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heavily behind his charges with a slow and slouching gait, partially supporting himself on his long crooked stick, and carrying under his left arm a lamb which bleated in the purposeless way characteristic of these creatures. Yet the shepherd's gaze was everywhere, and he, like his zealous lieutenant, the dog, could distinguish each of these numerous and apparently featureless creatures from the other, and every now and then a slight motion of his crook, or some inarticulate sound, conveyed a whole code of instructions to the eager watchful dog, who straightway acted upon them. All this the young man motionless on the turf watched with interest as if a flock of sheep were something uncommon or worthy of contemplation; and when they had all gone by, and the shepherd himself passed in review, his yellow sunbleached beard shaken by the keen wind he was facing, he transferred his attention to him.

"Blusterous," said the shepherd, making his crook approach his battered felt hat, when he came up with him.

"Very blusterous," answered the gentleman, nodding in a friendly manner, and going on his way. This was their whole conversation, and yet the shepherd pondered upon it for miles, and recounted it to his wife as one of the day's chief incidents.

"And I zez to 'n' Blusterous,' -I zez; and he zez to me, 'Terble blusterous,' he zez. Ay, that's what 'ee zed, zure enough," he repeated with infinitesimal variations, while smoking his after-supper pipe in his chimney-corner.

Thus, you see, human intercourse may be carried on in these parts of the earth with a moderate expenditure of words. - EDNA LYALL.

2. It was startlingly dark under the trees, and the alarmed shadows appeared to be hovering there as if to discuss the next move, and to find shelter meanwhile. A bat went by

me suddenly, and at that I stood still. I had not thought of bats, and of all creatures they seem most frightful and unearthly, like the flutter. of a ghost's mantle, or even the wave and touch of its hand. A bat by daylight is a harmless, crumpled bit of stupidity, but by night it becomes a creature of mystery and horror, an attendant of the powers of darkness. The white light in the sky grew whiter still, and under the thin foliage of a great willow it seemed less solemn. A bright little moon looked down through the slender twigs and fine leaves-it might have been a new moon watching me through an olive-tree; but I caught the fragrance of the flowers, and hurried toward them. I went back and forth along the garden walk, and I can never tell any one how beautiful it was. The roses were all in bloom, and presently I could detect the different colors. They were wet with dew, and hung heavy with their weight of perfume; they appeared to be sound asleep yet, and turned their faces. away after I touched them.

—SARAH ORNE JEWETT: The Confession of a Housebreaker.

Effect of Narration.

73. Narration is, as a general thing, more interesting than description; indeed, it surpasses, in power to arouse and hold the interest, all of the other forms of discourse. The other forms may be interesting in small quantities, or at certain seasons, or to particular persons; but good narrative rarely palls. A large amount of it may be read consecutively, not only without weariness but with increasing exhilaration. It is so fascinating, indeed, that the appetite for it, like the appetite for strong drink, growing by what it feeds on, needs sometimes to be held in check. Sir Philip Sidney recognizes this attractive power of narrative when in his Defence

of Poetry he tells how the poet "cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth children from play and old men from the chimney corner." One may sometimes see little children, in the sulks, and stubbornly unwilling to be brought out of them, stuff their fingers in their ears when a story is begun, knowing well that if they hear the opening words of it they cannot hold out against its charm.

This magnetic and compelling power of narrative is due to two principal causes, both growing out of the fact that narrative is the representation of action. In the first place, action of almost any kind appeals strongly to our curiosity. When we are watching an action taking place before us, we are always curious to know what is to happen next. "We love," says Dr. Johnson, "to expect, and when expectation is disappointed or gratified, we want to be again expecting." In narrative, since the action is continually going on, there is, until the end is reached, always something to expect. The second cause of interest is found in the persons who appear in the action of the narrative. By acting these persons reveal their characters to us. As they pass before us, we see into their minds and read their thoughts and motives. This discovery of traits of

character is a never failing source of pleasure. It is like making new and interesting acquaintances at each turn of the leaf.

These two sources of interest, action and character, are used by all writers of narrative, some depending almost wholly upon the former, some almost wholly upon the latter, for their success. The best writers, however, combine the two, revealing to us in the actions of their personages

striking traits of character, but enhancing our interest in the personages by making the characteristics appear as the result of amusing or serious or terrible situations in which the actors are involved.

74. Assignments in the Effect of Narration.

A. Recall a story in which the interest arises mainly from the action. Recall another in which the chief interest is in the characters.

B. How is expectation aroused in the following narrative? How is it gratified? Is the interest greater in the action or in the revelation of character?

On the afternoon of the 14th of June, 1727, two horsemen might have been perceived galloping along the road from Chelsea to Richmond. The foremost, cased in the jack-boots of the period, was a broad-faced, jolly-looking, and very corpulent cavalier; but by the manner in which he urged his horse, you might see that he was a bold as well as a skilful rider. Indeed, no man loved sport better; and in the hunting fields of Norfolk no squire rode more boldly after the fox, or cheered Ringwood or Sweettips more lustily than he who now thundered over the Richmond road.

He speedily reached Richmond Lodge, and asked to see the owner of the mansion. The mistress of the house and her ladies, to whom our friend was admitted, said he could not be introduced to the master, however pressing the business might be. The master was asleep after his dinner; he always slept after his dinner: and woe be to the person who interrupted him! Nevertheless, our stout friend of the jack-boots put the affrighted ladies aside, opened the forbidden door of the bedroom, wherein upon the bed lay a little

gentleman; and here the eager messenger knelt down in his jack-boots.

He on the bed started up; and with many oaths and a strong German accent asked who was there, and who dared to disturb him?

"I am Sir Robert Walpole," said the messenger. The awakened sleeper hated Sir Robert Walpole. "I have the honor to announce to your Majesty that your royal father, King George I., died at Osnaburg on Saturday last, the 10th instant."

"Dat is one big lie!" roared out his sacred Majesty King George II. But Sir Robert Walpole stated the fact, and from that day until three-and-thirty years after, George, the second of the name, ruled over England.

-THACKERAY: The Four Georges.

Simple Incident.

75. The narrative may be very simple or it may be decidedly complex. The simplest kind of action will suffice for a highly interesting narrative if the writer only knows how to use it. A skilful teller of stories will content himself with those familiar, homely incidents which the Vicar of Wakefield called "migrations from the blue bed to the brown"; and yet, by giving life and movement to his narrative, he will hold the interest of his readers from the beginning to the end. In the Confession of a Housebreaker, for example, Miss Sarah Orne Jewett makes a pleasing story out of the simple fact that once on a summer morning she got up at three o'clock, walked about the garden, and went to bed again. Lowell, in the passage quoted on page 51, has constructed a narrative out of the doings of a pair of

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