The Silent Readers Part 39

Leonardo da Vinci, the great painter, was the son of a lawyer in the beautiful city of Florence. Even as a tiny child he began to show what profession he was likely to follow, for as soon as he could crawl, he would scramble away when his mother was not looking, to a place in the garden where after a shower there was always a pile of mud. He would sit happily on the ground pinching the mud into some sort of shape, and the older he grew the more the shape became like that of some object that he knew. When his mother missed him and came in search of him, the baby would scream in disgust, and the only way to quiet him was to play on the lute, an instrument very much like our mandolin.

Ser Piero, Leonardo's father, was very proud of his astonis.h.i.+ng little son, and resolved that he must have the very best teachers that could be found. So the boy was still very young when his lessons began.

Lessons were no trouble to him, for he quite took away the breath of all his teachers by his amazing quickness, no matter whether the work was arithmetic, or languages, or music. Whatever he heard once he understood and remembered.

Whatever lessons he might be doing, however, Leonardo spent his spare time in drawing and in modelling figures in clay. His father decided that this was the talent which the boy ought specially to make use of.

So he took his son to his friend the sculptor Verocchio. When they reached the studio, Leonardo was given some clay and told to model anything he liked. He sat down on the floor, and soon finished a tiny statuette which was so lifelike that it might have been the work of the sculptor himself. Verocchio was delighted, and declared that he must have this boy as a pupil at once.

As Leonardo grew older, he began to outstrip his master in the art of painting, though not in that of sculpture. At one time, it is said, Verocchio was working on a picture of the baptism of Jesus by John, in which an angel was represented as standing at one side. He entrusted the painting of this angel to his pupil. When the master came to look at the finished figure, he stood gazing in astonished silence. He was too true an artist not to feel that he and Leonardo had changed places, and that the boy's painting of the angel was worth all the rest of the picture. The story goes that Verocchio was so impressed by the feeling that he could only do badly what Leonardo could do perfectly that he never painted again.

One of the most interesting tales of the artist's boyhood tells of his painting of a s.h.i.+eld. His father, Ser Piero, had gone to his country house outside of Florence. One evening a farmer of the neighborhood was brought to him as he sat in the garden, asking that he might speak with Ser Piero. He knew the farmer well, for they had often gone fis.h.i.+ng together. "Well, what now, Francisco?" he asked, as the farmer came up bowing and bearing in his hands a wooden s.h.i.+eld. Francisco explained that he had cut down a fig tree near his house, as it was too old to bear fruit, and that he had cut out of its wood the s.h.i.+eld he was carrying. He had brought it to Ser Piero, hoping that the master would have the goodness to get it painted with some design, for he wished to hang it up in his kitchen as a remembrance of the old tree.

So when Ser Piero next went to Florence he took the s.h.i.+eld to his son, not telling him to whom it belonged, but merely asking him to paint something on it. Leonardo, examining the piece of wood, found that it was rough and ill made, and that it would need much finis.h.i.+ng before it would be possible to paint on it. So he held it before the fire till the fibres were softened and the crookedness straightened out, and then he planed and polished it. When it was all ready, he began to think about what the picture on it should be. A look of mischief came into his eyes.

"I know!" he said to himself. "A s.h.i.+eld ought to have on it some frightful thing, so that the very sight of it may make the enemies of its wearer tremble. The person who sees this s.h.i.+eld shall be as frightened as if he beheld the head of Medusa; only instead of being turned to stone, he will most likely run away." You see, he did not know that the s.h.i.+eld was to adorn the home of a simple farmer.

Smiling to himself, Leonardo went out into the fields and hunted about until he had collected a large number of strange creatures, hedgehogs, lizards, locusts, snakes, and many others. These he carried home and locked up in the room he used for a workshop, where no one was allowed to enter but himself. Using the ugly things as models, he began to paint on the s.h.i.+eld a monster formed out of all the creatures, with eyes and legs everywhere. It was a long time before he succeeded in making anything frightful enough to suit him. Again and again he erased his work and did it over, trying to combine his creatures differently. But at last something so terrible stared him in the face that he almost felt frightened himself.

"The monster is ready," he said with a laugh; "but I must find a background fitting for him."

So he painted as a background a black and narrow cavern, at whose mouth stood the shapeless creature he had made, all eyes, all legs, all savage jaws. Flames poured from it on every side, and a cloud of vapor rose upwards from its many nostrils. After days of hard work, Leonardo at last went to his father and told him he had finished the s.h.i.+eld, which he hoped would please its owner. Ser Piero came at once, and was led into the partly darkened studio, where in just the right light the s.h.i.+eld stood on an easel. But no sooner was the father within the room than he turned to fly, so terrible was the object that met his gaze.

"It will do, I see," said Leonardo. "I wanted to make something so dreadful that everyone would s.h.i.+ver with fear at the sight of it. Take it away with you now; but I had better wrap it up, or you will frighten people out of their wits as you go along."

Ser Piero took the s.h.i.+eld and went away without telling his son anything about old Francisco. But he was quite sure that the farmer would not like the picture, and that it was not at all suitable to hang in a farmhouse kitchen; and more than that, he felt it was far too wonderful a painting to fall into the hands of a peasant and never be famous. So in order to save the old man's feelings, he went to a shop and bought a s.h.i.+eld of the same size as the first one, which had on it a device of a heart pierced by an arrow; and the next time he went to the country he sent for Francisco to come and get it.

"Oh, your Excellency, how beautiful!" cried the old man in delight, as he received his s.h.i.+eld after his long waiting.

"I thought you would be pleased," answered Ser Piero, thinking to himself how frightened rather than pleased the farmer would have been with Leonardo's monster.

--_Adapted from "The Strange Story Book", by Andrew Lang._

QUESTIONS

This selection consists of three parts. Where does each part end?

Write an appropriate t.i.tle for each part.

CIVIL DEATH

All should begin reading at the same moment. Can you after one minute give a good account of the meaning of _civil death_?

According to law a person may be alive and enjoying good health and still under certain conditions be dead to all his civil rights. In some states, as New York, this is true of one sentenced to the state prison for life; all his civil rights are taken from him and to the world he is as dead. In all states, absence for a specified time without any knowledge of the whereabouts of the individual renders him legally dead to his civil rights; this period is in most states seven years. Supposing A, living in Wisconsin, should leave his home and family and go to Alaska. If at the end of seven years no word had been received from him, the law a.s.sumes him to be dead; his estate can be settled by probate, provided the family consents, and his wife may legally marry again. Should he afterwards return he could not compel the court to restore his estate or family; these are legally forfeited, beyond all redress.

--_From "The World Book".

Courtesy of W. F. Quarrie & Co._

OTELNE, THE INDIAN OF THE GREAT NORTH WOODS

In the "movies" you have surely seen pictures of the Far North--Alaska or northern Canada, or even the northern United States--with the brave, rough men who live about mining or lumber camps or trading posts. In many of the pictures, you remember, there have been Indians. Here is an account of the life of those Indians when they are away from the trading posts.

At the end of this story you will find an outline partly made out.

After you have read the story through, compare it with the outline, and fill in the topics left blank under _a_, _b_, _c_, etc. You may add more sub-topics if you think you need them.

When white men first came to America, they thought it was a country called India of which they had often heard. So they called the people they found here Indians. They also called them red men, because they were about the color of a copper cent that has been carried a while.

These red men did not have many tools and other things to make it easy to work and to live. They had no horses, cows, pigs, sheep or chickens, so they had to catch wild animals for food. They had no guns nor rifles, but made spears and bows and arrows with which to kill their game. They had no iron. Their arrow points and spear heads were of sharpened stone, as was a heavy tool they made something like our hatchet. It was a very dull, poor hatchet. They had no cloth to make clothes. Instead, they used the skins of wild animals they caught or shot with their bows and arrows. Instead of houses they had tents or wigwams made of skins. The Indians thought the white men's things were wonderful, and they were much pleased to trade furs and game for blankets, guns, powder, and bullets. The Indians like bright, pretty things, so they were very fond of trading for beads to make necklaces and ornaments for their suits.

After a long time, the white men took most of the Indians' country, but there is still a large part of North America where there are more Indians than white men. This is far to the north in Canada, in a wide strip between the towns and farms of the white men and the cold, snow land of the Eskimos. The soldiers who have been to the Great War tell us much about England, France, and Germany; but the country where the Indians still have their hunting grounds is larger than all of these countries put together. The region is covered with evergreen forests, a great silent land of deep snow and trees and cold. It is too cold and rocky for the white man to make farms, so he has not cut down the trees. There are no cities nor houses, nothing but forests where the Indian hunts game and lives in his tent as he has always lived.

To trade with these Indians, the white men have built stores in the edge of the Indian country. They are called Posts--Trading Posts. When the warm days of June come and the ice is all melted, the keeper of a Post begins to look up the river watching for canoes to come around the bend. At last he sees one. In front sits an Indian woman paddling, and in the stern of the canoe sits Otelne, her husband, paddling and also steering. They are coming to the post to trade. In the middle of the boat are a boy, a girl, a brand new baby, and a dog. The boy's name is Akusk (arrow); the girl's name is Wabogum (flower). The baby's name is Wabs.h.i.+sh (little white hare). He is tied to a board to keep him safe and warm. The canoe contains one more thing, very precious, a big bundle of fur skins. This is the wages of a whole year, the result of a hard winter's work in the forest.

The keeper of the Post shakes hands with Otelne. Otelne opens the bale of furs, and the first afternoon he and his wife trade a few muskrat skins for some flour, beans, bacon and canned peaches. Then the Indians camp and have a feast. Other canoes come down the river bringing other families until the post becomes a great picnic ground. They talk over the happenings of the winter, of getting lost in storms, of upsetting their canoes, of falling through the ice, of the bears they have caught, and the wolves that have chased them. They wonder what has happened to the Indians who do not come back. They have canoe races and the different families, or tribes, play match games of la crosse. This game, which the white men learned from the Indians, is now the national game of Canada, as baseball is of the United States.

In August the trading is over, and the Indians start back to the hunting grounds for another year's work. The canoe is loaded full. Instead of the bale of furs, Otelne has in his canoe a new tent, a sheet-iron stove, some stove pipe, twenty-five steel traps, a rifle, one thousand cartridges, fish hooks and fis.h.i.+ng line, a wood saw, knives, axes, buckets, blankets, and a lot of white men's clothes. He did not buy any shoes because he would rather have the moccasins he makes himself.

It is hard work to paddle the heavy load up the river against the swift current. Presently they hear the roaring noise of a waterfall where the stream jumps down over some rocks. The canoe cannot pa.s.s this, so they all get out and carry the canoe and all its load, bit by bit, along a little path that leads to the quiet water above the falls. Here they load the canoe again and paddle on, but they soon come to another carrying place, or portage as it is called, and have to unload again. They are not afraid to leave their belongings while they go back to the foot of the falls, for no Indian would think of stealing anything he found in this way.

You can see why the Indians do not use white men's boats, for no white man's boat is as light as the birch bark canoe. You can also see why they do not take much food from the post. They cannot carry it and all they need for camping and hunting too. They must have the tent and traps, so they take only food enough to last until they get far enough from the post to find game.

After a few days' journey they leave the main stream and go up one of its branches. Here they come to a place where the stream widens into a lake. The water is very still, and as the fis.h.i.+ng is good, the Indians camp here for a week and rest. There are so many wolves and wild cats in the woods that Otelne puts up the tent on a little island out in the middle of the lake.

For many days they go on upstream. Over and over again they have to carry their goods around rapids. The dark branches of spruce, hemlock, and fir trees often hang over the stream.

Trout, pickerel, and other fish dart in behind the rocks around which the currents flow. Sometimes a muskrat, a beaver, or an otter swims quickly into his hole in the bank. But sometimes the rifle is too quick for him and the Indians have fresh meat for supper. Each day they pa.s.s the mouths of little streams and the main stream gets smaller and smaller, till at last it is hardly more than a brook.

They are busy nearly all the time carrying their supplies around rapids.

At last they can go no farther in the canoe because the stream has grown too small and rocky. To go still farther in their direction, the Indians must find a stream which flows the opposite way. To find this stream they must cross a hill, because, you see, the water will run down the hill on the other side, gathering more and more water, and getting larger as it goes. This water parting is called a divide, or watershed.

There is such a divide at the top of every mountain range. For instance, all the rivers flowing east of the Alleghany Mountains run east to the Atlantic Ocean; all those flowing west run finally into the Mississippi River. So the Alleghany Mountains are a divide.

Otelne knows of one place where the streams bend in such a way that he can, in an hour, carry his canoe from canoe-water on one stream to canoe-water on the stream over the hill. The Indians know where these good portages are just as country boys know where they can catch rabbits, or as city boys know where they can find a place to play. For many days, Otelne steers his canoe down stream, camping on the bank each night.

In late October the first snow falls. They camp beside the lonely river, and the fur hunting begins in earnest. Otelne fixes a round of traps. He starts away from his tent and makes a large circle in the forest, fixing a round of traps as he goes. When he cannot see the sun, he keeps his direction through the forest by noticing the moss which grows only on the shady side of a tree trunk. He can keep his direction at night, too, if he can see the stars, for long before white men came, Indians had noticed that one star always seemed to be in the same place. They call it the "Great Star". We call it the "North Star". The pointers in the Great Dipper show us where it is.

Otelne watches them every clear night.

Twenty miles he travels, setting his traps wherever he sees in the snow the tracks of the animals he wants. He drags sweet-smelling meat along the snow, hoping that animals crossing this trail will follow it to the traps. After a day or two, he goes around again, putting fresh bait on his traps and taking out the animals he has caught.

After several rounds, he finds that game is getting scarce here, so he and his wife put the tent and all their things on two toboggans (sleds), tuck the baby down in the blankets, and trudge all day through the forest. When night comes they put up the tent on the snow, cut evergreen boughs to make a thick carpet, and build a fire in the sheet-iron stove. All winter long they move every two or three weeks, finding a new camp whenever a new hunting-ground is necessary.

[Ill.u.s.tration: OTELNE WALKS ON SNOW SHOES.]

Can you see Otelne as he visits his traps? He walks on snow shoes to keep from sinking into the snow which is now three feet deep. His big dog pulls a toboggan on which is an axe, a package of raw smoked meat in a little box of birch bark, and a roll of blankets. Akusk, the twelve-year-old boy, goes with his father, from whom he learns all the Indian arts and the ways of the animals in the forest. It is all the schooling he ever gets. How would you like to get your schooling that way?

The first trap is empty and the bait gone, so Otelne puts fresh bait in it. The second trap holds a fine mink, dead and frozen stiff. His skin is worth ten dollars. The fifth trap has in it the foot of a muskrat and some sc.r.a.ps of fur lying around. Some hungry animal has raided the trap, and the big dog, Wagush, smells the trail, whines, and jumps about so that he upsets the sled. Otelne turns him loose, and away he goes yelping through the forest, until at last his regular baying tells Otelne that he has treed the animal. It is a lynx. The rifle brings him down and he is placed on the sled along with the mink.