NOTE. Many authors. make such an outline before writing any kind of story or article. Whittier did not. He wrote whenever the mood seized him, and seldom changed a line.
She sings by her wheel at that low cottage-door,
Which the long evening shadow is stretching before,
With a music as sweet as the music which seems
Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams!
How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye,
Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky!
And lightly and freely her dark tresses play
O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they!
Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door-
The haughty and rich to the humble and poor?
'Tis the great Southern planter-the master who waves
His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves.
"Nay, Ellen-for shame! Let those Yankee fools spin, Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their
Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel,
Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel!
"But thou art too lovely and precious a gem
To be bound to their burdens and sullied by them--
For shame, Ellen, shame-cast thy bondage aside,
And away to the South, as my blessing and pride.
"O, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong,
But where flowers are blossoming all the year long,
Where the shade of the palm-tree is over my home,
And the lemon and orange are white in their bloom.
"O, come to my home, where my servants shall all
Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call;
They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and awe,
And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law."
O, could you have seen her-that pride of our girls-
Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls,
With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel,
And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel.
"Go back, haughty Southron! thy treasures of gold
Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold;
Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear
The crack of the whip and the footstep of fear.
"And the sky of the South may be brighter than ours,
And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers;
But dearer the blast round our mountains which raves
Than the sweet summer zephyr that breathes over slaves!
"Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel,
With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel;
Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be
In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee!"
I. Read the poem carefully.
II. Make an abstract of the piece, i. e., tell the story in as few words as possible.
III. Make an amplification of the poem. Tell the story, adding any incidents which might have occurred. For example:
Ellen Irwin, the Yankee girl, sat alone at her spinningwheel in the low cottage door. The rest of the family, which included father and mother, her young sister Mary, and Aunt Polly, had not yet returned from the city, where they had gone to do the fall shopping. The long evening shadows stretched across the floor, making all sorts of grotesque figures. The slowly sinking sun played among her dark curls, and gleamed upon the dainty coloring of neck and brow, and even the brilliant blue of her eyes seemed to be reflecting the dancing sunshine, etc.
IV. Write a description of the haughty Southron. Give
him a name. Describe his personal appearance. Tell something of his home and his treatment of slaves.
SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.
Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme-
On Apuleius's Golden Ass,
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of human back,
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Body of turkey, head of owl,
Wings adroop like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, young and old,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase.
Bacchus round some antique vace,
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,
With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns twang,
Over and over the Mænads sang:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Small pity for him! He sailed away
From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay—
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
With his own town's-people on her deck!
"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.
Back he answered, "Sink or swim!
Brag of your catch of fish again!"
And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie forever more.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea—
Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and the sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away?—
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Through the street on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head, and fist, and hat and cane,
And cracked with curses the coarse refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
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