Ges. Wilt thon do it? Alb. He will! he will! Tell. Ferocious monster! Make A father murder his own child! Ges. Take off His chains, if he consents. Tell. With his own hand! Ges. Does he consent? Alb. He does. [Gesler signs to his Officers, who proceed to take off Tell's chains, Tell all the while unconscious of what they do.] You know for what?—I will not make the trial, To take him to his mother in my arms, And lay him down a corse before her! Ges. Then He dies this moment; and you certainly Do murder him, whose life you have a chance To save, and will not use it. Tell. Well-I'll do it! I'll make the trial. Alb. Father! Tell. Speak not to me. Let me not hear thy voice-thou must be dumb; And so should all things be-earth should be dumb And heaven-unless its thunders muttered at The deed, and sent a holt to stop it! Give me Ges. That is your ground.-Now shall they measure thence A hundred paces. Take the distance. Tell. Is The line a true one? Ges. True or not, what is't To thee? Tell. What is't to me? A little thing, Ges. Be thankful, slave, Our grace accords thee life on any terms. Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler!-Villain, stop! You measure to the sun. [To the Attendant.] What matter, whether to or from the sun? Tell. I'd have it at my back.-The sun should shine Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots, I cannot see to shoot against the sun: I will not shoot against the sun! Ges. Give him his way!-Thou hast cause to bless my mercy. Tell. I shall remember it. I'd like to see The apple I'm about to shoot at. Ges. Show me The basket. There! [Gives a very small apple.] Ges. I know I have. Tell. Oh! do you?-But you see The color of 't is dark-I'd have it light, To see it better. Ges. Take it as it is: Thy skill will be the greater if thou hitt'st it. Tell True-true-I didn't think of that. I wonder I did not think of that.-Give me some chance To save my boy! [Throws away the apple.] I will not murder him, If I can help it-for the honor of The form thou wear'st, if all the heart is gone. Ges. Well! choose thyself. [Hands a basket of apples.-Tell takes one.] Tell. Have I a friend among The lookers on? Verner. Here, Tell! Tell. I thank thee, Verner!-Take the boy And set him, Verner, with his back to me.- Set him upon his knees; and place this apple Upon his head, so that the stem may front me— More briefly than I tell it thee. Ver. Come, Albert! [Leading him out.] Alb. May I not speak with him before I go? Alb. I would only kiss his hand Ver. You must not. Alb. I must!-I cannot go from him without! Alb. His will, is it? I am content, then; come. Tell. My boy! [Holding out his arms to him.] Alb. My father! [Running into Tell's arms.] Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I?-Go now, My son-and keep in mind that I can shoot. Go, boy-be thou but steady, I will hit The apple. Go: God bless thee!-Go. My bow! [Sarnem gives the bow.] Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou?-Thou Hast never failed him yet, old servant.-No, I'm sure of thee-I know thy honesty; Thou'rt stanch-stanch;—I'd deserve to find thee treacherous, [Retires.] My all upon thee! Let me see my quiver. Ges. Give him a single arrow. [To an Attendant.] The point, you see, is bent, the feather jagged; Ges. Let him have Another. [Tell examines it.] Tell. Why, 'tis better than the first, But yet not good enough for such an aim I'll not shoot with it! [Throws it away.] Let me see my quiver Bring it! 'tis not one arrow in a dozen I'd take to shoot with at a dove, much less A dove like that!-What is't you fear? I'm but A naked man, a wretched naked man! Your helpless thrall, alone in the midst of you, With every one of you a weapon in His hand. What can I do in such a strait With all the arrows in that quiver?..Come, Will you give it me or not? Ges. It matters not, Show him the quiver. [Tell kneels and picks out an arrow, then secretes one in his vest.] Tell. See if the boy is ready. Ver. He is. Tell. I'm ready too-Keep silence for [To the people.] Heaven's sake! and do not stir, and let me have Your prayers-your prayers:—and be my witnesses, That if his life's in peril from my hand, 'Tis only for the chance of saving it. Now, friends, for mercy's sake, keep motionless And silent! [Tell shoots; and a shout of exultation bursts from the crowd.] Ver. [Rushing in with Albert.] Thy boy is safe; no hair of him Alb. Father, I'm safe!—your Albert's safe! Dear father, Ver. He cannot, boy! Open his vest, And give him air. [Albert opens his father's vest, and an arrow drops; Tell start, fires his eyes on Albert, and clasps him to his breast.] Tell. My boy! my boy! Ges. For what Hid you that arrow in your breast? Speak, slave! Liberty Would at thy downfall shout from every peak! A THANKSGIVING DINNER.-MRS. ANN 8. STEPHENS. Oh, I love an old-fashioned thanksgiving, It is pleasant to draw round the table, Sits down in his old oaken chair. It is pleasant to wait for the blessing, Amid all the varieties of architecture-Grecian, Gothic, Swiss, Chinese, and even Egyptian, to be met with on Long Island, there may yet be found some genuine old farms, with barrs instead of carriage-houses, and cow-sheds in the place of pony stables. To these old houses are still attached generous gardens, hedged in with picket-fences, and teeming with vegetables, and front yards full of old-fashioned shrubbery, with thick grass half a century old mossing them over. These things, primitive, and full of the olden times, are not yet crowded out of sight by sloping lawns, gravel walks and newly acclimated flowers; and if they do not so vividly appeal to the taste, those, who have hearts, sometimes find them softened by the relics of the past, to warmer and sweeter feelings than mere fancy ever aroused. One of these old houses, a low-roofed, unpretending dwelling, exhibiting unmistakable evidence of what had once been white paint on the edges of its clap-boards, and crowned by a huge stone chimney, whose generous throat seemed half choked up with swallows' nests, belonged to a character in our story which the reader cannot have forgotten without breaking the author's heart. It was autumn-but a generous, balmy autumn, that seemed to cajole and flatter the summer into keeping it company close up to Christmas. True, the gorgeous tints of a late Indian summer lay richly among the trees, but some patches of bright green were still left, defying the season, and putting aside, from day to day, the red and golden veil which the frost was constantly endeavoring to cast over them. In front of the old house stood two maples-noble trees, such as have had no time to root themselves around your modern cottages. These maples, symmetrical as a pair of huge pine cones, rose against the house a perfect cloud of gorgeous foliage One was red as blood, and with a dash of the most vivid greeD still keeping its hold down the centre of each leaf-the other golden all over, as if its roots were nourished in the metallic soil of California, and its leaves dusted by the winds that drift up gold in the valley of Sacramento. These superb trees blended and wove their ripe leaves together, now throwing out a wave of red, now a mass of gold, and here a tinge of green in splendid confusion. All around, under these maples, the grass was littered with a fantastic carpet of leaves, showered down from their branches. They hung around the huge old lilac bushes. They fluttered down to the rose thickets, and lay in patches of torn cririson and crumpled gold among the house-leeks and mosses on the roof. In and out, through this shower of ripe leaves fluttered the swallows. In and out along the heavy branches, darted a pair of red squirrels, who owned a nest in one of the oldest and most stately trees. In and out, through the long, low kitchen, the parlor, the pantries, and the milk-room, went and came our old friend, Mrs. Gray, the comely huckster-woman of Fulton market. That house was hers. That great square garden at the back door was hers. How comfortable and harvest-like it lay sloping down toward the south, divided into sections, |