4. 5. A ship lost at sea for many days suddenly sighted a friendly vessel. From the mast of the unfortunate vessel was seen a signal: "Water, water; we die of thirst!" The answer from the friendly vessel at once came back: "Cast down your bucket where you are." A second time the signal, "Water, water; send us water!" ran up from the distressed vessel, and was answered: "Cast down your bucket where you are." And a third and fourth signal for water was answered: "Cast down your bucket where you are." The captain of the distressed vessel, at last heeding the injunction, cast down his bucket, and it came up full of fresh, sparkling water from the mouth of the Amazon River. To those of my race who depend on bettering their condition in a foreign land, or who underestimate the importance of cultivating friendly relations with the Southern white man, who is their next-door neighbor, I would say: "Cast down your bucket where you are - cast it down in making friends in every manly way of the people of all races by whom we are surrounded. Booker T. Washington: Up From Slavery.1 It is done! Clang of bell and roar of gun Ring, O bells! Every stroke exulting tells Of the burial hour of crime. Loud and long, that all may hear, Ring for every listening ear Of Eternity and Time! How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, 1 Used with the kind permission of the publishers, Doubleday, Page and Company. 6. Macbeth. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They come!" Our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn; here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up. Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. (A cry of women within.) Seyton. It is the cry of women, my good lord. (Exit.) The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair 7. Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in 't. I have supp'd full with horrors; Cannot once start me. Re-enter Seyton Wherefore was that cry? Seyton. The queen, my lord, is dead. Macbeth. She should have died hereafter; Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Shakespeare: Macbeth, v, v. The spacious firmament on high, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied Sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display; And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all 8. Wolsey. At Addison: Hymn. Enter Cromwell, amazedly Why, how now, Cromwell! What! amaz'd Cromwell. I have no power to speak, sir. Wolsey. my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep, I am fallen indeed. Cromwell. Wolsey. How does your Grace? Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. A peace above all earthly dignities, Why, well; A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me, A load would sink a navy, too much honour. Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven! Cromwell. I am glad your Grace has made that right use I hope I have: I am able now, methinks, To endure more miseries, and greater far Go, get thee from me, Cromwell; I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seek the king; What and how true thou art; he will advance thee; I know his noble nature- - not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, Cromwell. Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, Wolsey. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Love thyself last cherish those hearts that hate thee; Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell! Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; And, prithee, lead me in: There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; 't is the king's: my robe, |