Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, September 5, 1882, by Various
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Title: Harper's Young People, September 5, 1882
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: May 23, 2019 [EBook #59586]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, SEPT 5, 1882 ***
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
| vol. iii.—no. 149. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, September 5, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
"TOO HOT!"—Drawn By Jessie Shepherd.
There is not in all the north countrie,
Nor yet on the Humber line,
A town with a prouder record than
Newcastle-upon-the-Tyne.
Roman eagles have kept its walls;
Saxon, and Dane, and Scot
Have left the glamour of noble deeds,
With their names on this fair spot.
From the reign of William Rufus,
The monarchs of every line
Had a grace for loyal Newcastle,
The city upon the Tyne.
By the Nuns' Gate, and up Pilgrim Street,
What pageants have held their way!
But in seventeen hundred and sixty-three,
One lovely morn in May,
There was a sight in bonnie Newcastle!
Oh, that I had been there!
To hear the call of the trumpeters
Thrilling the clear spring air,
To hear the roar of the cannon,
And the drummer's gathering beat,
And the eager hum of the multitudes
Waiting upon the street.
Just at noon was a tender hush,
And a funeral march was heard;
With arms reversed and colors tied,
Came the men of the Twenty-third.
And Lennox, their noble leader, bore
The shreds of a faded flag,
The battle-flag of the regiment,
Shot to a glorious rag;
Shot into shreds upon its staff,
Torn in a hundred fights,
From the torrid plains of India
To the cold Canadian heights.
There was not an inch of bunting left;
How could it float again
Over the faithful regiment
It never had led in vain?
And oh, the hands that had carried it!
It was not cloth and wood;
It stood for a century's heroes,
And was crimson with their blood;
It stood for a century's comrades.
They could not cast it away,
And so with a soldier's honors
They were burying it that day.
In the famous old North Humber fort,
Where the Roman legions trod,
With the roar of cannon and roll of drums
They laid it under the sod.
But it wasn't a tattered flag alone
They buried with tender pride;
It was every faithful companion
That under the flag had died.
It was honor, courage, and loyalty
That thrilled that mighty throng
Standing bare-headed and silent as
The old flag passed along.
So when the grasses had covered it,
There was a joyful strain;
And the soldiers, stirred to a noble thought,
Marched proudly home again.
The citizens went to their shops once more,
The collier went to his mine;
The shepherd went to the broomy hills,
And the sailor to the Tyne;
But men and women and children felt
That it had been well to be
Just for an hour or two face to face
With honor and loyalty.
Note.—In May, 1763, the soldiers of the Twenty-third Regiment of the British army buried with military honors at Newcastle-on-Tyne the regimental flag, which had been torn to shreds at the battle of Minden.
One rainy day, as the children were amusing themselves by ransacking their uncle Harry's closets, Tom pulled his hand out suddenly from the back part of a deep drawer, and shouted triumphantly, "Preserves!" at the same time holding out a large glass jar for inspection. A cry of disgust followed, for instead of preserves there was nothing in the bottle but a strange-looking animal floating in some brown liquid.
"Pah! It's a horrid bug," said Alice, turning up her nose in disgust.
"'Tain't," contradicted Charlie, regardless of his grammar. "It's a tarantula."
"And what is that but a bug?" replied Alice.
"It's a spider," said Charlie. "You ask Uncle Harry if it isn't."
In the mean time Tom and Alice had taken the jar over to the desk where Uncle Harry was writing.
"What is this, Uncle Harry?" said Alice.
"It is a tarantula. I brought it home from California with me."
"I told you so!" exclaimed Charlie, from the closet.
"It is a kind of spider, and one of the largest that lives in this country. They don't make webs like ordinary spiders, but dig a hole in the ground and line it with a sort of silky web like the cocoon of a silk-worm. Their hole is about six inches deep, and is closed by a funny little trap-door made of the same silky lining, and covered on the outside with sticks and gravel so cleverly that one can rarely find a tarantula's burrow unless you see him going in; and even if you do see him going in, it is very difficult to get him to come out, as he pulls his trap-door shut after him, and holds it tight from the inside."
"If he don't build a web, how does he catch flies and things?" inquired Charlie.
"He jumps after them. A lively tarantula can jump from three to five feet, and when he once catches hold of any kind of a bug or small bird with those great hairy legs, it has but little chance to get away."
"Is their bite really so poisonous?" asked Alice, eying the jar rather timidly, as if she was afraid the terrible insect would get away.
"That question is a hard one to answer. Some people who have lived in countries where they are common claim that it is only fatal in a few cases, while others seem to think it is deadly poison."
"What are you laughing at, Uncle Harry?" demanded Charlie.
"I was thinking of the most horrible night I ever experienced," replied his uncle. "You know," he continued, "while I was in the West I spent some two weeks camping out in the mountains with a party of four young men. We had an old cabin, where we slept at night, and we spent our days delightfully, fishing, hunting, geologizing, and botanizing. We had not been in camp long before we discovered a tarantula village not far from our cabin, and we all determined to catch some specimens to take home with us. At first we had considerable trouble in catching them; they were so lively and so ugly that we always ended in killing them in self-defense. At last a brilliant member of the party discovered that by placing a wide-mouthed bottle over the mouth of the tarantula's burrow, and then thumping on the ground around it, the animal would crawl out into the bottle, and the captor could turn the bottle over, clap a piece of board over the top, and secure his prisoner. As soon as the discovery was made known, all the old pickle jars were called into requisition, and as the former occupants of the cabin had left a number, we were soon lucky, or unlucky, enough to have about twenty-five large specimens. We covered the jars with bits of shingle, and set them on a shelf[Pg 707] which was nailed to one side of the cabin. Everything went well, and we determined that as soon as we had leisure we would kill them with chloroform, and preserve them in spirits as that one is. But one night, after we had all got comfortably settled for sleep, one of the party thought that he was thirsty, so rising carefully from his bunk, he groped his way over to the corner, under the shelf, where the water-pail stood; he had his drink, and forgetting the existence of the shelf, raised his head. Crash! down came the rotten old shelf, and down came the jars with the tarantulas in them. The party heard the fall, and like one man sprang from their beds and rushed for the door, but before they had got half-way across the floor they remembered that the tarantulas were loose, and they stopped; a moment more and it was too late. We were all afraid to move, for fear that we would put our feet on a tarantula; so there we stood, as if turned into statues. In a short time our positions became strained and cramped, but we did not dare to change them. Our nerves became excited, and we imagined that we could feel them crawling up our backs and walking over our bare feet. The minutes seemed lengthened to hours, and the hours seemed months. At last the day began to break, but we had manufactured curtains out of old newspapers, that we might sleep undisturbed by the light. Oh, how we bemoaned our laziness! Finally it grew light enough to see, and we carefully opened the door and went out. One of the party went back into the cabin and got our clothes, and after examining them carefully we dressed ourselves."
"And nobody was bitten?" said Alice, with a sigh of relief.
"No," replied her uncle, rising from his chair as the supper-bell rang; "but I don't think I ever was so badly scared before or since."
Fig. 1.
If the question were put to you suddenly, "What is the difference between a plant and an animal?" how do you think you would answer? Stop a minute, and think. Do not be satisfied with saying that a plant has leaves, and an animal has not. Look deeper, and answer more thoughtfully. There are many plants which have no leaves, nor roots, nor flowers, and there are some animals which seem to have all these things (Figs. 1 and 1a). In some cases they are so much alike (Figs. 2 and 3) that it has taken the most careful study to decide whether they are plants or animals.
Fig. 1a.
Look up into the bright blue sky, and then down at the solid earth beneath your feet—you do not find any difficulty in telling, without taking a moment to think, which is sky and which is earth; but if you are so happy as to live in the wide open country, or near the sea, or on a lofty hill, look off and off and off until you see only the delicate blue haze, like smoke, which divides the heavens from the earth. You can often see the same thing by looking from the upper windows of a high house. You will find that many and many a time you can not tell which is earth and which is air.
Just so it is in the world of nature. You may look at a group of cows standing under the trees, or watch the merry little grasshoppers skipping about in the weeds, or catch a bee at his early drink in a morning-glory bell, and you would laugh if anybody asked you if you could tell the animal from the plant. But get far enough away from these common things, and study the animals and plants that need your microscope to see them, and you would find things so much alike that you could not tell which was which. Many of these plants have no roots nor leaves, no flowers nor seed, and many of the animals have no heads nor legs, no eyes, nor mouths, nor stomachs. In Fig. 4, a is a plant, and b is an animal. Now how do you suppose anybody knows this? People who study these things do not guess—they know. The real difference lies in what these tiny little creatures do, not at all how they are formed.
Fig. 2.—ANIMAL.
About three-fourths of all the kinds of sea-weed, for instance, are found to be animal—not one animal, but a colony. The other fourth are vegetables. All these used to be considered vegetables; so did the sponge and the coral and the sea-anemones, and they are all now known to be animals. Every time you play the game of "Twenty Questions" you have to think and decide whether the particular thing you have chosen is "animal, vegetable, or mineral." Have you any notion what makes the real difference between them?
I imagine that, sooner or later, you will think and say the difference is that animals can move and plants can not. That will be a very sensible conclusion if you do come to it, though not a correct one, for plants do move, some of them very much as animals do; others, and the greater number, in another way; which all seems very wonderful, and which I want to talk over next time.
Fig. 3.—VEGETABLE.
What makes the real, deep-down difference is this: Plants can live on mineral matters alone, on earth and water and air, and these things they can change into their own flesh and blood, their stems and sap and fruit. Animals can only live on what the plants have already turned from dead into living material. We need water—that is a mineral—and salt and air, which are minerals too, if we are to keep alive and well. But we can not live on these things alone: we should soon die if we had no food; and all really nourishing food, all that keeps our blood warm and makes us grow, has once been vegetable. Not one bird, or fish, or animal, not one single human being, could ever have lived on this earth, in the air, or in the water, if the plants had not come first, and prepared the earth for us to live in.
These are "sure enough" fairies that are forever working their wonders for us. The roots, like elves, grope down in the earth, and gather its treasures; the leaves stretch out into the air, and gather its riches, and out of what they have collected they weave the beautiful flowers and delicious fruits and golden grain.
Fig. 4.
I should like to make very clear just the way they do this: it is very wonderful and beautiful to study how they work their spells. First, the root, as we have seen before, with its little helmet, bores its way down into the earth. If it finds no water or damp earth it soon wilts and dies, but if it finds a wet place it begins to soak up moisture. Besides the water, it sucks up all the parts of the earth that are dissolved in the water. The water it must have, and it will manage to live awhile on that alone, as Dr. Tanner did, but it can not live so very long. Poor ground means ground that has little or no plant food in it.
You know, if you ever did any gardening work, that you can stick a cutting of geranium or begonia into pure sand that has no nourishment at all in it, and that if you keep it well watered the cutting will strike out roots and bear leaves. This is, in fact, the best way to start cuttings, for mould is a little apt to rot the stem, but the sand preserves it. After a while the baby plant is tired of doing nothing but sucking, and cries for some stronger food. Then you must put it into rich earth, still giving it plenty of water. The roots, like the baby's stomach, will at first be satisfied with a very milk-and-watery diet, but after a while it must have a strengthening soup.
Fig. 5.
The roots bring the plant a good deal, but the leaves are the principal feeders. You remember, perhaps, reading about the millions of little mouths the plant has all over its leaves. These mouths bring both food to nourish and air to sustain the plant. A fish keeps itself alive by sucking the water it lives in all the while through its[Pg 708] gills. It gets out of the water whatever it needs—air and some food. The plants are like fishes; their water is the great ocean of air that lies on the surface of the earth. They draw it in through their mouths, take out of it all they need, and then breathe the rest out again.
In Fig. 5 you see a piece of a liverwort leaf cut down through the mouth, and in Fig. 6 another kind, a blue-flag (l l, lips; h h, hollow of the mouth).
Fig. 6.
Air is a curious mixture. It is a gas made of several gases stirred together as you stir tea and milk and sugar. One of these gases is called oxygen (don't be afraid of the hard names); that is what keeps us alive. I won't give you the name of the next, because it is only used, like the milk, to weaken the tea. The third is a very disagreeable and dangerous gas, called carbonic acid gas. It is this last that makes your head ache in a crowded room or car. This is what you hear of every now and then as choke-damp, which suffocates people down in mines and deep wells. It is this which comes from burning charcoal, and makes it sure death to burn it in a closed room. There is very little of this dangerous stuff even in close air. Carbonic acid gas, though so poisonous, is made up of two things, which are very good and perfectly harmless when they are separated—carbon and the life-giving oxygen. Carbon is coal, or something like coal. United together, these two harmless things make a dreadfully dangerous one, just as innocent saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal unite to form the deadly gunpowder.
Now notice how beautifully plants and animals are made to live together and help each other. Animals breathe in the air, and help themselves to the oxygen which keeps them alive, but breathe out the deadly carbonic acid gas. Plants breathing the air separate by some wonderful power of their own the carbonic acid gas into carbon and oxygen, help themselves to the carbon, and breathe out the oxygen. What plants consume we throw away as useless, and what plants breathe out sustains our life. That is the reason why the country is apt to be so much more healthy than the city. The air that is poisoned by people and fires becomes purified by plants.
Unlike the fairies of the story-book, who do all their good deeds by night, these little plant fairies work only by the light. The sun is their master, and his first ray is their call from sleep. They set to work in a minute, separating the dangerous carbonic acid gas into carbon and oxygen; and while they use the carbon and grow by it as you do by your food, they are giving back the sweet pure oxygen to the air. All day long they are at their good work; but when the sun sinks behind the hills, they do not need any sunset gun to tell them their time of rest has come. They drop work at once, and drop their fairy ways; they begin right away to behave as the animals do—to breathe in oxygen and breathe out the hateful carbonic acid. That is the reason it is not healthy to sleep in a room with flowers at night, though they are so good to have in the daytime.
We owe our lives to the plants—the food we eat, the pure air we breathe, as well as much of the rain that falls from heaven. They are ministering angels, and the loving, tender heavenly Father has appointed them their work to do—to beautify the earth and purify the air under the guidance of the glorious sun, which He has created, and which He keeps in its appointed path.
From the books they had read, Harry and Joe had learned exactly what to do in case of capsizing under sail, and had often discussed the matter. "When I capsize," Harry would say, "I shall pull the masts out of her, and she'll then right of her own accord. Then I shall unship the rudder, put my hands on the stern-post, and raise myself up so that I can straddle the deck, and gradually work my way along until I can get into the cockpit. After that I shall bail her out, step the masts, and sail on again." Nothing could be easier than to describe this plan while sitting in a comfortable room on shore, but to carry it out in a rough sea was a different affair.
Harry was not at all frightened when he found himself in the water, and he instantly swam clear of the canoe to avoid becoming entangled in her rigging. He then proceeded to unship the masts and the rudder, and when this was done, tried to climb in over the stern. He found that it was quite impossible. No sooner would he get astride of the stern than the canoe would roll and throw him into the water again. After half a dozen attempts he gave it up, and swimming to the side of the canoe, managed to throw himself across the cockpit. This was the way in which Charley Smith had climbed into his canoe the day before, and to Harry's great surprise—for no such method of climbing into a canoe had been mentioned in any of the books he had read—it proved successful.
Of course the deck of the canoe was now level with the water, which washed in and out of her with every sea that struck her. Harry seized the empty tin can which he used as a bailer, and which was made fast to one of the timbers of the canoe with a line to prevent it from floating away, but he could not make any headway in bailing her out. The water washed into her just as fast as he could throw it out again, and he began to think that he should have to paddle the canoe ashore full of water. This would have been hard work, for with so much water in her she was tremendously heavy and unwieldy; but after getting her head up to the wind with his paddle, he found that less water washed into her, and after long and steady work, he succeeded in bailing most of it out.
NOT SO EASY AS IT LOOKS.
Meanwhile Charley, whose help Harry had declined, because he felt so sure that he could get out of his difficulty by following the plan that he had learned from books on canoeing, was trying to help Joe. At first Joe thought it was a good joke to be capsized. His Lord Ross lateen-sail, with its boom and yard, had floated clear of the canoe of its own accord, and as the only spar left standing was a mast about two feet high, she ought to have righted. But Joe had forgotten to lash his sand-bag to the keelson, and the result was that whenever he touched the canoe she would roll completely over, and come up on the other side. Joe could neither climb in over the stern nor throw himself across the deck, and every attempt he made resulted in securing for him a fresh ducking. Charley tried to help him by holding on to the capsized canoe, but he could not keep it right side up; and as Joe soon began to show signs of becoming exhausted, Charley was about to insist that he should hang[Pg 710] on to the stern of the Midnight, and allow himself to be towed ashore, when Tom in the Twilight arrived on the scene.
Tom had seen the Dawn and the Sunshine capsize, and was far enough to leeward to have time to take in his sail before the squall reached him. It therefore did him no harm, and he paddled up against the wind to help his friends. It took him some time to reach the Dawn, for it blew so hard that when one blade of the paddle was in the water, he could hardly force the other blade against the wind. Before the cruise was over he learned that by turning one blade at right angles to the other—for the two blades of a paddle are joined together by a ferrule in the middle—he could paddle against a head-wind with much less labor.
The Twilight, being an undecked "Rice Lake" canoe, could easily carry two persons, and, with the help of Charley and Tom, Joe climbed into her. Charley then picked up the floating sail of the Dawn, made her painter fast to his own stern, and started under paddle for the shore. It was not a light task to tow the water-logged canoe, but both the sea and the wind helped him, and he landed by the time that the other boys had got the camp fire started and the coffee nearly ready.
"Well," said Harry, "I've learned how to get into a canoe to-day. If I'd stuck to the rule, and tried to get in over the stern, I should be out in the lake yet."
"I'm going to write to the London Field and get it to print my new rule about capsizing," said Joe.
"What's that?" asked Charley. "To turn somersaults in the water? That was what you were doing all the time until Tom came up."
"That was for exercise, and had nothing to do with my rule, which is, 'Always have a fellow in a "Rice Lake" canoe to pick you up.'"
"All your trouble came from forgetting to lash your ballast bag," remarked Harry. "I hope it will teach you a lesson."
"That's a proper remark for a Commodore who wants to enforce discipline," cried Charley; "but I insist that the trouble came from carrying too much sail."
"The sail would have been all right if it hadn't been for the wind," replied Harry.
"And the wind wouldn't have done us any harm if we hadn't been on the lake," added Joe.
"Boys, attention!" cried Harry. "Captain Charles Smith is hereby appointed sailing-master of this fleet, and will be obeyed and respected accordingly, or, at any rate, as much as he can make us obey and respect him. Anyhow, it will be his duty to tell us how much sail to carry, and how to manage the canoes under sail."
"This is the second day of the cruise," remarked Joe, an hour later, as he crept into his blankets, "and I have been wet but once. There is something wrong about it, for on our other cruises I was always wet through once every day. However, I'll hope for the best."
In the middle of the night Joe had reason to feel more satisfied. It began to rain. As his rubber blanket was wet, and in that state seemed hotter than ever, Joe could not sleep under the shelter of it, and, as on the previous night, went to sleep with nothing over him but his woollen blanket. His head was underneath the deck, and as the rain began to fall very gently, it did not awaken him until his blanket was thoroughly wet.
He roused himself, and sat up. He was startled to see a figure wrapped in a rubber blanket sitting on his deck. "Who's there?" he asked, suddenly. "Sing out, or I'll shoot!"
"You can't shoot with a jackknife or a tin bailer, so I'm not much afraid of you," was the reply.
"Oh, it's you, Tom, is it?" said Joe, much relieved.
"My canoe's half full of water, so I came out into the rain to get dry."
"Couldn't you keep the rain out of the canoe with the rubber blanket?"
"The canoe is fourteen feet long, and hasn't any deck, and the blanket is six feet long. I had the blanket hung over the paddle, but of course the rain came in at the ends of the canoe."
"Well, I'm pretty wet, for I didn't cover my canoe at all. What'll we do?"
"Sit here till it lets up, I suppose," replied Tom. "It must stop raining some time."
"I've got a better plan than that. Is your rubber blanket dry inside? Mine isn't."
"Yes, it's dry enough."
"Let's put it on the ground to lie on, and use my rubber blanket for a tent. We can put it over a ridge-pole about two feet from the ground, and stake the edges down."
"What will we do for blankets? It's too cold to sleep without them."
"We can each borrow one from Harry and Charley. They've got two apiece, and can spare one of them."
Joe's plan was evidently the only one to be adopted; and so the two boys pitched their little rubber tent, borrowed two blankets, and crept under shelter. They were decidedly wet, but they lay close together, and managed to keep warm. In the morning they woke up, rested and comfortable, to find a bright sun shining and their clothes dried by the heat of their bodies. Neither had taken the slightest cold, although they had run what was undoubtedly a serious risk, in spite of the fact that one does not easily take cold when camping out.
As they were enjoying their breakfast, the canoeists naturally talked over the events of the previous day and night. Harry had been kept perfectly dry by his canoe tent, one side of which he had left open, so as to have plenty of fresh air; and Charley had also been well protected from the rain by his rubber blanket, hung in the usual way over the paddle, although he had been far too warm to be comfortable.
"I'm tired of suffocating under that rubber blanket of mine, and I've invented a new way of covering the canoe at night, which will leave me a little air to breathe. I'll explain it to you when we camp to-night, Joe."
"I'm glad to hear it, for I've made up my mind that I'd rather be rained on than take a Turkish bath all night long under that suffocating blanket."
"Will your new plan work on my canoe?" asked Tom.
"No; nothing will keep that 'Rice Lake' bath-tub of yours dry in a rain unless you deck her over."
"Now that we've had a chance to try our sails, which rig do you like best, Sailing-master?" asked Harry.
"That lateen-rig that Joe has," replied Charley. "He can set his sail and take it in while the rest of us are trying to find our halyards. Did you see how the whole concern—spars and sail—floated free of the canoe of their own accord the moment she capsized?"
"That's so; but then my big balance-lug holds more wind than Joe's sail."
"It held too much yesterday. It's a first-rate rig for racing, but it isn't anything like as handy as the lateen for cruising; neither is my standing-lug. I tried to get it down in a hurry yesterday, and the halyards jammed, and I couldn't get it down for two or three minutes."
"I can get my leg-of-mutton in easy enough," remarked Tom, "but I can't get the mast out of the step unless the water's perfectly smooth, and I don't believe I could then without going ashore."
"Now, Commodore," said Charley, "if you'll give the order to start, I'll give the order to carry all sail. The breeze is light and the water is smooth, and we ought to run down to the end of the lake by noon."
The little fleet made a beautiful appearance as it cruised down the lake under full sail. The breeze was westerly,[Pg 711] which fact enabled the canoes to carry their after-sails—technically known as "dandies"—to much advantage. When running directly before the wind the "dandy" is sometimes a dangerous sail, as it is apt to make the canoe broach to; but with a wind from any other direction than dead aft it is a very useful sail.
The canoes sailed faster than they had sailed the day before, because there was no rough sea to check their headway. They reached Magog at noon, and went to look at the dam which crosses the Magog River a few rods from the lake, and wondered how they were ever to get through the rapids below it.
There was a place where the canoes could be lowered one by one over the breast of the dam, but the rapids, which extended from below the dam for nearly a quarter of a mile, were very uninviting to a timid canoeist. The water did not seem to be more than three or four feet deep, but it was very swift, and full of rocks. "You boys can't never run them rapids in them boats," said a man who came to look at the canoes.
The boys did not like to be daunted by their first rapid, and as there did not seem to be much risk of drowning, they decided to take the chances of getting the canoes through it safely. Harry gave the order to lash everything fast in the canoes that could be washed overboard, and he prepared to lead the way in the Sunshine.
It was magnificent sport shooting down the rapid like an arrow. The canoes drove through two or three waves which washed the decks. Harry's and Charley's canoes each struck once while in the rapid, but in each case only the keel struck the rock, and the current dragged the canoes safely over it. Every one was delighted with the way his canoe had acted, and with the skill with which he had avoided this or that rock, or had discovered the best channel just at the right moment. In their excitement they let the canoes float gently down the stream, until they suddenly discovered another rapid at the beginning of a sharp bend in the river just ahead of them.
It was nothing like as fierce in appearance as the first rapid, and as Harry led the way, the others followed close after him, one behind the other, fancying that they could run the rapid without the least trouble. Half-way down Harry's canoe struck on a rock, swung broad-side to the current, and hung there. Tom was so close behind him that he could not alter his course, and so ran straight into the Sunshine with a terrible crash. The Dawn and the Twilight instantly followed, and as the four canoes thus piled together keeled over and spilled their occupants into the river, it began to look as if the rapid had determined to make the irreverent young canoeists respect it.
It was a spring evening, so very fair that even Billy Knox had taste enough to be pleased with the robins, the hedges, and the May blossoms. He was halting on his way home, under the tree into which he had fallen eight months before. The balloon was not there; its owner had it back long ago.
That Billy had a home is to be accounted for in this way: The evening after Peter, the tailor, took him in to supper, he remained overnight, and after breakfast he went out and milked the cow. He walked to the woods and chopped fuel enough for a week. Then he staid to dinner. During the afternoon he found three cents in what was left of his trousers pocket, and he put that at once into the family treasury. In the days that followed he haunted the next town, a larger one than Langham. Whenever he earned anything he returned with it to the red house with the sunflowers, where, without any talk about it, he came at last to consider himself at home. He brought in as much as he ate. He amused little Ben, and made his life much more exciting. Peter did not care how long he staid so that he paid his way.
On this particular evening Billy seemed in the highest spirits. He leaped up joyously and hung from the branches of the tree. He was prancing about like a colt, when down the lane came a man, but not Peter. This time it was Squire Ellery, who owned the house in which Peter lived. He was a hard-working, quiet-appearing farmer, respected by everybody.
"I ain't going to do it," exclaimed the boy, hastily.
"What are you going to do instead?" asked the man. "Are you going to grow up a loafer and turn out a tramp?"
"No; I have got something prime on hand that suits me exactly."
"What is it?"
"Well," began Billy, "you know the Annerly Minstrel Troupe, don't you?"
"Yes, I know of them."
"They stay in the town all winter, but summers they go travelling around the country. I have been helping them for nothing lately—odd jobs off and on—and they like me. Once when the 'end-man' was sick I took his place at the last minute, and I made so much fun that the manager said he would take me along this summer and make a crack performer of me. He will give me some clothes, and when I get valuable to him he will pay me well. Ain't that something like?"
"Yes, Billy Knox, it is something like—something like a monkey, more like a fool—for you to smut your face, to tell silly jokes, to grin and giggle and dress up in petticoats at night, that you may learn to swear and drink and gamble by day. That is what it is like exactly."
The farmer laid his hard hand on the boy's red head, but his voice was soft as he said, kindly: "Take more time to think it all over, Billy. Remember, I promise to feed, clothe, and send you to school winters, and when you get valuable to me I will also pay you wages. Your work will be hoeing corn and potatoes instead of braying like a donkey or thrumming on a banjo; but you will respect yourself a good deal more. It will be better to wash the sweat of honest labor off your face than to be smearing it into a blackamoor's. I will help you make a man of yourself if you are only willing and ready, Billy."
The boy thought of dull days in the fields, with oxen for companions; then of foot-lights, gay music, and laughter. He rubbed his boots on the grass and muttered, "Much obliged, Mr. Ellery, but I ain't ready for that, nor willing either, in your way of doing it."
"Very well; I have said all I am going to say. I shall never ask you again."
Billy trudged home rather soberly. He opened the cottage door a little later, and at his footfall Ben sprang from the pantry and stood anxiously watching his pockets. Billy knew exactly what it meant. Ben had gone to the cupboard, "And when he got there the cupboard was bare." This had often happened of late. Billy pulled out of one pocket a few slices of bacon, and out of another a tiny paper of tea, saying: "Granny, I have got you some to-night—tea, granny."
"Oh yes. When you were in your cradle, I told my husband you would live to take care of me."
"She thinks you are father," stuttered Ben, as he got out the frying-pan. Soon the whole place was filled with the welcome odor of bacon and tea. Billy cut some bread, and seizing granny's chair, pushed it to the table. He stared at her while she asked her blessing, and idly watched the sunbeams in the rusty lace of her old cap. When she opened her eyes, which were as blue as a baby's, she[Pg 712] added, tenderly: "God bless you, dear. You brought us a good supper."
It was seldom that she spoke so coherently, but a bit of a prayer often seemed to clear for a moment her mind, as a precious drop might act in some unsettled mixture.
"What if granny should not have any supper some night when I am gone?" was the thought that rushed into the boy's mind, and into his eyes came tears. His heart was touched by the thought. What preachers and teachers and offers of help had never been able to effect, the trustful gratitude of a feeble little old woman had accomplished. He choked, spluttered, and pretended he had swallowed the tea the wrong way. Then he did like unto sinners the world over—he tried to harden his heart again. He reflected that this was Peter's home and Peter's mother. It was Peter's business to support his own family. It was Billy's business to rise in the world.
After supper he made ready for certain exercises very common in the cabin of late—exercises which he considered likely to improve him in his chosen "profession." He pushed granny's chair back into the chimney-corner, and waited until she dozed before he exclaimed, "Come, Ben!"
BILLY AND BEN REHEARSING.
Poor Ben! his face grew more mournful than ever. It was no longer any fun for him, but he patiently consented, and arranged the stage "properties." He tied on his own and Billy's black masks and their stiff paper collars, wishing much that his own did not so savagely cut his poor little ears. He then sat meekly down at the end of the semicircle of seats, and solemnly got off all the laboriously learned jokes that his stammering tongue could compass. He surrendered himself to Billy in a waltz that made every lock of his lint-white hair fly out straight, and which finally left him breathless under the table legs.
Well, after Ben had been, with some changes of costume, a giraffe, a Zulu, a Broadway belle, and a propounder of conundrums, he became so incapable of being anything else but a tired little boy that Billy relented, and let him lie on the ragged old lounge. In the quiet that followed, the older boy's brain began to work upon a question that worried him much. Should he go on a farm, or should he follow his own fascinating plan? He waked up Ben, and told, in a most engaging way, of the wonderful minstrel career which opened before him, and he reported Squire Ellery's offer, but not his words of disapproval. Now Ben, who was but eight years old, had his own thoughts, and all the more of them that he gave so few away in words.
"If it was me," said little Ben, promptly, if somewhat sleepily, "I would rather be out in the sunlight making th-th-things gr-gr-grow. Wheat fields are so pretty, and I like ca-ca-cattle. They always seem to know me if I co-co-come near them. I never would dance until I got dizzy if I could help it. I think it is si-si-silly; it ain't being a man."
Billy gazed at Ben, somewhat surprised. Here were words almost like Squire Ellery's coming as if they were quoted from out of this Hop-o'-my-Thumb.
"Ben," he said, "you don't really know anything about minstrel shows. Some day I will take you to the regular thing."
"I would rather stay here and read to granny. I should be afraid."
"Stay, then, you little coward!" said Billy, roughly.
Granny dozed and snored softly; the lean cat sprang into Ben's arms, and they slept peacefully together; while Billy walked the room, and peered out of the window-panes. He half decided that he would go to the farmer in the morning. Then he half decided he never would go. At last granny awoke, and said, "Bring the Book and read good words; we have had enough of this day."
Ben would not wake up. He really could not do so after his hard evening exercises; and when Billy shook him, the cat took Ben's part, and scratched Billy resentfully.
"Well, I would as soon read as to hear him stutter over it," said the older boy, getting the Bible, the cover of which had been bright and fresh when granny had been so herself. Now it was as nearly out of its binding as was her soul.
"'The children of Ephraim, being armed, and carrying bows, turned back in the day of battle,'" read Billy, just where he opened the Book. Then he asked, "Wouldn't they fight?"
"Able but not willing to do what a body ought to do. I don't remember about the fighting. Perhaps it was only to endure something. Now I will go to bed," said granny, forgetting that Billy had read but one verse.
When he was left alone, he sat and pondered on those children of Ephraim until Peter tumbled into the house in his usual state. Then he let Ben sleep on, and he himself helped the tailor to bed, doing it with much less ceremony than the latter approved of.
MORNING AND EVENING.—Drawn by Mary A. Lathbury.
It is first cousin to lawn tennis, and it is so like lawn tennis that any one would guess that the two games were closely related. Perhaps most boys and girls would say that Badminton is a slow game, and very childish; and, compared with lawn tennis, perhaps it is. But although it is by no means so robust a game, and requires not nearly so much skill as its cousin, it has many advantages. Lawn tennis is an out-door game, and demands a great deal of space and the best possible light; otherwise it gets sulky. Badminton, on the other hand, can put up with a small space and a moderately good light. Being, as we have said, less robust than the other game, wind does not agree with it. Nevertheless, in still weather it can be played out-of-doors, and in-doors in all weathers.
The small space required is a great advantage that Badminton enjoys. A large part of the population of this great country lives in city houses, whose back yards are perhaps fifty feet long and only half as wide. Not much in the way of games can be done in a city back yard; yet one can play Badminton there. What if it be planted with posts on which the laundress stretches her clothes-line? So much the better. We shall want those posts, if they are conveniently placed, for we have a net to spread. This should be fastened to the posts so that the top of it is five feet from the ground, and a net (or a strip of calico) two feet wide, and as long as the distance between the posts, will be quite large enough.
The court may be marked out with whitening or chalk, and should measure about twenty feet by fifteen on each side of the net. At a distance of five feet from the net, on each side, the service lines are drawn, and then the court is complete.
The implements of the game are merely battledores and shuttlecocks. Very babyish, you will say. But if you can once overcome your pride, and condescend to use such playthings, you will find that the game is not nearly so babyish as you may think it. The battledores should be good ones, strong and heavy, and strung either with catgut, like a tennis racket, or with string. The shuttlecock is greatly improved by being made heavy. Those sold in stores especially for Badminton are already made heavy enough, but the ordinary toy shuttlecocks require a little, a very little, melted lead poured into a hole in the cork. As the lead cools and hardens, the cork closes around it, and holds it tight.
The rules of Badminton are very much like those of lawn tennis, except that every stroke must be "volleyed"—that is, the shuttlecock must be struck before it touches the ground, for of course it will not bound. The "server" must send his first ball so that if it were to fall to the ground it would fall beyond the service line of his opponent's court, and not within it, as in lawn tennis. After the service it may be returned to any part of the opponent's court, and kept up until one of the players fails to return it over the net, or hits it so far that it falls outside of the opponent's court.
The game is counted in the same manner as in lawn tennis—fifteen, thirty, forty, game; with deuce and vantage, when the score is forty all—and the one who first wins six games wins the set. Two, three, or four persons can play at the same time.
With good players, it will frequently happen that the shuttlecock will be kept in the air for several minutes without falling to the ground, and it is interesting to keep count of the number of times that it is thus returned over the net. At the same time it must be remembered that the object of the game is to send the shuttlecock so that the opponent can not return it; hence it will be contrary to the spirit of the game to encourage long rallies by purposely sending easy returns.
"Rube," said Bun Gates, when they came together one day after breakfast, "did you hear about Squire Cudworth's new barn?"
"Guess there isn't anything more to hear about it. Folks didn't talk of anything else while he was putting it up. Father said it would hold horses enough to run a livery-stable."
"That isn't it. I heard all about it at breakfast. The railroad's goin' to run right through it."
"Right through the barn? I wish they'd run it through the academy, if 'twasn't for spoiling the green."
"It's cut Pop Simmons's orchard right in two, and they've tore away Widow McCue's pig-pen, spite of all Felix and Biddy could do to stop 'em. Now it's the big barn."
"Biggest barn there ever was anywhere around here. It's just awful. Did you ever see a railroad?"
"Only the streak they've made along where this one's going to come. I'll tell you what father said, though."
"What did he say, Bun?"
"He said it was one of old Squire Cudworth's jokes. There was a quarrel between him, and the railroad, and so he put the barn there to keep it from coming through."
"It won't do it, Bun. A railroad'll go right through a hill and not half try."
"Come on, Rube, we'll be late; but father says he guesses the railroad didn't make anything very heavy out of the Squire's joke."
When the class in arithmetic was called up that fore-noon, Bun Gates and Rube Hollenhouser went down to the foot of it, one after the other, for the first time that academy term. When they got there and could have a good look at each other's slates, they each knew what sort of a picture the other could make of Squire Cudworth's big barn, with something full of fire and smoke and steam smashing into it at both ends.
The afternoon wore away, a little at a time, until it was all gone, but every boy they knew had heard of what was coming to Squire Cudworth's barn by that time, and at least a dozen of them wanted to go and have a look at it.
Squire Cudworth was standing at the corner of the barn, a very large, fat, rosy-faced man, with his hands in his pockets, and he looked as if he were waiting for something. He chuckled all over, and they could hear him jingle the money in his pockets as he recognized the boys.
"That's the railroad, boys. Them's the ties, and some call 'em sleepers. The rails are glued down on 'em. You'll see some men come along pretty soon with great bundles of iron rails in one hand and pots of glue in the other. They're 'most here now. By to-morrer night that barn of mine won't be a safe place for hosses. It's awful, boys—jest awful!"
"How do you s'pose they'll get through the barn?" asked Bun.
"Can't say. I've kep' 'em off long as I could. That's what I'm here for now. We don't need any railroad in Prome Centre. That's what I told 'em. If they'd only dig the creek out good and deep, so it would be of some use. They wouldn't, though, and I might as well have built my barn right in the middle of the creek."
Every boy in the crowd was listening to him, but not one of them could see what there was in it all that made the old Squire chuckle so. Three or four asked,
"Does it go through on Friday?"
"Day after to-morrer, boys. I shall be out of breath by that time. Have to go home and go to bed, and put all my hosses in the old barn up on the hill. You'd all better be here then. Tell all the other boys. Have 'em all come." Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle, and the bunches of keys and the small change jingled merrily, as if the[Pg 715] Squire were making fun of the railroad, or the boys, or of his misfortunes.
"We'll all be here," said Rube. "Boys, there'll be something worth seeing, sure's you live."
They were most of them at one place or another along the track before school next morning, and at the noon recess they compared notes of the matters they had seen—men spiking down rails with big hammers, for instance, instead of glue-pots. It was a great time for a lot of boys who had never seen anything of the kind before, and Rube Hollenhouser stirred up their envy a little. He said:
"Dolf Zimmerman's been on a railroad. He told me all about it. There was an accident, too, and he'd have been killed as dead as a hammer if he'd been there."
"Dolf Zimmerman!" exclaimed a fellow who lived away at the upper end of the village. "Who cares for him? He's travelled, that's all. This railroad of ours is going to run right through Cudworth's barn. I guess he wouldn't want to be riding on it just then."
There was a general agreement with that opinion, but the boys who lived at places below Zimmerman's store all found an errand in there before the day was over. Some of them only bought a cent's worth of something, and looked at Dolf, but three or four asked him questions right out, and it was Felix McCue who got the most out of him. The Widow McCue never traded at Zimmerman's, and it was a bold thing for Felix to walk in and ask of Dolf over the counter,
"What's the price of yer bist Jayvy coffee?"
"Thirty-five cents a pound."
"That's what I wanted to know. Do yiz think it'll be any chaper after the railroad gits through the barrn?"
"Oh, you get eout! You don't want any coffee."
"Don't I, thin? I don't belave ye know any more about a railroad than I do meself. Come on, b'yes. He's been humbuggin' ye."
Rube Hollenhouser afterward stood up manfully for Dolf Zimmerman's reputation as a traveller, and all the cows in Prome Centre went to their pastures very early the next morning. That was Friday, and it was to be the last day of the mortal life of Squire Cudworth's big barn, and there were a good many older people, as well as very young ones, who were willing to hurry through their breakfasts, and walk over to see what the Squire was going to do about it. Everybody knew more or less about the quarrel between him and the railway company, and there was not a doubt in the minds of his fellow-citizens but what he had beaten the corporation in every point but the one of keeping his barn.
There he was, when Rube and Bun and little Jeff Gates, and a crowd of other boys and their brothers and sisters, and some of their fathers and mothers and aunts and uncles, began to swarm around and look at him. There was the Squire, indeed, and his face was redder than ever, and Bun Gates remarked,
"I say, Rube, how he does jingle!"
"Yes, but haven't they made that railroad jingle? They've nailed down the rails 'most up to the stable-door on each side. If an engine should come now, it could run its nose against the barn."
"They've got to do it, Rube. They've got to smash it right through."
"I say, Bun, the stable's full of men. They're working at something. Hear 'em hammer?"
"There's another lot around outside. See 'em?"
"Hear 'em in the barn! Wonder 'f they'd let us in."
"Guess not. I don't want to go in, neither. Hey! What's that?"
Every face in the gathering crowd was suddenly turned toward the north, as if one pull had fetched them all around at the same instant. Not that they saw anything, but that the deafest man among them could hear the whistle of the coming locomotive. It would be the first of its kind ever seen in Prome Centre, and now it was gathering itself, they all knew, for a rush down that track at Squire Cudworth's barn.
More boys were coming, and they all asked questions the moment they could get their breaths after they reached the crowd and had one look at the barn. It was there yet, and so was the Squire, but there had been another awful whistle, up north, beyond Pop Simmons's orchard.
"Rube," said Bun, "those fellows are just a-jerking that stable out of its boots. They're h'isting the roof off now."
"Hear 'em hammering inside? There's something going on. Don't they just swarm, though, and can't they work!"
It was a simple fact that the railway company had sent a good many men to take care of the last obstacle in its way, and Squire Cudworth's joke lasted to the very end. He began to grow redder and redder in the face. Then he jingled more than ever for a minute, and then he stopped jingling altogether, for just then it seemed as if the whole side of the stable was stripped off at a push or two. The roof was already off. One minute more and the ends were gone, doors and all, and a well-dressed, gentlemanly person stepped out along the track.
"Boys!" shouted Rube. "There's the railroad now. Inside the stable."
"If they haven't put down a track right where the floor was!" said Bun.
There sounded another tremendous shriek from beyond the orchard, and a cloud of smoke and steam began to move along over the tree-tops.
"Here she comes, boys!"
"She's a-coming! She's a coming!"
"Hark, Rube," said Bun. "What's that man saying to Squire Cudworth?"
They heard him, and he said it very politely.
"Quick work, eh, Mr. Cudworth?"
"Sharp. Far as you've gone. Think you'll get the whole of it off to-day?"
"Off? Oh no. Don't you see? We're making a station-house out of the main barn. Just the thing. Set it up a little higher; that's all. Quite a saving of money to the company."
"Bun," said Rube, "did you ever see old Squire Cudworth look so angry as he does now? Guess they must have got the joke on him somehow."
"It'll make him sick if they have."
"Hey! She's 'most got here!"
They were all holding their breaths for the next minute or so, for there was the first locomotive they had ever seen outside of a picture, and it was whistling and coughing and ringing its bell and backing and starting and doing everything but dance, right through where Squire Cudworth's stable had been.
"Rube, they're not going to pull down any more of the barn."
"Tell you what, though, they never'd have got through the way they did if they hadn't laid some track inside and knocked the doors down."
"Course they wouldn't. I say, old Squire Cudworth's going home."
"Hear the 'cademy bell! Did you know it was nine o'clock? What'll we say to Miss Eccles?"
"I don't care so much, Rube. She won't get a roomful till this crowd gets there. There's about as many girls as boys."
"Black marks all 'round. She's seen a railroad before, or she'd have been here herself. I ain't so sorry as I was about that barn. Do you know what's a station-house?"
"I guess I do, but we'd better stop after school and ask Dolf Zimmerman."
At the supper table that evening, Bun Gates heard his father say to his mother: "Squire Cudworth? Oh yes, he got a good price for his barn. What made him sick[Pg 716] was the railway superintendent thanking him for building them so nice a station-house, just where they wanted it. He tried to laugh, but he couldn't, and everybody else did."
"GOOD-MORNING!"
Snap, my little fox-terrier, was the most affectionate and devoted dog I ever remember. It mattered not where I went, he was sure to be close to my heels, and the thicker the crowd, the closer he kept to them. For the three years that I lived in London, in all our wanderings I never once missed him or had any trouble with him.
As far as possible, dogs are prohibited from travelling on the under-ground railway; but as I had constantly to travel by it from King's Cross to Paddington, and Snap's habit of keeping close being well known to the officials, they winked at his accompanying me.
On a certain afternoon, being, as usual, on my way to Paddington, and a train being due at King's Cross, I made a rush for it, and reached the platform just as a train was coming into the station.
Jumping into a compartment, I looked to see if the dog was with me, but to my dismay, as a porter slammed the door and the train began to move, I observed Snap on the platform, running wildly up and down looking for me. Suddenly he saw me at the window, but it was too late; and as we entered the darkness of the tunnel, I heard him give a despairing bark.
I felt angry with myself for not looking after him more carefully, and resolved to get out at the next station and go back for him. But how had he missed me? I could not understand it, for he had never done such a thing before. Five minutes brought us to Gower Street, and a train then due took me back in another five minutes to where I had started from.
"Have you seen my dog?" I asked of a porter there who knew me.
"Your dog, sir?" answered the man. "Oh yes, to be sure. You left him behind, didn't you? Well, as the train went into the tunnel, I saw him jump from the platform and follow it."
"What!" I said; "he wasn't following it when we reached Gower Street."
"Wasn't he? Then I expect he's still in the tunnel. The train went too fast for him to keep up with it."
"He'll be run over!" I exclaimed, very nervous for Snap's safety.
"Tell you what, sir. I'll go and get permission, if you like, from the inspector to take a lantern and see if we can find him."
I thanked the man, and he started off to get the necessary permission, which the inspector gave, after saying something about people having no right to bring dogs into the station. Together the man and I then went into the tunnel.
The unaccustomed darkness, to say nothing of the perils of such an expedition, inspired me with considerable dread, and I kept tight hold of my guide's arm. When we had advanced some two or three hundred yards along the under-ground highway, or rather "low" way, the lights of an up-train became visible. As it went by and we stood still for a minute, the roar and rattle were not calculated to dispel my nervousness. They were terrible—deafening. Immediately it had passed, the porter cried out,
"Look there, sir—look; there he goes!"
He was pointing toward the red danger light at the tail of the receding train, and there, sure enough, was Snap scampering after it at a pace which no one could have given a fox-terrier credit for. I began to call and whistle as loudly as I could, but my voice was drowned by the hissing whir and rattle going on. Just then another engine hove in sight on our line of rails, and we had rapidly to step back into one of the recesses, or man-holes, as I believe they are called. When this second train had shot past us, there again, to our astonishment, was Snap galloping after it. He had not observed us, of course. We then walked on some little way further along the tunnel, and in a minute another up-train passed us, and there once more was the dog behind it.
"How ridiculous," I cried, "and yet how painful, to see the poor little beast tearing to and fro for dear life in this way! He will surely be run over before long."
But the reason was obvious: he could not keep up with the speed of the train, and by the time it had distanced him, another probably passed in the opposite direction, when, confused by the noise and turmoil, he turned immediately[Pg 717] and pursued that. It seemed to me simply marvellous that he had escaped the wheels even so far in these agonizing efforts to find me.
As the lights of the next engine came in view, I resolved to give the last carriage just time to pass, and then to rush out, and, if possible, to intercept my poor pet, for I expected him again to return with that. I was not mistaken, and as I slipped from the man-hole in front of the dog, the porter held his lantern so that its light fell full upon my form. Snap instantly recognized, me, and with one bound and a breathless yelp landed on my breast, and clasping me tightly round the neck with his two fore-legs as if they had been the arms of a loving child, he rubbed his wet nose excitedly against my face. Terrified well-nigh unto death, gasping and exhausted, and all the time uttering a plaintive little wail of delight, he lay almost motionless in this position for several minutes, while his affectionate heart beat like a small sledge-hammer against mine. This simple but intense demonstration of canine devotion, in the gloomy depths of the under-ground, with only the faint rays of the porter's lamp to illuminate the scene, was very touching.
"You have got a noble little chap there, sir," said the man, as he led the way cautiously back to the platform. "He was worth a bit of trouble to find, and no mistake."
"Quite true, my friend," I answered, "and I'll take good care for the future to pop him under my arm when I travel on the Metropolitan Railway again."
"I reckon he won't give ye the chance, sir," said the man. "I know a bit about dogs, and I shouldn't wonder if he fights shy of the stations altogether after this."
The man was right, for never since that day have I been able to induce Snap to come within yards of the head of the railway station stairs. Coax and cajole him as I will, he always resists. He looks up at me with such a pitiful expression, as much as to say, "Why, you wouldn't risk losing me again, would you?" That I have at last conceded the point to him you will readily understand, for I need hardly add that if I had a strong regard for my dog before, it has grown into a real and strong affection now.
Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear—
Your head like the golden-rod—
And we will go sailing away from here
To the beautiful Land of Nod.
Away from life's worry and hurry and flurry,
Away from earth's shadows and gloom,
We will float off together to a world of fair weather,
Where blossoms are always in bloom.
Just shut up your eyes and fold your hands—
Your hands like the leaves of a rose—
And we will go sailing to those fair lands
That never an atlas shows.
On the north and west they are bounded by rest,
On the south and the east by dreams.
'Tis the country ideal where nothing is real,
But everything only seems.
Just drop down the curtain of your dear eyes—
Your eyes like the bright bluebell—
And we will sail out under star-lit skies
To the land where the fairies dwell.
Down the river of sleep our bark shall sweep
Till it reaches that magical isle
Which no man has seen, but where all have been,
And there we will pause awhile.
I will croon you a song as we float along
To that shore that is blessed of God.
Then, ho! for that fair land, we're off for that rare land,
The beautiful Land of Nod!
Beauclerc, Florida.
I want to tell you about a visit to Mayport, at the mouth of the St. John's River. My brother and I left here at two o'clock on a hot day in July, on the steamer Pastime. Arriving at Jacksonville at three, we had an hour to wait, but at four we stepped on board the Water Lily, and were soon on our way. We sat on deck, enjoying the sail. At half-past six we reached Mayport, where we met mamma.
Early the next morning I took a dip in the river, as I have learned to swim. It is easier to swim in salt-water than in fresh. The ocean is only two miles from Mayport, and we picked up on the beach quantities of sea-weed and shells. My brother found a beautiful jelly-fish washed far up on the shore.
They are building a great jetty here, but it will not be done for ten years. Immense granite blocks are brought from New York for the purpose. There were several kinds, all glittering with streaks of mica. When the jetty is finished it will be fourteen or fifteen feet high, or above high-water mark. It will then be cemented all over the top and sides. The channel is nearly in the middle, and about two hundred yards wide. The intention is to confine the water inside, and let it flow only through the channel. Mattresses of log and brush are first sunk, and then stones are placed in layers on top of them.
F. C. S.
The orange blossoms came safely. I fear the magnolia seeds of which you speak in your postscript would not thrive and germinate in the cold Northern climate. Your description of the jetty, or projecting pier, which you saw building shows that you go about with your bright eyes wide open.
Turin, New York.
I do not now go to school, as it is vacation, but school commences the 1st of September. I take music and painting lessons. I have painted but one picture, as I have taken only a few lessons yet. I went to Lyon's Falls yesterday. There was a large picnic there from Utica. The falls are very pretty, and there is a story about them that a long time ago an Indian was chasing a white man, and when they came to the edge of the falls, or just above (there is just above them quite a narrow place), the white man leaped over, but the Indian did not dare to follow. I did not like the way "Toby Tyler" ended, and I do not like the way "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" ends either.
L. S. R.
P.S.—Will you please tell me what Wiggles mean?
Wiggles are lines forming portions of the outlines of pictures. When a new Wiggle is given, it is a line which forms part of the outline of a picture already drawn by our artist. Those who try to solve the Wiggle problem draw a picture containing this line. Sometimes a little girl or boy happens to draw a picture which closely resembles the one which was the artist's idea when he drew the Wiggle which all are attempting.
We must ask Mr. Otis to make his next story end so happily that you and the other little women who complain of him will be pleased and satisfied. But we think that both stories conclude in a very natural way.
Fitchburg, Massachusetts.
I am five years old. My birthday was the 28th of May. I live on a farm in summer, and have nice times blueberrying and playing in the sand-heap which is near the house. My sister picked two quarts of berries the other day. My papa goes to Boston every morning, and comes home at night. Wednesday nights he brings home Young People, and I am very glad to see it. I like "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" very much, and I think it was too bad the monkey ran away. My sister is writing this for me, because I can only print. I have two sisters, and they go to school a mile and a half from here. It is very dry here, and a great many things are dying.
Philip Sidney W.
Chicago, Illinois.
I have no pets to tell about, not even a kitty, for my mamma dislikes both dogs and cats, and is afraid they may become mad, so she will not let us have them in the house. I suppose she knows best, because she is so much older and wiser than we children, but we can't help feeling a little bit sorry. We once had a pretty little yellow canary, but my uncle Horace took it to visit his canary and to help it build a nest. His cross old bird pecked off all our little pet's feathers, and it died. I suppose the old bird was jealous because ours could sing so well, and just killed it as Cain killed Abel. Though we have no birds or pets of any kind in our house, I am glad there are plenty of animals in Lincoln Park, and lots of birds there in the trees. Cruel boys sometimes frighten these birds and rob their nests. Can anything be more wicked than this conduct in boys? A great many sparrows make their home in some Virginia creepers that cover the front of our house. On Sunday last there was a great commotion in the vines, and we found after a while that it came from some old sparrows which were trying to make their young ones go out of the nest and earn their own living. By-and-by the young sparrows fluttered out of the vines to some trees near by, and then the noise stopped—and so must my writing, or you will think my letter too long to print.
Cecilia A. B. M.
Such letters as the one which follows are received with peculiar pleasure by the publishers of Young People:
Ohio State Library, Columbus, Ohio.
Though Harper's Young People is intended for that class of persons only, yet I trust it will not be unseemly for one of "older growth" to give expression to the entertainment and instruction derived from its pages. My interest, from the issue of the first number, continues as zealous as that of any boy or girl who anxiously awaits the coming chapters of "Mr. Stubbs's Brother." Not only are its serials intensely interesting, but each issue imparts also much useful knowledge. No greater or better source of instruction and amusement can be introduced in the family circle.
Wishing you continued success in this pioneer of children's literature.
I remain very respectfully yours,
Mary C. Harbaugh.
Assistant Librarian.
I want to tell you how much pleasure I get from your paper. I am twelve years old, and live on a homestead. I have no brother nor sister. I go two miles to Sunday-school, and papa teaches me at home. I help papa on the claim, picket the stock and water them twice a day, seven head of them. I shoot with a rifle or shot-gun, and kill plenty of duck, but have not hit a wolf or antelope yet. If the buffalo were as plenty as their bones are, I would have a splendid time.
I like all the articles in our Young People, but don't know how to wait for the continued stories. Sometimes I get more circus than Toby Tyler does. I ride the old cow or an ox, have a dog that understands a good deal of English, and like to work with my papa.
I will send agates or petrifactions, for 2 ounces of maple-seeds, or beech-nuts, or basswood-seeds, or for 1 ounce of barberry-seeds. Seeds to be sound, and fit for planting. I want a few pine-seeds, for minerals.
I ought to say that my Harper's is a Christmas present, and it makes my Christmas last one year.
Dannie D. Sharp.
Olivet, Hutchinson Co., Dakota.
Olney Farm, Harford County, Maryland.
I am a little boy ten years old. I have a very little pony, about the size of a sheep, and it is perfectly white. I also have a kitten and squirrels. I have three brothers, and this summer they have all gone to Europe. My brother John has left me his pug Scamp to take care of, and that brother has given me Harper's Young People for my Christmas gift ever since it began. I have been sick, and I can hardly wait to hear the stories.
J. Alexis S.
Acton, Canada.
I am a little boy seven years old. I was born in New York State, but we came to Canada to live four years ago. My papa is a clergyman, and has a parish here in Acton, but when I get to be a man I am going back to the States to live. I go to school. Please don't give Toby a new hat; we like him just as he is best. My papa says we would not know him with a new hat on. My brother Frank and I have a pet dog and a rabbit. We went on a trip to a beautiful lake last summer, and one day, when out in a boat fishing, my papa saw a little black bear come down to the water to get a drink.
Reginald P.
You see, dear, the artist thought just as you did, that Master Toby Tyler was quite jolly enough in his old hat.
Toronto, Canada.
I am a boy ten years old. I like "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" very much. I go to the Upper Canada College; I like it very much. We have five horses; their names are Jumbo, Billy, his brother Jean, Ted, and Duke, the largest and gentlest. When the driver goes into the stall, Duke puts his head on his shoulder. If you give Jumbo an orange, he will eat it. I like cricket and foot-ball best of all the games. I am drilling at school; we have a sergeant to drill us. I like boating and swimming; I can swim pretty well now. I think fencing is splendid fun. We have a Zoo here. There is a man who puts his head into the alligator's mouth. Then he goes into the bear's and panther's cages. There is the largest Russian bear in the world here. We had no sleighing here last winter, but I went up to Owen Sound, and had some there in my Christmas holidays.
Arthur V.
San Francisco, California.
I am a little girl ten years old. On Friday last mamma, papa, and I left, with some friends, on a trip to Mount Diablo. We started at eleven o'clock in the morning. Part of the way we went in a stage-coach, and had four horses. We went to a hotel that had been shut up for a long time. There were beds, but no bedding. It was after ten o'clock at night before we went to get dinner, and after one before we got to bed. We took blankets, as we thought it would be cold in the mountains, but, instead it was 110° in the shade. We went to the very top of one of the highest mountains of California.
Nannie D.
Claremont, Minnesota.
I love to read Harper's Young People, it is so interesting. I am nine years old, and have been at school nine terms. I like to go to school. We have a dog by the name of Watch, I have some doves, and we have a cat. We have a great many flowers here. We have some up at school. I like to pick flowers. Do any of the little girls ever pick lady-slippers? They have a very pretty flower. I have a swing; it goes up pretty high. I like to swing. My brother put the swing up. My sister is my teacher this summer.
Gertrude L. G.
Take care not to swing too high, nor too long at a time. Lady-slippers are pretty, and are prettily named, too.
Dear Postmistress,—What books would you read if you were fourteen years old, had never been away from home, and were very fond of exciting novels?
John C.
It is a great pity that you should have formed a taste for exciting novels at fourteen, but if I were you, I would overcome it by reading interesting and entertaining books which are true. Fact is often stranger and more thrilling than fiction. As you have never been away from home, why not take up books of travel? You can sit at ease in your own room, or perched in a crotch of the apple-tree, or half hidden in a heap of fragrant hay, and go with Miss Bird to Japan, with Arthur Arnold to Persia, with Miss Cumming to the Feejee Islands, or with Du Chaillu to the Land of the Midnight Sun. There is hardly an out-of-the-way corner of our globe to which some brave traveller has not gone, and while reading the story of adventure or peril which the traveller relates, you will learn a great deal, and will cure yourself of a love for that sort of reading which is a mere waste of time.
A Little Heroine.—The Postmistress mentions with honor the name of Edith Baxter, of New York City. One bright afternoon in August, as the children at the Avon Beach Hotel, Bath, Long Island, were playing on the shore and in the surf, a little fellow named Harry Lee, five years old, followed his companions to a float, on which he stepped without thought of danger. Seeing them dive from it, he did the same. Presently a cry was heard that Harry was drowning. Edith Baxter, a fearless little swimmer, plunged in to the rescue, and as Harry came to the surface for the third time, she caught and held him by his golden hair, and boldly struck out for the shore. Help came, and the boy was saved. His grateful parents and the other guests of the hotel presented Edith with a beautiful gold watch and chain as a token of their admiration of her bravery.
Stapleton, New York.
Dear Postmistress,—Will you kindly suggest some nice game or games for a party of "grown-ups" on a summer's evening? If possible, I should like something which can be played outside on the piazza of a country house. If you will kindly help me, I shall be very much indebted to you.
Puzzled Inquirer.
The season for sitting out-doors in the evening is almost over, but there are many pleasant games which are equally suitable for the veranda or the parlor. What do you think of this one? A group of friends are seated together, and one begins by asking the company, "If you had your choice, which would you be, a dragon-fly or an eel?" The word to be brought into your answer is Roses.
A bright answer would be this:
"The dragon-fly at eve reposes
Upon a couch of fragrant roses,
The eel in mud must hide away;
A dragon-fly I'd be to-day."
Another: Bring in the word Cobweb in reply to the question, "How would you like to travel in the air?"
Answer:
"I confess I should not greatly care
To float like a cobweb in the air."
The game of Twenty Questions is very entertaining. One of the company leaves the room, and during his absence the others fix upon a word to be guessed by him. We will suppose Charley to have gone out. The Electric Telegraph is chosen as the subject for him to find, and he is recalled. They then proceed in this way:
Honora. We have fixed on a word. Can you guess it?
Charley. Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?
Mary (who is asked). Mineral.
Charley. Can it buy anything?
Anna. I think it can; at least I could buy things by means of it.
Charley. Oh, I guess! I suppose banks can't do without it, Ned, can they?
Edward. I dare say they find it useful.
Charley. Anthony, do you ever keep it in your pocket?
Anthony (laughing). No; that I don't.
Charley. Is it ever put in a purse, Fanny?
Fanny. No indeed; it is so big.
Charley (catching at a new idea). Then I was wrong; it is not money. Does it cross the sea?
Mary. Yes. I think it does—that is, I believe it does sometimes.
Charley. Does it go very quickly?
Honora. It works very, very quickly.
Charley. It works? It does not go, then, of itself? Is it used on railways?
Honora (laughing). Yes.
Charley. Does it pull you along sometimes, Mabel?
Mabel. No, it does not; but sometimes it causes people to travel.
Charley. Is it very large?
Anna. No; very thin.
Charley. How long is it?
Fanny. Sometimes miles long, sometimes very short. I have seen it not as long as my finger.
Charley. What can it be?
Anthony. It is a very wonderful thing; it speaks without a voice.
Charley. Ah! and you can tell the hours by it, can't you? But no, it can't be a clock, for the face of that is round, and it is not very thin. I know! I guess! It is the "Electric Telegraph." Anthony, you have helped me to guess; you must go out. But, Anna, how could you buy things with it?
Anna. I could send an order by it to a shop.
Charley. And when did Fanny see it not longer than her finger?
Anna. She saw a tiny piece of the Atlantic telegraph cable, the first one which was laid beneath the ocean. Aunt Maria had it set a charm for her watch.
Anthony goes out.
The attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. is called to an exceedingly interesting article by Mrs. Sophie B. Herrick, entitled "Plants and Animals—Their Difference." Both girls and boys will be interested in the game of "Badminton," described by Sherwood Ryse, as also in Miss Barr's poem, "The Burial of the Old Flag."
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Christina Limburger, Annie South, Eddie S. Hequembourg, Samuel H. Molleson, A. Bloomingdale, Walter P. Knight, Daniel Lindo, Frank Acheson, "Gazetta," Louis Frost, Lena Van Bosch, Ella E. A., Harry Johnston, Fannie E. Burt, Florence P. Jones, "Lodestar," Benjamin Lowenthal, Phebe D., A. W. Starboard, Beck Pierce, Puss Lester, John Tabb, "Count No Account," Olive A. McAdams, Louisa Mix, Thomas Brown, "Gretchen," Elsie Fisher, Jimmy Towers, and Eugene Davison.
My first is needed both for man and beast
If they their destined end would best pursue.
My second may describe a kingly feast,
Or tell about a heart both brave and true.
My whole a star-and-spur-stamped coin of gold,
Which, if we learn aright, is now four centuries old.
J. P. B.
1.— — seemed to hang heavily, they devised various — to shorten it.
2. It is — — mean province that I am appointed —.
3. I see no — — such — society.
4. I will be ready — — as our — are taken apart and packed.
5. They were — — before the — of the curtain.
6. Either — — I must give up our —.
7. It was for abstracting a — — rose diamond that he was about to — the man.
J. P. B.
| First in sight, not in eye. |
| Second in yam, not in pie. |
| Third in four, not in one. |
| Fourth in laugh, not in pun. |
| Fifth in catch, not in throw. |
| Sixth in run, not in grow. |
| Seventh in short, not in long. |
| Eighth in glee, not in song. |
| Whole is a place, whatever its fault, |
| Where the people who live need never lack salt. |
Louis Frost.
| First in Ida, not in May. |
| Second in trip, not in play. |
| Third in wave, not in shore. |
| Fourth in less, not in more. |
| Fifth in young, not in old. |
| My whole is a land of which stories are told. |
Ida P.
| First in gossip, not in talk. |
| Second in crayon, not in chalk. |
| Third in empty, not in full. |
| Fourth in linen, not in wool. |
| Fifth in naughty, not in bad. |
| Sixth in multiply, not in add. |
| Seventh in pastry, not in pie. |
| Eighth in weeping, not in sigh. |
| Ninth in horrid, not in nice. |
| Whole a land of snow and ice. |
Russel B. B.
1.—1. A letter. 2. A vessel. 3. Something good to eat. 4. An animal which hunts by night. 5. A letter.
2.—1. In apple. 2. A tree. 3. A book. 4. Something we expect in spring. 5. In cream.
3.—1. A letter. 2. A droll animal. 3. Part of a girl's dress. 4. A virtue. 5. A letter.
Gretchen.
1. I am a fiction; behead me, and I am capable.
2. I am a reality; behead me, and I am a deed.
3. I am a passage; behead me, and I am the whole.
4. I am a receptacle; behead me, and I am to entreat.
5. I am a rind; behead me, and I am a fish.
6. I mean to squeeze; behead me, and I am a measure.
Ella E. A.
Vacation Over, Reward of Merit.
Suez.
| E | ssen | E |
| L | ear | N |
| E | ar-rin | G |
| A | nabe | L |
| N | or | A |
| O | me | N |
| R | ea | D |
Ned. Done. Bard. I. Elect.
Benedict Arnold.
La Plata. Mocha. Ethel. Pence. Ned.
Cocoa. Pet.
Health, peace, and competence.
| R | R | S | ||||||||||||||||
| T | O | E | R | O | W | A | T | E | ||||||||||
| R | O | U | N | D | R | O | B | I | N | S | T | E | A | M | ||||
| E | N | D | B | I | N | E | A | T | ||||||||||
| D | N | M |
[For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover.]
SOMETHING LIKE A BITE.
A veteran trapper recommends a curious device for fishing at night, known as the lantern trap. A pine torch or a bull's-eye lantern in the bow of a boat has long been in use as a means of attracting fish, but an illuminated bait under water is as novel a mode of fishing as it is successful.
The bait is easily made. A piece of stick phosphorus the size of a hazel-nut is cut into small pieces, and placed in a three-ounce glass vial half filled with sweet-oil. Care must be taken to cut and handle the phosphorus under water, as it is a dangerous substance to deal with. After several hours the phosphorus dissolves in the oil and forms a thick fluid, which in the dark will give forth a bright glow.
Having corked the bottle tightly, attach it to a string and drop it overboard, as in ordinary fishing. The water around it becomes lighted up, and many fish will be attracted by the unusual brightness.
Beneath the lantern an ordinary circular net should be let down, and when the fish are swarming around the light, draw the net up quickly, and it will go hard with you if you do not bring to the surface a good haul of fish.
This is a novel and most ingenious mode of fishing, and though there is very little sport in it compared with that of angling with a rod and line, it may be useful when, as frequently happens, fish will not bite, and the night's supper or the morrow's breakfast must be provided for, lest the young woods-man go hungry to bed, or awake with a keen appetite to realize that some hours must elapse before he can have breakfast.
This very funny game was first suggested by the metre of the little nursery rhyme intended to teach children to read. Each of the players is given one letter of the alphabet in order, and has ten minutes allowed him in which to choose an animal the name of which begins with the letter that has been given to him, and to write a verse about it in the style of the well-known jingle, "A was an archer," etc. When the time has expired each recites his verse. A few specimen jingles are given below to show that the verses must be made as grotesque and humorous as possible, much more attention being given to rhyme than to reason:
A was a curious old ant-eater,
A very strange and remarkable creetur;
And if of a sudden he wanted to dine,
I should not much care if he took one of mine.
B is a bison, whose rough, shaggy hide
Is a comfortable thing when you take a sleigh-ride;
But when he is in it, not pleasant to meet
When he tramples the plain with his swift little feet.
C is a scaly old crocodile,
Who lazily sleeps in the mud of the Nile;
But you never can trust in the strength of his nap,
For if you go near him his great jaws may snap.
Cut the moon out of the sky, and place it over the end of the fan. Then you will see inscribed on the fan the word "Taffy," which the little girl is supposed to be giving to her cousin Gus.
"DOES POLLY WANT A CRACKER?"
"YES; AND POLL'S GOT IT TOO, HASN'T SHE?"
[1] Begun in No. 146, Harper's Young People.
[2] From New Games for Parlor and Lawn. By George B. Bartlett. New York: Harper & Brothers. (In Press.)
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