66 To a farmer I know. I am going to show you a lark, Tom," said George, and his eyes beamed benevolence on his comrade. Robinson stopped short. "George," said he, "no! don't let us. I would rather stay at home and read 5 my book." "Why, Tom, am I the man to tempt you to do evil?" asked George, hurt. 66 Why, no! but, for all that, you proposed a lark.” "Ay, but an innocent one, one more likely to lift 10 your heart on high than to give you ill thoughts." 66 Well, this is a riddle!" and Robinson was intensely puzzled. "Carlo!" cried George suddenly, "come here; I will not have you hunting and tormenting those kangaroo 15 rats to-day. Let us all be at peace, if you please. Come, to heel." The friends strode briskly on, and a little after eleven o'clock they came upon a small squatter's house and premises. "Here we are," said George, and his 20 eyes glittered with innocent delight. THE LARK IN THE GOLD-FIELDS. CHARLES READE. PART II. THE house house was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it and on every foot of ground around it. A furze bush had been planted by the door. Vertical oak palings were the fence, with a five-barred 5 gate in the middle of them. From the little plantation all the magnificent trees and shrubs of Australia had been excluded with amazing resolution and consistency, and oak and ash reigned, safe from overtowering rivals. They passed to the back of the house, and there 10 George's countenance fell a little, for on the oval grass-plot and gravel-walk he found from thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them diggers. "Ah, well," said he, on reflection, "we could not expect to have it all to ourselves, and, indeed, it would 15 be a sin to wish it, you know. Now, Tom, come this way: here it is, here it is, there." Tom looked up, 20 and in a gigantic cage was a light-brown bird. He was utterly confounded. came twelve miles to see?" 66 "What! is it this we Ay! and twice twelve would n't have been much to me.' 66 Well, and now where is the lark you talked of?” "This is it." "Well, and is n't a lark a bird?” "Oh! ay, I see! Ha, ha! ha, ha!" Robinson's merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp. "Stop your noise!" cried one; "he is going to sing." And the whole party had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird. Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at noon, when the mistress of the house 10 had warranted him to sing, the little feathered exile began as it were to tune his pipes. The savage men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the bird uttered some very uncertain chirps; but after a while he seemed to revive his 15 memories, and call his ancient cadences back to him one by one. And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more, till at last, 20 amidst the breathless silence and the glistening eyes of the rough diggers hanging on his voice, out burst in that distant land his English song. It swelled his little throat, and gushed from him with thrilling force and plenty; and every time he checked 25 his song to think of its theme, the green meadows, the quiet stealing streams, the clover he first soared from, and the spring he loved so well, a loud sigh from many a rough bosom, many a wild and wicked heart, told how tight the listeners had held their breath to hear him. And when he swelled with song again, and poured with all his soul the green meadows, the quiet brooks, the honey-clover, and the English spring, the 5 rugged mouths opened and so stayed, and the shaggy lips trembled, and more than one tear trickled from fierce, unbridled hearts down bronzed and rugged cheeks. Sweet home! 10 And these shaggy men, full of oaths and strife and cupidity, had once been white-headed boys, and most of them had strolled about the English fields with little sisters and little brothers, and seen the lark rise and heard him sing this very song. The little playmates 15 lay in the churchyard, and they were full of oaths and drink, and passions and remorses, but no note was changed in this immortal song. And so, for a moment or two, years of vice rolled away like a dark cloud from the memory, and the past 20 shone out in the song-shine; they came back bright as the immortal notes that lighted them, those faded pictures and those fleeted days; the cottage, the old mother's tears when he left her without one grain of sorrow; the village church and its simple chimes,— 25 ding-dong-bell, ding-dong-bell, ding-dong-bell; the cloverfield hard by, in which he lay and gambolled while the lark praised God overhead; the chubby playmates that never grew to be wicked; the sweet, sweet hours of youth, innocence, and home. SWEET HOME. JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Home, home, sweet home! There's no place like home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain! There's no place like home! ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. SHAKESPEARE. For a sketch of the life of Shakespeare, see page 117. FRIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears : I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interrèd with their bones: So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus |