skin stretched out between them. Into this he dropped, and, the next moment, stood upon the ground unhurt.

And now came the moment of triumph. The tough limb, that had been held stretched down by Basil's weight, becoming so suddenly released, flew upward with a jerk.

The unexpected violence of that jerk was too much for the bear. Her hold gave way: she was shot into the air several feet upwards, and falling with a dull, heavy sound to the earth, lay for a moment motionless. She was only stunned, however, and would soon have struggled up again to renew the attack; but before she could regain her feet, Basil had laid hold of Francis's half-loaded gun, and hurriedly pouring down a handful of bullets, ran forward and fired them into her head, killing her upon the spot.

*

The cubs, by this time, had arrived upon the ground, and Marengo attacked them with fury. The little creatures fought fiercely, and together would have been more than a match for the dog; but the rifles of his masters came to his assistance, and put an end to the contest.

* This was the name of a hound the youths had with them.

XXII. TO THE CUCKOO.

LOGAN.

[The cuckoo is a bird frequently mentioned in English poetry, because it arrives in that country in early spring, and thus its coming is a sign that winter is over. By the first of July it takes its departure. The American cuckoo is a different bird from the English. John Logan, the author of this poem, was born in Scotland in 1748, and died in 1788.]

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove,

Thou messenger of spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And birds thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school boy, wandering through the wood,

To pull the primrose gay,

Starts the new voice of spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fly'st the vocal vale;

An annual guest, in other lands,

Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year.

O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee;
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

XXIII. -THE OAK TREE.

MRS. HOWITT.

[Mary Howitt is the wife of William Howitt; and both she and her husband are popular living writers of England. Mrs. Howitt's poetry is distinguished by its freshness of feeling and grace of expression.]

THE oak tree was an acorn once,

And fell upon the earth;
And sun and showers nourished it,
And gave the oak tree birth.

The little sprouting oak tree!
Two leaves it had at first,
Till sun and showers nourished it;
Then out the branches burst.

The little sapling oak tree!

Its root was like a thread,

Till the kindly earth had nourished it;
Then out it freely spread.

On this side and on that

It grappled with the ground,
And in the ancient rifted rock
Its firmest footing found.

The winds came and the rains fell;
The gusty tempests blew ;
All, all were friends to the oak tree,

And stronger yet it grew.

[blocks in formation]

[George P. Morris, a living American writer, is one of the editors of the Home Journal. He is the author of many popular songs.]

WOODMAN, spare that tree;
Touch not a single bough;
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.

[blocks in formation]
« ForrigeFortsæt »