The Ontario Readers: Fourth Book Part 3

"I will take no advantages, Mr. Stewart," replied Robin. "Eat and drink; I'll follow."

Each ate a small portion of the ham and drank a gla.s.s of the brose to Mrs. Maclaren; and then, after a great number of civilities, Robin took the pipes and played a little spring in a very ranting manner.

"Ay, ye can blow," said Alan; and, taking the instrument from his rival, he first played the same spring in a manner identical with Robin's; and then wandered into variations, which, as he went on, he decorated with a perfect flight of grace-notes, such as pipers love, and call the "warblers."

I had been pleased with Robin's playing, Alan's ravished me.

"That's no very bad, Mr. Stewart," said the rival, "but ye show a poor device in your warbler."

"Me!" cried Alan, the blood starting to his face. "I give ye the lie."

"Do ye own yourself beaten at the pipes, then," said Robin, "that ye seek to change them for the sword?"

"And that's very well said, Mr. Macgregor," returned Alan; "and in the meantime" (laying a strong accent on the word) "I take back the lie. I appeal to Duncan."

"Indeed, ye need appeal to naebody," said Robin. "Ye're a far better judge than any Maclaren in Balwhidder: for it's a G.o.d's truth that you're a very creditable piper for a Stewart. Hand me the pipes."

Alan did as he asked; and Robin proceeded to imitate and correct some part of Alan's variations, which it seemed that he remembered perfectly.

"Ay, ye have music," said Alan, gloomily.

"And now be the judge yourself, Mr. Stewart," said Robin; and taking up the variations from the beginning, he worked them throughout to so new a purpose, with such ingenuity and sentiment, and with so odd a fancy and so quick a knack in the grace-notes, that I was amazed to hear him.

As for Alan his face grew dark and hot, and he sat and gnawed his fingers, like a man under some deep affront. "Enough!" he cried. "Ye can blow the pipes--make the most of that." And he made as if to rise.

But Robin only held out his hand as if to ask for silence, and struck into the slow music of a pibroch. It was a fine piece of music in itself, and n.o.bly played; but, it seems besides, it was a piece peculiar to the Appin Stewarts and a chief favourite with Alan. The first notes were scarce out, before there came a change in his face; when the time quickened, he seemed to grow restless in his seat; and long before that piece was at an end, the last signs of his anger died from him, and he had no thought but for the music.

"Robin Oig," he said, when it was done, "ye are a great piper. I am not fit to blow in the same kingdom with ye. Body of me! ye have more music in your sporran than I have in my head! And, though it still sticks in my mind that I could show ye another of it with the cold steel, I warn ye beforehand--it'll no be fair! It would go against my heart to haggle a man that can blow the pipes as you can!"

Thereupon the quarrel was made up. All night long the pipes were changing hands, and the day had come pretty bright before Robin as much as thought upon the road.

Robert Louis Stevenson: "Kidnapped."

BEGA

From the clouded belfry calling Hear my soft ascending swells, Hear my notes like swallows falling: I am Bega, least of bells.

When great Turkeful rolls and rings All the storm-touched turret swings, Echoing battle, loud and long.

When great Tatwin wakening roars To the far-off s.h.i.+ning sh.o.r.es, All the seamen know his song.

I am Bega, least of bells; In my throat my message swells.

I, with all the winds athrill, Murmuring softly, murmuring still, "G.o.d around me, G.o.d above me, G.o.d to guard me, G.o.d to love me."

I am Bega, least of bells; Weaving wonder, wind-born spells.

High above the morning mist, Wreathed in rose and amethyst, Still the dreams of music float Silver from my silver throat, Whispering beauty, whispering peace.

When great Tatwin's golden voice Bids the listening land rejoice, When great Turkeful rings and rolls Thunder down to trembling souls, Then my notes, like curlews flying, Sinking, falling, lifting, sighing, Softly answer, softly cease.

I, with all the airs at play, Murmuring softly, murmuring say, "G.o.d around me, G.o.d above me, G.o.d to guard me, G.o.d to love me."

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall

Love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous: not rendering evil for evil or railing for railing: but contrariwise blessing.

For he that will love life, and see good days, let him refrain his tongue from evil, and his lips that they speak no guile:

Let him eschew evil, and do good; let him seek peace and ensue it.

For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open unto their prayers: but the face of the Lord is against them that do evil.

And who is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?

I. Peter, III.

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

What was he doing, the great G.o.d Pan, Down in the reeds by the river?

Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splas.h.i.+ng and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great G.o.d Pan From the deep, cool bed of the river: The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the sh.o.r.e sat the great G.o.d Pan, While turbidly flow'd the river; And hack'd and hew'd as a great G.o.d can, With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf, indeed, To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great G.o.d Pan, (How tall it stood in the river!) Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notch'd the poor, dry, empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river.

"This is the way," laugh'd the great G.o.d Pan, (Laugh'd while he sat by the river) "The only way, since G.o.ds began To make sweet music, they could succeed."

Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!

Piercing sweet by the river!

Blinding sweet, O great G.o.d Pan!

The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies reviv'd, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river.

Yet, half a beast is the great G.o.d Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true G.o.ds sigh for the cost and pain,-- For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If little labour, little are our gains; Man's fortunes are according to his pains.