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the other thing underneath the horse, and takes another thing and wraps it around the thing I spoke of before, and puts another thing over each horse's head, with broad flappers to it to keep the dust out of his eyes, and puts the iron thing in his mouth for him to grit his teeth on up hill, and brings the ends of these things aft over his back, after buckling another one around under his neck to hold his head up, and hitching another thing on a thing that goes over his shoulders to keep his head up when he is climbing a hill, and then takes the slack of the thing which I mentioned a while ago, and fetches it aft and makes it fast to the thing that pulls the wagon, and hands the other things up to the driver to steer with. I never have buckled up a horse myself, but I do not think we do it that way.
We had four very handsome horses, and the driver was very proud of his turnout. He would bowl along on a reasonable trot on the highway, but when he entered a village he did it on a furious run, and accompanied it with a frenzy of ceaseless whipcrackings, that sounded like volleys of musketry. He tore through the narrow streets and around sharp curves like a moving earthquake, showering his volleys as he went, and before him swept a continuous tidal wave of scampering children, ducks, cats, and mothers clasping babies which they had snatched out of the way of the coming destruction; and as this living wave washed aside along the walls, its elements, being safe, forgot their fears and turned their admiring gaze upon that gallant driver till he thundered around the next curve and was lost to sight.
About noon we made a two-hours' stop at a village hotel. There was a lake here, in the lap of the great mountain. The green slopes that rose toward the lower crags were graced with scattered Swiss cottages nestling among miniature farms and gardens, and from out a leafy ambuscade in the upper heights tumbled a brawling cataract.
Next to me at the table d'hôte sat an English bride, and next to her sat her new husband, whom she called “Neddy,” though he was big enough and stalwart enough to be entitled to his full name. They had a pretty little lovers' quarrel over what wine they should have. Neddy was for obeying the guide-book and taking the wine of the country; but the bride said:
“What, that nahsty stuff !”
Then the question was, what she must have. She said he knew very well that she never drank anything but champagne. She added:
“You know very well papa always has champagne on his table, and I've always been used to it."
Neddy made a playful pretense of being distressed about the expense, and this amused her so much that she nearly exhausted herself with laughter, and this pleased him so much that he repeated his jest a couple of times, and added new and killing varieties to it. When the bride finally recovered, she gave Neddy a love-box on the arm with her fan, and said, with arch severity:
“Well, you would have me-nothing else would do—so you'll have to make the best of a bad bargain. Do order the champagne; I'm oful dry."
So, with a mock groan, which made her laugh again, Neddy ordered the champagne.
The fact that this young woman had never moistened the selvedge edge of her soul with a less plebeian tipple than champagne had a marked and subduing effect upon Harris. He believed she belonged to the royal family. But I had my doubts.
-Mark Twain. LESSON XL.
Mont Blanc Before Sunrise.
(Study for reverential feeling. Do not try to describe these pictures. Simply
express the emotions the poem awakens in you, and your audience will
O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale!
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad !
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
“God!” let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plain echo, “God!” “God!” sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, “God!”
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frosti
Thou, too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
-S. T. Coleridge.