Michael Goes Climbing

Two women stood talking in the sunlit streets of old flushing* three hundred

years ago.

They were talking, as their descendents

do today, of their children, of their husbands’

wages, of the price of food. Suddenly one of

them broke off and, pointing to a little boy

cried, “Ah, there goes that Michael! I can

hardly keep my hands off that little rascal!”.

“Why?” asked the other turning to look

at a lively little boy who walked past with

his hands in his pockets.

“I never saw such a spoiled, proud and

useless rascal of a boy in my life! Cried the

first. “He is never happy unless he’s making

mischief or doing something to call attention

to himself. He must always be the first. He’ll

come to a bad end, and I hope I shall live to

see it.”

The other woman thought for a while. She said, “Ah well, daring some-

times turns to courage.

He’s a bold little rascal; he’ll never make a poor, respectable citizen like

his father; he’ll go far but whether on the right road or the wrong one, who can

tell yet?”

Meanwhile the boy had passed on into the market place. He was idling

about in the sunshine on the look out for mischief. All at once he saw it calling to

him. Workmen had been salting* the church spire, and their ladders starched

invitingly from earth to steeple.

II

All children like climbing up into high places to see if the world looks any

different from an apple tree or a housetop; over and above this love of climbing

Michael had, as the woman said, an argue to think that had never been done

before. As he gazed at the spire, an idea leaped into his mind – he would the first

person in Flushing to stand on the golden ball beneath the weather-vane.

He turned his eyes around. No one was looking Michael began to climb up

the ladders. At the top of the tower there rose a slated spire, crowned by a

golden ball and weather vane. Michael at the last found himself sitting on the top

of the ball, holding on by the van. He was hot, out of breath and not a little giddy.

Presently he heard workmen moving below. He did not bend over to look,

or speak. He was not going to be pulled before Flushing had been seen him. He

died away, and Michael sat resting.

At last he felt ready to give the town a surprise. He pulled himself to his

feet, and, keeping firm hold of the weather vane, managed to stand on the top of

the ball. It was well that he had a cool head and iron nerves.

Someone must have looked at the vane by chance and seen his little figure

outlined against the blue sky and cried out .In a minute or two Michael was

delighted to see the market place full of people who had rushed out of their

shops and houses to gaze at the giddy sight. It was wonderful have all those eyes

and hearts fixed upon oneself !

III

But Michael did not intend to stay there until he was taken down, to be

handed over his father and punished before the crowd. After a little he prepared

to descend of his own free will.

He learned over the ball. The ladder had gone. The workmen had taken it

away!

A sudden feeling of sickness and giddiness came over Michael. He mas-

tered it. No doubt the people saw what had happened and would send for the

ladders.

But to wait for rescue was a poor sort of end to his mischievous adventure.

He would come down alone, even if it coast cost him his life.

The spire at the base of the ball was only half slated. And Michael saw

some hope of gaining a foothold on the old part. He put his arms round the top of

the ball and left his body swing down; he was just able to feel the first slate with

his toes. Those to d were sod with iron toecaps, for Michael was hard in his

shoes. Michael kicked with his armoured toes till the slate broke and fell in; then

he got a foothold on the wooden laths beneath. *

He rested for a minute, with aching arms and a stiff body. He could not slide

down with his arms around the ball; for the middle of the ball was much too big

for his arms. He must let go his hold on the ball, and some how grasp the spire

below. One false movement, and he would be thrown to his death on the hard

ground below.

Slowly he begins to slide his hands together at the top of the ball, and then

downwards over its sides. Every inch is packed with peril; every inch pushed

him backward toward death. It seemed to him that he would be too weak to hold

on when the time came for him to grasp the spire.

But at last the steady, deadly creeping of his figures brought him to a point

where he could bend forward. With a sudden snatch he caught the base of the

ball.

IV

The next moment he was kicking out a stairway in the old slates on the

spire, and climbing down rapidly. He reached the foot of the spire, lifted the

trapdoor* of the tower, ran down the steps, and was caught by his father in the

church.

The streets were filled with white-faced people telling each other that never

in their lives had they seen anything so dreadful as that child leaning backward

in the air.

“ I said he’d come to a bad end!” cried a woman, wiping the moisture from

her forehead with a trembling hand.

“Wait and see!” replied her neighbor.

They waited. Michael took care to maintain his reputation for mischief,

until his father lost all hope for him and sent him to sea. Suddenly he grew tiered

of the wrong road and determined to give the right one a trial. As the women had

foreseen, he marched down it with the same courage and determination.

***

One day an old woman visited her bedridden neighbor. “ Have you heard

the news?” she cried. “The English fleet has been destroyed off Chatham. What

a victory for little neighbour? Do you remembered the day be climbed the church

spire? Who could have guessed then that whole world would ring with the name

of Admiral Michael Adrianzoon de Ruyter?”

(Adapted from The Children’s Encyclopedia)

Note – During the 17th century the English and the Dutch often fought

against each other on the high seas. There were great seamen on both sides.

As the Admiral of the Dutch Navy, de Ruyter won several victories over the

English. There was great fear in London on one occasion when he sailed up

the Thames victoriously. He is considered the greatest seaman ever produced

by Holland and one forth greatest ever in the world. You may be interested to

now that as a young man de Ruyter came to India with the Dutch merchantships.

*A town in Holland

*Covering the spire with pieces of slate.

* The slates were fixed on a framework of wooden laths. When the slates were broken the

laths would appear.

*A door in the roof.

The Glorious Whitewasher

[This story is an incident in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain.

Tom has been troublesome at home; moreover, after playing and fighting

with the other boy he had came home late at night. His aunt saw the state of

his clothes and decided to turn it Saturday holiday into a day of hard labour.]

I

Saturday morning came, and all the summer world was bright and fresh and

full of life. There was a song in every heart and cheerfulness in every face. The

hill beyond the village was covered with summer green and it lay just far to

seem enough a wonderland of joy-dreamy, restful, and inviting.

Tom appeared on the pavement with a bucket of whitewash and a

long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and at the uninspiring sight all

gladness left him, and a deep sadness settled down on his spirit. Thirty yards of

broad fence nine feet high. Life to him, seemed hollow, and existence a burden.

Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank, repeated the

action, did it again, compared the insignificant bit of whitewashed space with

the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box,

discouraged. He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his

sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sports

of interesting adventure, and they would ridicule him for having to work. The

very thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and examined

it bits of toys, marbles, all worthless things. They were enough to buy an ex-

change of work, may be, not enough to buy half an hour of pure freedom. So he

put them back into his pocket and gave up the idea of trying to buy the toys. At

this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst on him nothing less than a

great, magnificent idea.

II

He took up his brush and calmly resumed work. Ben Rogers came into view

presently –the very boy of all boys whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben

was eating an apple, and seemed to be in high spirits. Tom went on dipping the

brush into the bucket and whitewashing, and paid no attention to Ben. Ben con-

templated him for a moment and then said, “Hi-yi! You are in trouble, aren’t

you?”

No answer! Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, gave his

brush another gentle sweep, and surveyed the result as before. Ben went up and

stood by the side of Tom. Tom’s mouth watered for the apple but he stuck to his

work.

Ben said, “Hello, you’ve got to work, hey?”

Tom turned round suddenly and said, “Why, it’s you, Ben? I wasn’t

noticing.”

“I am going swimming, Tom,” said Ben. “Don’t you wish you could? But of

course you prefer to work”.

“Why, isn’t that work?”

Tom resumed his whitewashing and answered carelessly, “Well, may

be it is and may it isn’t. All I know is, it suits Tom Sawyer.”

Now, you don’t mean to say, Tom, that you like it

The brush continued to move. “Like it? Said Tom. “Well, I don’t see why I

ought not to like it.

Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?”

III

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped eating his apple. Tom swept

his brush back and forth softly like an artist-stepped back to note the effect again,

while Ben watched every movement and got more and more absorbed. Presently

he said, “Tom, let me whitewash a little.”

Tom considered, and was about to consent; but he changed his mind. “No-

no-I suppose it would hardly do, Ben,” he said. “You see, Aunt Polly is awfully

particular about this fence; it has got to be very carefully; I supposed there isn’t

one boy in a thousand, may be two thousand, that can do the right way.”

“No- is that so? Oh come now –lemme* just try-Only just a little-I’d let you

if you were me. Tom.”

“Ben, I would like to, honestly; but would Aunt Poly like it? Well, Jim

wanted to do it, but she wouldn’t let him; she wanted to do it, and she wouldn’t

let Sid. You see this is the front fence and Aunt Poly is awfully particular about

it. Now don’t you see how I’m caught? If you were to try whitewashing this

fence and anything was to happen to it....”

“Oh! Come, I’ll be just as careful. Now lemme try. I’ll give you half my

apple.”

“Well, here, take this.... No, sorry, I can’t let you. I am afraid.......”

IV

“I’ll give you all of it.”

Tom gave up the brush, pretending to do so half-heartedly. And while Ben

worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel swinging his

legs, eating his apple, and lying plots to take in other boys.

Boys came along every little while; that came to laugh, but remained to

whitewash. By the time Ben was tired out, Tom had sold the next chance to Billy

Fisher for a kit in good repair. And when he was out, Johny bought the next time

chance for a dead rat and a string to swing it with, and so on and so on, hour after

hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, Tom was just rolling in wealth.

He had, in addition to the things mentioned, twelve marbles, a piece of blue

bottle glass to look through, a key that wouldn’t unlock anything, a piece of

chalk, a tin soldier, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a dog-collar-but

no dog-the handle of a knife, and a number of other things of the kind. While

others bore his burdens for him, he had a nice, good, idle time all the while-

plenty of company-and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it. It was just

magnificent! If he had not run out of whitewash he would have ruined every bit

in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after all. He had

discovered a great law of human action without knowing it –namely, that in

order to make a man or boy desire a thing it is only necessary to make the thing

difficult to obtain. The boy contemplated with pleasure the possessions that has

come into his hands, and then got up and walked home to report.

“It’s all done, Aunt, the whole fence,” he said to his aunt.

“Tom, I hate your lying so,” said Aunt Polly and marched out to see for

herself.

“Oh, Tom,” she said in surprise when she saw the fence, “you can work

when you want to, only you hardly ever want to,” She took him home and gave

him the best apple she had, and allowed him to go and play.

The country of the blind – I

*Adapted from the story by H.G. Wells.

I

Three hundred miles and more from Chimborazo, in the wildest wastes of

the Andes in Equador, there lies that mysterious mountain valley cut off from the

world of men, called the Country of the Blind.

Long ago the valley was connected to the outside world by a difficult moun-

tain pass, and some people from Peru settled down in the valley. It had all that

the heart of man could desire: sweet water, rich green pasture, plentiful trees

and a fine climate. The settlers did very well indeed up there and their cattle and

sheep did well and multiplied. But one thing their happiness, and spoiled it

greatly. A strange disease came upon them-they all began to lose their sight

gradually. The children born to them were born blind.

While this was happening, there came a terrible earth-quake and landslide.

One whole side of the mountain slipped and came down with a tremendous

noise and filled up the mountain pass, cutting off the little green valley forever

from the exploring feet of men.

II

The strange disease ran its course among the little population of the iso-

lated valley. But life was very easy in that valley, there beings no thorns, snakes,

or wild animals to harm them; and the seeing had become blind so gradually that

they scarcely noticed their loss and easily got accustomed to the new life. They

guided the sightless youngsters here and there until knew the whole valley

marvelously, and when at last sight died out aming them, the race lived on.

Generation followed generation. Their tradition of the greater world they

had come from gradually and became a mere children’s tale. The little commu-

nity grew and developed its own way of life. There came a time when child was

born who was fifteen generations from the time of the earthquake and landslide.

At about this time it chanced that a man came into this community from the

world. This is the story of that man; his name was Nunez.

Nunez was a mountaineer, an intelligent and adventurous sort of man; he

was from Bogota near Quito. He was acting as guide to a party of Englishmen

who had out to Equador to climb the mountains .One night he was found missing

from the camp. In the morning the party saw the traces of his fall. His track went

straight to the edge of a frightful precipice, and beyond it every thing was hid-

den. Shaken by the disaster, the party gave up the trip and returned to Quito.

But the man who had fallen lived.

He fell the precipice into a mass of soft snow, lid down a steep slope

unconscious, but without a bone broken in his body. Then he rolled down gentler

slopes, and at last still, half buried in the masses of soft snow that had saved

him.

III

In the morning he heard the singing of the birds in the trees far below. He

was in a pass between the mountains; and far below he saw green meadows and

in their midst a village, a group of stone huts built in an unfamiliar fashion. He

slowly climbed down precipices and walked down slopes, and at about midday

came to the plain, stiff and tired out. He sat down rested in the shadow of a rock.

As he looked at the village, there seem to be something extraordinary and

unfamiliar about it. Things looked surprisingly neat and orderly in the valley; the

house in the village stood in a regular line on either side of a street of extraordi-

nary neatness. But not a single house had a window, and the walls of the houses

were painted in different colours with extreme irregularity. They were grey in

some places, brown or black in others.

“The good man who painted these walls,” said Nunez to himself, “must

have been absolutely blind!” As he went towards the village, he could see at a

distance a number of men and women resting on piled hips of grass, and nearer

the village, a number of sleeping children. Three men walking one behind and

other were carrying buckets of water. Nunez shouted to them. They stopped and

turned their heads this way and that, as if they were looking about them. Nunez

waved his arms at them, but this scarcely seemed to have any effect on them

“The fools must be blind,” said Nunez to himself. Nunez went nearer, and now

he could plainly see that the men were blind .He was sure that this was the

country of blind .All the old legends of the lost valley came back to his mind,

and through his thoughts ran the old proverb: In the Country of the Blind the one

eyed man is King.

IV

Nunez advanced with confidence and greeted them politely. He explained

that he came from the country beyond the mountains where men could see.

“Let us lead him to the elders,”said one of men, and took Nunez by hand to

lead him along. Nunez drew his hands away.

“I can see,” he said.

“See!” said one of then men.

“Yes, see,” said Nunez, turning towards him, and stumbled against one of

the buckets.

“His senses are still imperfect,” said the second blind man. “He stumbles

and talks meaningless words. Lead him by the hand.”

“ As you please,” said Nunez, and was led along laughing.

It seemed they nothing of sight. Well, in course of time he would teach them.

Soon a crowd of men, women and children all with their eyes shut and

sunken, crowded round him folding him and touching him, smelling at him and

listening to his words.

“A wild man out of the rocks,” said his guides to the crowd.

“Bogota,” Nunez explained. “From Bogota, beyond the mountains.”

“A wild man speaking wild words,” said one of his guides. “Did you hear

that –Bogota?”

“Bogota,” repeated the boys in the crowd. That became Nunez’s name in

the Country of Blind.

“Take him to the elders,” said some one in the crowd. They pushed him

suddenly through a doorway in to a rook black as night. Before he could stop

himself he stumbled over the feet of a seated man and fell. He threw out his arm

as he fell, and it struck someone’s face. He heard a cry of anger and a number of

hands seized him. First he struggled, and then finding it useless, he lay quite.

“ I fell down,” he said. “I could not see in this black darkness.”

“He stumbles and talk meaningless.” One of his guides explained.

V

Nunez heard the voice of an older man question him. He found himself

trying to explain the great world out of which he had fallen, ant the sky; and the

mountains and sight, and such other marvels to these elders who sat in the dark-

ness in the Country of the Blind. But they would believe or understand nothing of

what he told them. During the long years of isolation the names for the thing s of

sight had faded and changed in their language, and they had ceased to interest

themselves in anything beyond the rocky slopes above their village .As for Nunez,

they dismissed his words as the confused speech of a being with imperfect senses.

But they were very sympathetic about his difficulties, and asked him to have

courage and try to learn.

The eldest of the blind men explained to him life and science and religion

.He told him that time was divided into ‘the warm’ and ‘the cold’ (that is how

they distinguished between day and night); it was goods to sleep in ‘the warm’

and work in ‘the cold’. Nunez remembered how, although he had arrived at

midday, he had found the whole village asleep. Then the old man said that it was

late and that they must all retire to bed .He asked Nunez if he knew how to sleep.

Nunez said he did, but before sleep he wanted food.

They brought him llama’s milk in a bowl, and rough, salted bread, and led

him into a lonely place to eat. Afterwards they all retired to bed till the cold

mountain evening woke them to begin their ‘day’ again.