"There was a gentleman here yesterday, " he said, "-a stout gentleman, by the name of Topsawyer, perhaps you know him?""No, " I said, "I don"t think-- "
"In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, grey coat, speckled necktie, " said the waiter.
" No, " I said bashfully, "I haven"t the pleasure--"" He came in here, " said the waiter, looking at the light through the tumbler, "ordered a glass of this ale-would order it-I told him not-drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him! It oughtn"t to be drawn; that"s the fact. "I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and said I thought I had better have some water.
"Why, you see, " said the waiter, still looking at the light through the tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, "our people don"t like things being ordered and left. It offends "em. But I"ll drink it, if you like. I"m used to it; and use is everything. I don"t think it"ll hurt me if I throw my head back and take it off quick. Shall I ? "I replied that he would oblige me by drinking it if he thought he could do it safely. When he did throw his head back and take it off quick, I had a horrible fear, I confess, of seeing him meet the fate of the lamented Mr. Topsawyer, and fall lifeless on the carpet. But it didn"t hurt him. On the contrary, I thought he seemed the fresher for it.
"What have we got here? " he said, putting a fork into my dish, "Not chops? ""Chops, " I said.
"Dear me! " he exclaimed. "I didn"t know they were chops. Why, a chop"s the very thing to take off the bad effects of that beer! Isn"t it lucky? "So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other, and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfaction. He afterwards took another chop and another potato; and, after that, another chop and another potato. When he had done, he brought me a pudding and, having set it before me, seemed to fall into a brown study for some moments.
"How"s the pie ? " he said, rousing himself. "It"s a pudding, " I made answer.
"Pudding! " he exclaimed. "Why, bless me, so it is! What!" looking at it nearer, "you don"t mean to say it is a batter- pudding! ""Yes, it is indeed. "
"Why, a batter-pudding, " he said, taking up a tablespoon,"is my favourite pudding. Isn"t that lucky ? Come on, little "un, and let"s see who"ll get most. "The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me, more than once, to come in and win; but what with his tablespoon to my teaspoon, his dispatch, to my dispatch, and his appetite to my appetite I was left far behind at the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I never saw anyone enjoy a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed when it was all gone, as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.
******
It was a little annoying to me to find, when I was being helped up behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eaten all the dinner without any assistance. I discovered this from overhearing the lady in the bow- window say to the guard, "Take care of that child, George, or he"ll burst! " and from observing that the women servants who were about the place came out to look and giggle at me as a young phenomenon.
-From David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens.
Author.-Charles Dickens (see "Mr. Winkle on Skates").
General Notes.-How old do you think David Copperfield was at this stage of the story ? Several incidents will help you to answer this question. Make a drawing of the coffee-room; perhaps you can put David and the waiter in your drawing.
LESSON 36
THE JOyS OF THE ROAD
Now the joys of the road are chiefly these:
A crimson touch on the hardwood trees;
A vagrant"s morning wide and blue,
In early fall, when the wind walks, too;
A shadowy highway cool and brown, Alluring up and enticing down;From rippled water to dappled swamp, From purple glory to scarlet pomp;The outward eye, the quiet will,
And the striding heart from hill to hill;
The tempter apple over the fence;
The cobweb bloom on the yellow quince;
The palish asters along the wood- A lyric touch of the solitude;An open hand, an easy shoe,
And a hope to make the day go through,
Another to sleep with, and a third, To wake me up at the voice of a bird;The resonant, far-listening morn, And the hoarse whisper of the corn;The crickets mourning their comrades lost,
In the night"s retreat from the gathering frost;(Or is it their slogan, plaintive and shrill, As they beat on their corslets, valiant still?)A hunger fit for the kings of the sea,
And a loaf of bread for Dickon and me;
A thirst like that of the thirsty sword, And a jug of cider on the board;An idle noon, a bubbling spring,
The sea in the pine-tops murmuring;
A scrap of gossip at the ferry;
A comrade neither glum nor merry,
Asking nothing, revealing naught,
But minting his words from a fund of thought; .
And oh! the joy that is never won,
But follows and follows the journeying sun,
By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, And will-o"-the-wind, a light-o"-dream,Delusion afar, delight anear,
From morrow to morrow, from year to year,
A jack-o"-lantern, a fairy fire,
A dare, a bliss, and a desire!
The racy smell of the forest loam,
When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home;
(O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you,
Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!)The broad, gold wake of the afternoon;
The silent fleck of the cold, new moon;
The sound of the hollow sea"s release;
From stormy tumult to starry peace;
With only another league to wend;
And two brown arms at the journey"s end!
These are the joys of the open road- For him who travels without a load.
Bliss Carman.
Author.-Bliss Carman (1861-1929), born in Canada, became an engineer, a teacher, and the literary editor of the New York Independent. His Low Tide on Grand Pre has been followed by many other volumes of verse, including Songs from Vagabondia (with Richard Hovey), Echoes from Vagabondia, and April Airs.
