The New McGuffey Fourth Reader by W. H. McGuffey (ink ebook reader .txt) 📕

younger lads seemed to grow into the strength of giants when they saw through the clear water a great moving mass like quicksilver. And then the wild excitement of hauling in; the difficulty of it; the danger of the fish escaping; the warning cries of Rob; the possibility of swamping the boat, as all the four were straining their utmost at one side!

When that heaving, sparkling mass of quicksilver at last was captured, the young lads sat down quite exhausted, wet through, but happy.

“Man! Rob, what do you think of that?” said Neil, in amazement.

“What do I think?” said Rob. “I think, that, if we could get two or three more hauls like that, I would soon buy a share in Coll MacDougall’s boat, and go after the herring.”

V.

They had no more thought that afternoon of “cuddy” fishing after this famous “take,” but rowed back to Erisaig; then Rob left the boat at the slip, and walked up to the office of the fish salesman.

“What will you give me for mackerel?” he said. The salesman laughed at him, thinking he had caught a few with rods and flies.

“I’m not buying mackerel,” said he; “not by the half-dozen.”

“I have half a boat load,” said Rob.

The salesman glanced toward the slip, and saw the tailor’s boat pretty low in the water.

“I’ll go down to the slip with you.”

So he and Rob together walked down to the slip, and the salesman had a look at the mackeral.

“Well, I will buy the mackerel from you,” he said. “I will give you half a crown the hundred for them.”

“Half a crown!” said Rob. “I will take three and sixpence the hundred for them.”

“I will not give it to you. But I will give you three shillings the hundred, and a good price too.”—“Very well, then,” said Rob.

So the MacNicols got altogether two pounds and eight shillings for that load of mackerel; and out of that Rob spent the eight shillings on still further improving the net, the two pounds going into the savings hank.

VI.

As time went on, by dint of hard and constant work, the sum in the savings bank slowly increased; and at last Rob announced to his companions that they had saved enough to enable him to purchase a share in Coll MacDougall’s boat.

These MacNicol boys had grown to be very much respected in Erisaig; and one day, as Rob was going along the main street, the banker called him into his office. “Rob,” said he, “have you seen the yacht at the building yard?”

“Yes,” said Rob, rather wistfully, for many a time he had stood and looked at the beautiful lines of the new craft; “she’s a splendid boat.”

“Well, you see, Rob,” continued Mr. Bailie, regarding him with a good-natured look, “I had the boat built as a kind of speculation. Now, I have been hearing a good deal about you, Rob, from the neighbors. They say that you and your brothers and cousin are good, careful seamen. Now, do you think you could manage that new boat?”

Rob was quite bewildered. All he could say was, “I am obliged to you, sir. Will you wait for a minute till I see Neil?” And very soon the wild rumor ran through Erisaig, that Rob MacNicol had been appointed master of the new yacht the Mary of Argyle and that he had taken his brothers and cousin as a crew.

Rob sold out his share in MacDougall’s boat, and bought jerseys and black boots and yellow oilskins for his companions; so that the new crew, if they were rather slightly built, looked spruce enough as they went down to the slip to overhaul the Mary of Argyle.

VII.

Then came the afternoon on which they were to set out for the first time after the herring. All Erisaig came out to see; and Rob was a proud lad as he stepped on board, and took his seat as stroke oar.

It was not until they were at the mouth of the harbor that something occurred which seemed likely to turn this fine setting out into ridicule. This was Daft Sandy (a half-witted old man to whom Robert MacNicol had been kind), who rowed his boat right across the course of the Mary of Argyle, and, as she came up, called to Rob.

“What do you want?” cried Rob.

“I want to come on board, Rob,” the old man said, as he now rowed his boat up to the stern of the yacht. “Rob,” said he, in a whisper, as he fastened the painter of his boat, “I promised I would tell you something. I’ll show you how to find the herring.”

“You!” said Rob.

“Yes, Rob,” said Daft Sandy; “I’ll make a rich man of you. I will tell you something about the herring that no one in Erisaig knows,—that no one in all Scotland knows.”

Then he begged Rob to take him for that night’s fishing. He had discovered a sure sign of the presence of herring, unknown to any of the fishermen: it was the appearance, on the surface of the water, of small air-bubbles.

Rob MacNicol was doubtful, for he had never heard of this thing before; but at last he could not resist the pleading of the old man. So they pulled in, and anchored the boats until toward sunset. Then, taking poor Sandy on board of the Mary of Argyle, they set forth again, rowing slowly as the light faded out of the sky, and keeping watch all around on the almost glassy sea.

VIII.

The night was coming on, and they were far away from home; but old Sandy kept up his watch, studying the water as though he expected to find pearls floating in it. At last, in great excitement, he grasped Rob’s arm. Leaning over the side of the boat, they could just make out in the dusk a great quantity of air-bubbles rising to the surface.

“Put some stones along with the sinkers, Rob,” the old man said, in a whisper, as though he were afraid of the herring hearing. “Go deep, deep, deep!”

To let out a long drift-net, which sometimes goes as deep as fifteen fathoms, is an easy affair: but to haul it in again is a hard task; and when it happens to be laden, and heavily laden, with silver gleaming fish, that is a breakback business for four young lads.

But if you are hauling in yard after yard of a dripping net, only to find the brown meshes starred at every point with the shining silver of the herring, then even young lads can work like men. Sandy was laughing all the while.

“Rob, my man, what think you of the air-bubbles now? Maybe Daft Sandy is not so daft after all. And do you think I would go and tell any one but yourself, Rob?”

Rob could not speak; he was breathless. Nor was their work nearly done when they had got in the net, with all its splendid silver treasure. For as there was not a breath of wind, they had to set to work to pull the heavy boat back to Erisaig. The gray dawn gave way to a glowing sunrise; and when they at length reached the quay, tired out with work and want of sleep, the people were all about.

Mr. Bailie came along and shook hands with Rob, and congratulated him; for it turned out that, while not another Erisaig boat had that night got more than from two to three crans, the Mary Of Argyle had ten crans—as good herring as ever were got out of Loch Scrone.

Well, the MacNicol lads were now in a fair way of earning an independent and honorable living. And the last that the present writer heard of them was this: that they had bought outright the Mary of Argyle and her nets, from the banker; and that they were building for themselves a small stone cottage on the slope of the hill above Erisaig; and that Daft Sandy was to become a sort of major-domo,—cook, gardener, and mender of nets.

 

DEFINITIONS:—Details, particulars. Lythe, saithe, cuddies, kinds of fish. Thole pins, pins to keep the oars in place. Trawl, to fish with a net. Vertical, upright. Dint, means. Interest, attention. Prevailed, existed. Seething, a stir, a boiling. Told, had a great effect. Thwarts, benches. Crans, barrels. Daft, weak-minded. Major-domo, steward.

 

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

BY ELLEN H. FLAGG.

Two soldiers, lying where they fell Upon the reddened clay,— In daytime foes; at night, in peace, Breathing their lives away. Brave hearts had stirred each manly breast; Fate only made them foes; And lying, dying, side by side, A softened feeling rose.

“Our time is short,” one faint voice said: “To-day we’ve done our best On different sides. What matters now? To-morrow we’re at rest. Life lies behind. I might not care For only my own sake; But far away are other hearts That this day’s work will break.

“Among New Hampshire’s snowy hills There pray for me to-night A woman, and a little girl With hair like golden light.” And at the thought broke forth, at last, The cry of anguish wild, That would no longer be repressed,— “O God! my wife and child!”

“And,” said the other dying man, “Across the Georgia plain There watch and wait for me loved ones I’ll never see again. A little girl with dark bright eyes Each day waits at the door; The father’s step, the father’s kiss, Will never meet her more.

“To-day we sought each other’s lives; Death levels all that now, For soon before God’s mercy seat Together shall we bow. Forgive each other while we may; Life’s but a weary game, And, right or wrong, the morning sun Will find us dead the same.” And the little girl with golden hair, And one with dark eyes bright, On Hampshire’s hills and Georgia’s plain, Were fatherless that night.

 

DEFINITIONS:—Anguish, great sorrow or distress. Sought, looked for, tried to destroy. Levels, makes all equal or of the same height. Repressed, held back, restrained. Foes, enemies. Fatherless, without a living father.

EXERCISE.—In what war did the incident here narrated occur? Where is New Hampshire? Where is Georgia? Where did this battle probably take place? What is meant by “hair like golden light”?

 

THE CAPTAIN’S FEATHER.

BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

The dew is on the heather, The moon is in the sky, And the captain’s waving feather Proclaims the hour is nigh When some upon their horses Shall through the battle ride, And some with bleeding corses Must on the heather bide.

The dust is on the heather, The moon is in the sky, And about the captain’s feather The bolts of battle fly. But hark! What sudden wonder Breaks forth upon the gloom? It is the cannon’s thunder,— It is the voice of doom.

The blood is on the heather, The night is in the sky, And the gallant captain’s feather Shall wave no more on high. The grave and holy brother To God is saying mass; But who shall tell his mother, And who shall tell his lass?

 

THE RIDE TO LONDON.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

I.

When the coach came round with “London” blazoned in letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that he was half disposed to run away. But he didn’t do it; for he took his seat upon the box instead, and looking down upon the four grays felt as if he were another gray himself, or at all events, a part of the turn-out; and was quite confused by the novelty and splendor of his situation.

And really it might have confused a less modest man than Tom to find himself sitting next to that coachman; for of all the swells