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BENEATH AN UMBRELLA

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (1804–1864) was one of the greatest literary artists America has produced. For an account of his life see Book IV, page 21. Among his best-known books are "The Marble Faun," "TwiceTold Tales," "The House of the Seven Gables," and "The Scarlet Letter."

When eve has, fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, tightly buttoning my shaggy overcoat, and hoisting my umbrella, the silken dome of which immediately resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible raindrops. Pausing on the lowest doorstep, I contrast the warmth. 10 and cheerfulness of my deserted fireside with the drear obscurity and chill discomfort into which I am about to plunge. Did not my manhood cry shame upon me, I should turn back within doors, resume my elbow chair, my slippers, and my book, pass such an evening of sluggish 15 enjoyment as the day has been, and go to bed inglorious. The same shivering reluctance, no doubt, has quelled, for a moment, the adventurous spirit of many a traveler, when his feet, which were destined to measure the earth around, were leaving their last tracks in the home paths. 20 In my own case, poor human nature may be allowed a few misgivings. I look upward and discern no sky, not even an unfathomable void, but only a black, impenetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all its lights were

blotted from the system of the universe. It is as if nature were dead, and the world had put on black, and the clouds were weeping for her. With their tears upon my cheek, I turn my eyes earthward, but find little consolation here below. A lamp is burning dimly at the dis- 5 tant corner, and throws just enough of light along the street to show, and exaggerate by so faintly showing, the perils and difficulties which beset my path.

Pshaw! I will linger not another instant at arm's length from these dim terrors, which grow more obscurely for- 10 midable the longer I delay to grapple with them. Now for the onset! And lo! with little damage, save a dash of rain in the face and breast, a splash of mud high up on the pantaloons, and the left boot full of ice-cold water, behold me at the corner of the street. The lamp throws 15 down a circle of red light around me; and twinkling onward from corner to corner, I discern other beacons marshaling my way to a brighter scene.

But this is a lonesome and dreary spot. The tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to the storm, with their blinds 20 all closed, even as a man winks when he faces a spattering gust. How loudly tinkles the collected rain down the tin spouts! The puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem to assail me from various quarters at once. I have often observed that this corner is a haunt and loitering place 25 for those winds which have no work to do upon the deep, dashing ships against our iron-bound shores, nor in the

forest, tearing up the sylvan giants with half a rood of soil at their vast roots.

Here they amuse themselves with lesser freaks of mischief. See, at this moment, how they assail yonder poor 5 woman, who is passing just within the verge of the lamplight! One blast struggles for her umbrella, and turns it wrong side outward; another whisks the cape of her cloak across her eyes. Happily, the good dame is no gossamer, but a figure of rotundity and fleshly substance; else would 10 these aërial tormentors whirl her aloft, like a witch upon a broomstick.

From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the center of the town. Here there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some great victory has been won, either 15 on the battlefield or at the polls. Two rows of shops, with windows down nearly to the ground, cast a glow from side to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy, and thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. The wet sidewalks gleam with a broad sheet 20 of red light. The raindrops glitter, as if the sky were pouring down rubies. The spouts gush with fire.

Next I meet an unhappy slipshod gentleman, with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, running a race with boisterous winds, and striving to glide between the 25 drops of rain. Some domestic emergency or other has blown this miserable man from his warm fireside in quest of a doctor! See that little vagabond, how carelessly

he has taken his stand right underneath a spout, while staring at some object of curiosity in a shop window! Surely the rain is his native element; he must have fallen with it from the clouds, as frogs are supposed to do.

Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night. Now 5 I have reached the utmost limits of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly with the darkness, like the farthest star that stands sentinel on the borders of uncreated space.

And now the mail coach, outward bound, rolls heavily 10 off the pavements, and splashes through the mud and water of the road. All night long the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream of their own quiet beds, and awake to find themselves still jolting onward. Hap- 15 pier my lot, who will straightway hie me to my familiar room, and toast myself comfortably before the fire, musing, and fitfully dozing, and fancying a strangeness in such sights as all may see.

Abridged.

rood: a measure of five and a half yards.-gossamer: a fine, filmy substance.-mail coach: in old times the mail was carried by coaches instead of by railway cars.

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THE SHIP-BUILDERS

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-1892), the Quaker poet of New England, was well known for his liberal spirit and for the high moral character of his poems.

The sky is ruddy in the east,
The earth is gray below,
And, spectral in the river mist,

The ship's white timbers show.

Then let the sounds of measured stroke

And grating saw begin;

The broadax to the gnarlèd oak,

The mallet to the pin!

Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast,

The sooty smithy jars,

And fire sparks, rising far and fast,
Are fading with the stars.

All day for us the smith shall stand
Beside that flashing forge;

All day for us his heavy hand
The groaning anvil scourge.

From far-off hills, the panting team
For us is toiling near;

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