Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, July 26, 1881, by Various
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Title: Harper's Young People, July 26, 1881
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: February 21, 2015 [EBook #48324]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, JULY 27, 1881 ***
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 91. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, July 26, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: RICHARD WHITTINGTON.--[SEE NEXT PAGE.]]
THE LITTLE MILLIONAIRE.
My little daughter climbed up on my knee,
And said, with an air of great mystery,
"I've a secret to tell you, papa,
But I must whisper it close in your ear,
And don't you speak of it, papa dear,
For there's nobody knows but mamma.
"_I am very rich! Very rich indeed!_
I have far more money than I shall need;
I counted my money to-day--
Twenty new pennies--all of them mine--
And one little silver piece called a dime
That I got from my grandpapa Gray.
"I have fourteen nickels and one three-cent,
Five silver quarters, though one of them's bent;
And, papa dear, something still better,
Three big white dollars! not one of them old,
And, whisper, one beautiful piece of gold
That came in my uncle Tom's letter."
Then she clapped her small hands, laughed merry and clear,
Put her soft rosy lips down close to my ear,
(Oh, so lovely the fair curly head!)
"Am I not very rich? Now answer me true,
Am I not richer, far richer, than you?
Whisper, papa," she artlessly said.
I looked at her face, so young and so fair,
I thought of her life untouched by care,
And I said, with a happy sigh,
As my lips touched softly her waiting ear,
"You're exceedingly rich, my daughter dear!
Ten thousand times richer than I!"
THE MODEL MERCHANT OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
Out into the wide, wide world, where the fancy of high-spirited youth
sees fame and fortune awaiting the daring adventurer, trudged the hero
of an oft-told romance five hundred years and more ago. But the story of
Dick Whittington is not all romance, and for the reason that it is in a
great part real history, it is the more interesting.
The son of a gentleman of good birth but of wasted fortune, Richard
Whittington was early sent up to London to be apprenticed to a merchant
in that city, which even then was among the greatest and wealthiest in
Christendom. An apprentice's lot was by no means a happy one. He was
bound to his employer by law until he should reach the age of twenty-one
years, and his duties were often of the most disagreeable and humble
character. He lived in his master's house, and was treated no better
than one of the lower kind of servants. It can easily be understood,
therefore, how distasteful such a life must have been to a high-spirited
boy whose days had been passed in the freedom of the woods and fields.
And so, wearied by the tiresome life he led, the North-country boy
determined to venture forth into the world to seek his fortune.
Doubtless many apprentices had done as Dick Whittington did, but neither
history nor legend has preserved their memory.
With a few articles of food and clothing tied up in a bundle, he left
his master's house in Cheapside one summer evening, and set his face
toward the north. After two or three hours' walking, he sat down to rest
before ascending Highgate Hill, which was then far out in the country,
though now it is a populous part of the great metropolis. Already he
must have been tired and hungry, for he had done a day's work before he
started, and had probably saved his supper to swell his little stock of
provisions. He had walked several miles, darkness was coming on, and he
had met with no adventures. What wonder, then, that, as he rested, the
tones of Bow-bells on the soft evening air fitted themselves to words
suggested by his lonely situation, and the high hopes that were within
him, and bade him return and thrice reign over the city which had
hitherto treated him so roughly. The romance of the runaway was over. He
obeyed the fancied summons, and returned to fight the dull stern battle
of life, and win the victories which destiny had in store for him.
But if young Whittington seems to have shown a faint heart by so soon
abandoning the adventure on which he had embarked, he proved that he
possessed courage of a more real kind by returning to take his part in
that life where, at least as much as elsewhere, fame and fortune were to
be won. Restored to his former position in the merchant's household, the
strong-willed lad bore his part bravely, and soon gained the confidence
of his employer, whose daughter he afterward married. He was taken into
partnership, and by a fortunate speculation in cats, if we accept the
legend (which, however, though the most picturesque event in his career,
is probably the least true), he laid the foundation of the largest
fortune of those times gained in commerce.
Bow-bells had promised him that he should be thrice Lord Mayor of
London; but fate was even kinder to him than prophecy, for Whittington
held that ancient and honorable office no fewer than four times. During
one of his terms of office he entertained at a grand banquet King Henry
the Fifth, the hero of Agincourt, who, besides being his sovereign, was
also his debtor to a very large amount, for kings in those days were not
above borrowing from their subjects. After the banquet the Lord Mayor
caused a great fire to be made in the hall, and in the presence of the
King and Queen and all their noble retinue he threw into the fire the
bonds which the King had given him as acknowledgment of the loan, thus
releasing his sovereign from the debt. Henry, who was himself a man of
generous nature, was greatly moved by this striking act of loyalty, and
exclaimed, "Never, surely, had King such a subject!"
"Ah, sire," returned the courtly Lord Mayor, "never had subject such a
King!"
It were hard to believe that so noble a prince as Henry the Fifth took
advantage of this generous act, and fortunately history does not tell us
whether the debt remained unpaid because the evidence of it was
destroyed. Let us give the King the benefit of the doubt, and trust that
the money was afterward honorably repaid, and went to swell the number
of those charities with which the name of Sir Richard Whittington is for
all time connected.
No one person of that time has left greater or more varied proofs of
benevolence. The sick who lay in the wards of St. Bartholomew's Hospital
blessed the memory of its benefactor, the great Lord Mayor; and the
felons confined in the cells of Newgate Prison owed their comparative
comfort to that kind heart which recognized the fact that even those
whom crime has outlawed from society are still our fellow-beings.
Scholars owe to the 'prentice lad, whose own schooling was mostly of the
sternest practical sort, the foundation of a college and two libraries,
which are still in existence; and thanks are due to him in great part
for the nave of Westminster Abbey, the cost of building which
Whittington bore in common with another London merchant.
But Whittington was above all things a great merchant, and, as such, did
much for commerce. Some of our readers may have seen the London
Directory, an immense, closely printed book, which contains the names
and residences of nearly four millions of people. Five hundred years ago
Sir Richard Whittington caused to be prepared a directory of all the
trades in London, and thus was the first, so far as we know, to issue
what has now become a necessity in our daily business, and as familiar
as it is necessary--a City Directory.
Do you not think he is rightly called "the model merchant of the Middle
Ages?"
BITS OF ADVICE.
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
"I BEG YOUR PARDON."
When little Tom Macaulay was about four years old, he was taken by his
father to call upon Lady Waldegrave, at Strawberry Hill, and there an
awkward servant spilled some hot coffee over his legs. The hostess was
very sorry indeed, and after a while asked him if he felt any better.
"Thank you, madam," said the small gentleman, "the agony is abated."
I do not expect you, my dear children, to use words so quaint as those
which were quite natural to young Macaulay, but I should be glad if you
would try to have equal politeness. Politeness is simply the highest
form of unselfishness, and the finest manners spring from a kind heart.
There is a difference between manner and manners, which I think you can
understand. Manner is the expression of a person's character, and
manners are the person's every-day dress. One may have at the same time
an awkward _manner_, and polished manners, contradictory as it seems to
say so. The only way to be sure of having both in perfection is to begin
when you are young, and practice self-control in your life at home.
There are certain rules to which courteous people conform in society,
and these you can easily learn, partly by asking, partly by obedience,
and partly by observation. Conventionality is a long word, and some good
men and women affect to despise it; but it is, on the whole, very
convenient, and life is far more agreeable where people are governed by
its good order and system than where they act independently and
brusquely.
I beg your pardon for giving you a hint about two or three common usages
which you know of, but sometimes forget. Lewis was passing hurriedly
through the dining-room yesterday, when his aunt Carrie spoke to him. He
did not hear precisely what she said, so he stood in the doorway and
said, "What, ma'am?" "I beg pardon," would have been more elegant there.
But when he entered mamma's chamber, where she and sister Sue were
having a confidential chat, if he wished to interrupt the talk for a
moment, the right thing to say would have been, not "I beg pardon," but
"Please excuse me."
Bessie came down to breakfast one morning lately, and at once seated
herself, and began to drum on the table with her spoon. Nothing could
have been ruder, and I was surprised, for I had thought Bessie a
well-bred child. She ought to have waited until the family had
assembled, and then she should not have taken her place until mamma was
ready to sit down.
But when Clara was visiting at the Stanleys' she really tried to be very
polite, and she made one mistake--one, indeed, which older people often
make. Mrs. Stanley helped her bountifully to pudding, and she passed it
along to her next neighbor. She ought to have retained it herself, as it
was meant for and apportioned to her.
Bob Hartt has two or three friends staying a few days at his house, and
his sister Agnes finds it a great trial to eat with them, and why? Would
you believe that Will Fleming appears at the dinner table _without his
coat_, that Arthur Samson eats _with his knife_, and that Phil Decker
gobbles his soup in the greatest haste, and almost swallows the spoon,
instead of taking the soup, as polite people do, from the _side of the
spoon_? These boys are honest and faithful at school, but they have not
been taught good manners.
The other day I stepped out of a street car, with my hands full of
parcels. I was very tired. A boy I know left his playmates, ran up to
me, and said, "Aunt Marjorie, I'll help you carry those things." Now was
he not kind, and polite too? I think so.
THE PEREGRINATING ORCHESTRA.
BY F. E. FRYATT.
That the Popolo family were musical was beyond all question, seeing that
every member, from Pietro padre, down to Pepita, the baby, either sung
or played on some musical instrument.
Pietro was an aristocrat in his profession, for he had risen from the
rank of organ-grinder to the proud eminence of possessor of and
performer on six musical instruments; and what is most wonderful, he
could play on all six at the same time, to the infinite delight of
astonished audiences.
Pietro and his pretty wife Teresa were born in Italy, the land of music.
They were poor but ambitious, and having heard that in our country gold
was so plenty that one might almost pick it up in the streets, they
desired nothing so much as to come here; so they counted their florins,
bade their people farewell, and crossed the blue ocean.
Like many other young couples who had come before them, they soon found
that the gold was not scattered in the streets, but must be gained only
by persistent and patient industry.
Teresa had an old uncle named Luigi Nicolai, who had, by "hook and
crook" literally, amassed a snug little fortune. After considerable
hunting they found him in lofty but rather dingy rooms in Crosby Street,
a quarter Of New York which might well be called New Italy, so many of
these people live there.
The meeting between the three was affectionate and lively; and dear me!
their tongues travelled so nimbly for the next three hours that I will
not attempt to tell you half they said, especially as it was all in
Italian; but this I know, they went to ask Luigi's advice, and he gave
it.
The result was, the Popolos bought a hand-organ and a tambourine, and
commenced business the next morning.
From the very beginning the young people prospered, Teresa's bright eyes
and gay bodice, no less than the merry jigs and pathetic wailings of the
instrument, serving as so many magnets to attract the coppers from the
people's pockets, in spite of the "hard times" of which they were always
complaining.
Again it was summer. "Week in and week out" Pietro and his faithful wife
had trudged forth in sunshine and storm, and now they had a modest
little sum lying by in the savings-bank. And they had something
infinitely more precious than silver or gold--little Pepita, a perfect
cherub of a babe, with bright black eyes and rings of silken soft hair.
Teresa lost no time in preparing Signorita Pepita for her coming
vocation. Was she not prettier and more mischievous than a monkey?
hadn't she a voice sweeter than an angel's?
"Carissima mia," she would cry, "will not de monees pour into dese
little brown hand as one riv-are?"
And so it proved. Little Pepita, in her mob-cap, was fondled and patted
by the women, and run after by the children, who were delighted to leave
their pennies in her chubby fist, so that Teresa's tin cup was filled to
overflowing; and one day Pietro sold his old barrel-organ, and bought a
brand-new one.
To say there was contentment in the Popolo apartments that evening would
but faintly express it. Uncle Luigi and some neighbors were invited to
participate in the rejoicing. It lessened not the pleasure of the party
one whit that the rooms smelled strongly of fried fish and garlic; on
the contrary, it increased it by anticipation, for Teresa was famous for
her cookery.
Supper, however, was a secondary consideration. The new organ must be
looked at first, and Teresa lighted an extra lamp for the occasion, and
was made very happy by the praises bestowed upon the new instrument.
Now that Teresa had baby to carry, her tambourine lay idle. This and
their prosperity set her to thinking, and the result was a letter to
her cousins Andrea and Luisa Felippo, which bade them "come to America,
where the people were so fond of music that one might fairly whistle the
money out of their pockets."
The Felippos came, Andrea bringing with him his flageolet, and Luisa a
small sum of money with which to set up housekeeping in the New World.
Nor were they an unwelcome or undesirable addition to the little troupe
of musicians. Andrea, with his gold ear-rings, conical hat, and velvet
trousers, and Luisa, with her picturesque peasant dress, became paying
attractions. They were not announced by flaming handbills, nor were they
trumpeted forth in the newspapers like Ole Bull or Wilhelmj, or Patti or
Nilsson, but they soon acquired a wide-spread fame of their own on the
east side--a fame some day to be increased fourfold by an _event_, the
realization of a secret hope in the breasts of Pietro and Teresa Popolo.
In a certain side street of the city was a curious old shop, in which
was stored all sorts of second-hand musical instruments. Now Pietro was
of an inventive turn, and possessed considerable mechanical skill.
No one knew but the good wife Teresa where he spent so many evenings,
while she sat at home singing and rocking the cradle.
Andrea and Luisa would drop in for a chat. Neighbor Giuseppe frequently
inquired for her husband, and to all she would say, smilingly, "Wait;
you not know dis night."
Meantime the object of their solicitude was busy with his awl and his
knife, and a lot of buckles and straps, preparing the wonderful
invention that was to delight the people, and pour in money for the
little Pepita's dowry.
Toward the last Teresa was obliged to go with him one or two evenings to
help him with the straps and buckles, and to test the working powers of
the great-- But I must not go ahead of my story. It was still a secret
to Andrea and Luisa, but they went to look at _It_ the evening before
Pietro decided to exhibit it on the street.
Now, children, guess what It was, if you are able.
[Illustration: THE PEREGRINATING ORCHESTRA AT WORK.]
Look at the picture of Pietro, and you will find It on his back and his
head, in his hands, and at his feet.
It is the peregrinating orchestra, that is, the travelling or wandering
orchestra.
Do you wonder that the women have left their wash-tubs to gaze from the
laundry windows, that the tenement-house is emptying its population to
look at and listen to this wonderful man and his musical family?
Here you may count six different musical instruments or contrivances,
connected with each other by an ingenious set of straps, so that the
movement of one sets all the others going in proper time.
Just fancy Pietro is playing the "Star-spangled Banner." He touches D,
B, G, the first notes of the air, on the accordion. Up fly the
drumsticks; it's time they were busy. "Rub-a-dub," says the snare-drum;
"boom, boom, boom," growls the bass-drum; "crash, crash," shriek the
cymbals; "chink-a-chink, chink-a-chink," rattles the tambourine;
"jingle, jingle," ring the bells from the little tower on his head;
while the poor accordion puffs and wails laboriously.
Nor is this all; for Andrea is piping away steadily on his flageolet,
Luisa is shaking her tambourine, and Pepita is flourishing her ivory
rattle with the silver bells, as pleased with the whole affair as any
member of the crowd.
Pietro has indeed reached the top of his profession; for what more could
one man be expected to do in the way of music than he is already doing?
Andrea has certainly a good example to follow. He has only to bear in
mind, as Pietro did, good old Nicolai's motto, "Poco a poco"--little by
little--and he too may prosper.
As for little Pepita, her history is only just begun; but I shouldn't
wonder, from the present promising state of affairs, if we should hear
of her as the lovely and admired heiress Signorita Pepita Popolo,
daughter of the famous Pietro Popolo, the performer, or rather
professor, of the peregrinating orchestra.
[Begun in No. 80 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, May 10.]
THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST."
BY W. L. ALDEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," ETC.
CHAPTER XII.
The morning dawned bright and clear. What little wind there was blew
steadily from the northwest, and there was not the least reason to
suppose that it would change during the day. The boys breakfasted on
cold boiled beef, sitting on the deck near the wheel, so that they could
breakfast together. It was not a very delightful breakfast, but it was
better than raw cod-fish, and a great deal better than no breakfast at
all.
As the foretopsail and spanker were enough to give steerage-way to the
brig, Charley ordered the foresail to be hauled up and the jib taken in
immediately after breakfast. He told his comrades that all hope of
getting the vessel into port must now be abandoned, and that they must
keep the brig from drifting any further to the southward than could be
helped.
"Those sails ought to be furled," said Charley, as he came in from
furling the jib, "but I can't roll them up alone. Who will come aloft
with me and furl the main-top-gallant-sail?"
Joe was at the wheel, and both Harry and Tom at once volunteered to help
their Captain. They found it easy enough to climb the rigging--and
indeed Harry had already been up to the maintop--but when they came to
lie out on the top-gallant-yard, they found it a very ticklish task. The
foot-rope had an unpleasant way of sagging under their weight, and
seemed to them to afford a very insecure foot-hold. At first they could
do little except hang on to the yard, but presently their nervousness
wore off, and they found themselves rolling up the sail and passing the
gaskets, under Charley's direction, with a confidence that surprised
them. "When you once get used to it," said Charley, "you will find that
going aloft isn't half so risky as climbing trees. Here you always have
a rope to hang on to, and you can be sure that it won't break, but when
you are up in a tall tree you never can tell when a branch is going to
break and let you down, or when your feet will slip on the bark."
After the maintop-gallant-sail was furled, the boys furled the
foretop-gallant-sail with much more ease, and descended to the deck
quite proud of their exploit. The foresail was too heavy for them to
handle, so the buntlines and leech-lines were hauled as taut as
possible, and the sail was left to hang in the brails. The brig was now
under her foretopsail and spanker, and steered so easily that Joe had
little hard work to do. The sea had become so smooth that not even a
particle of spray sprinkled the low deck of the vessel, and the boys
began to find the time hang rather heavily on their hands as they
watched for some friendly sail to come and rescue them.
"I wonder where the _Ghost_ is," said Harry.
"Sunk by this time," replied Tom. "You know how she was leaking, and
with no one to pump her out, she wouldn't keep afloat twenty-four
hours."
"I meant to stop that leak," remarked Charley. "I think I know about
where it was, and when the sea went down we could probably have got at
it. What a nice boat she was!"
"How we shall hate to tell Uncle John that we've lost her!" Harry
exclaimed. "I know she cost him a good deal, and it's pretty hard that
he should lose all the money he has put into her."
"We can't ask him to buy any more boats for us," said Tom. "I was
expecting that we could sell the _Ghost_ for money enough to get us all
canoes, but now we'll have to give the canoe plan up."
"The fact is," said Joe, "this hasn't been the most successful cruise in
the world. We've been out only about ten days, and now we're expecting
to be taken home like shipwrecked sailors, with the loss of everything
but our clothes."
"If we only get back safe, we needn't worry about anything," replied
Tom. "Suppose no vessel comes to help us! The brig will sink some of
these days, and I'm thinking that it won't be very long before she makes
up her mind to try it."
"Then we can make a raft," said Charley, cheerfully, "and cruise on that
until we are picked up. I am almost willing to promise you that we are
taken off this brig sometime today. By-the-bye, did I tell you that I've
found out what her name is?"
"How did you find it out?" asked Harry. "You know it is washed off the
stern so that we couldn't make it out."
"Why," Charley replied, "I looked in the forecastle bell yesterday
afternoon, and there it was, the _Hirondelle_, of Bordeaux. I forgot to
tell you of it at the time. How she comes to be here with a load of
timber is something I can't make out."
"There's a sail!" exclaimed Harry.
"Where?" cried Charley.
"'Way over on our starboard quarter. I can just see her."
Charley immediately ran aloft and looked anxiously at the distant
stranger. He came down and reported that she was apparently a schooner,
and seemed to be steering directly toward the brig.
"Do you think they see us?" asked Tom.
"They see our spars, but they can't see our signal of distress, and
unless they do see it they won't pay any attention to us. However,
they'll be up with us in the course of two or three hours, unless the
schooner changes her course, which she probably won't do."
The boys watched the schooner with the utmost interest for a long time,
but she seemed to them hardly to move. Joe got tired of watching, and
exclaimed, "There's no use in looking at her; a watched schooner never
boils."
"How could a schooner boil?" inquired matter-of-fact Tom.
"I have something to amuse you, boys," interrupted Charley. "Let's try
to get the brig before the wind, and run down to the schooner. Come
forward with me, and we'll hoist the head-sails. Tom, you and Harry
lower the spanker while I go and loose the sails."
Charley went forward and loosed the jib and flying-jib, and by the time
this was done, Harry and Tom had succeeded in taking in the spanker, and
had come to help him. When the jib and flying-jib were set, Charley
ordered Joe to put the helm hard up. As the brig slowly fell off, he
slacked the lee forebrace and foretopsail-brace, and then with Harry and
Tom hauled in the weather-braces, until the unassisted strength of the
three boys could no longer stir the heavy yards. Then, letting go the
head-sheets, they hurried aft and hoisted the spanker. By this time the
brig had swung nearly around, and by taking the braces to the capstan
the yards were finally braced up, and the wind brought on the port beam.
The _Hirondelle_ was no longer running away from the schooner, and it
was evident that the crew of the latter would understand that the brig
wanted to meet them. As the wind was now fair, Charley proceeded to get
the foretop-gallant-sail on her, and kept his crew so busy that they
were surprised to find, when their work was over, that the schooner was
only about a mile distant.
[Illustration: "HURRAH! THERE'S THE 'GHOST'!"]
"Hurrah! There's the _Ghost_!" Harry suddenly cried. "The schooner is
towing her."
Sure enough, the little _Ghost_ was there, in the wake of the schooner.
There could be no mistake about it, for when she pitched, the boys could
distinctly see the canvas cabin.
Charley ran forward and let go the top-gallant and topsail halyards, and
slacked the top-gallant sheets so that the sail flapped uselessly in the
light air. The schooner, which was now close by, hove to, and after some
delay her boat was launched, and the boat's crew of four men were soon
on the deck of the brig.
"What in all creation are you boys doing aboard this brig?" asked the
big good-humored mate of the schooner.
"We were blown out to sea in that sail-boat that you are towing,"
answered Charley, "and we boarded the brig; and while we were trying to
get sail on her the _Ghost_ got adrift."
"Trying to get sail on her, were you? Did you boys set that there
topsail?"
"We did."
"And where on earth were you trying to get to?"
Charley told the mate the whole story--how they had tried to sail the
brig into New York, and how the head-wind had baffled them. "Now," said
he, "if you'll take us and the _Ghost_ to Sandy Hook, we'll be only too
glad to abandon the brig, for we can never get her into port with this
wind."
"Should rayther think you couldn't. Why, you might as well try to work
Trinity Church to windward with a leg-of-mutton sail rigged on to the
steeple. Come aboard the schooner with us, and we'll see what the old
man says."
The "old man," or Captain of the schooner, was an honest down East
sailor, who first cautiously induced the boys to say that they abandoned
all claim to the brig, and then told them that he would carry them to
New York, and give them back their sail-boat. He left the mate and two
men on board the _Hirondelle_, giving them the schooner's small-boat,
and then steered for Sandy Hook.
The boys had a pleasant sail in the schooner. She was bound from Boston
to Philadelphia, but with the hope of saving the brig, the Captain had
decided to go to New York, and to send a steam-tug back to tow the brig
in. This brought the wind directly ahead, but the schooner, making long
tacks, worked to windward so beautifully that by noon the next day she
was up to the light-ship. There a steam-tug was met, and the Captain of
the schooner instantly hired her to go in search of the brig, and to tow
her into port.
While the headway of the schooner was checked to enable the Captain to
bargain with the Captain of the steamer, the boys shook hands with
everybody, and climbed down into the _Ghost_. When the latter was picked
up by the schooner she was pumped out, and the leak was stopped. Nothing
was missing from her cabin, and the boys lost no time in setting the jib
and mainsail, or rather what could be set of the latter without the
gaff.
Even with her crippled mainsail, the _Ghost_ kept ahead of the schooner
for a long while, and the latter did not overtake her until she was half
way from Sandy Hook to the Narrows. Now that home was so near, and the
dangers of the cruise were over, the boys regretted that they had not
cut loose from the schooner when she was within sight of Fire Island
inlet. They could have entered the Great South Bay through the inlet,
and carried out their plan of crossing from Shinnecock Bay to Peconic
Bay.
"It is a shame," said Harry, "to go home when nobody is expecting us. We
told them we should be gone for at least four weeks."
"What is a greater shame, if you look at it in that way, is our giving
up the brig to the schooner's people," remarked Charley.
"Why, what else could we do?" asked Tom. "You said yourself that we
couldn't work the brig in, and that we must abandon her."
"Why couldn't we have hired the captain to send us a steam-tug? We could
have staid on board the brig just as well as the mate and the two men,
and if the steam-tug tows them in, why couldn't we have been towed in?"
"I never thought of that," exclaimed Tom.
"Nor I," said Harry and Joe, both together.
"Well, I did think of it," resumed Charley, "and if I'd been alone on
the brig, I would have done it. But then Uncle John expected me to take
care of the _Ghost_ and her crew, and I wasn't instructed to run any
risk for the sake of bringing abandoned vessels into port. We did right
to give up the brig, but at the same time we did lose a fair chance of
making a good big sum of money."
"Why shouldn't we keep right on through Hell Gate into the Sound, and
cruise round that way to Canoe Place, and come back through the South
Bays?" said Harry. "We can do it easily enough in four weeks."
"And not go home at all?" asked Tom.
"Not till we get back from the cruise. I'm ready to do it."
"So am I," said Joe. "I've been dry for two days, and I begin to feel
really uncomfortable. Let's go on, and get wet some more."
"I can go just as well as not," said Charley. "I've nothing else to do."
"And I'd like nothing better," added Tom.
"Then we'll stop somewhere in the city and lay in provisions, and then
go through Hell Gate as soon as the tide will let us," said Harry.
"Why not stop a day or two, and see Uncle John, and talk to him about a
canoe cruise?" suggested Charley. "Perhaps we could sell the _Ghost_,
and get canoes, and have our canoe cruise this summer instead of next
year."
"That's what we ought to do," said Tom. "We would enjoy the change from
a sail-boat to a canoe more just now than we ever will again."
"And I don't think it would be quite right to start on what would
really be a new cruise without seeing Uncle John," said Charley. "We
mustn't do it. We'll go home, and if we can manage to get canoes, we'll
have a canoe cruise, and if we can't, why, we'll sail up the Sound,
provided you can all get permission to go."
So it was settled that the _Ghost_ should head for Harlem, and that her
crew should go home for a day or two. Everybody was satisfied with this
decision, and in the hope of starting on a canoe cruise, Tom, Harry, and
Joe busied themselves in discussing different routes. Before they had
finally settled where they would cruise, Charley ran the boat into the
dock at Harlem, and the cruise of the _Ghost_ was ended.
THE END.
A DOUBLE AMBUSH.
BY GEORGE H. COOMER.
We lived in Florida (said Mrs. Walters) through all the Seminole war,
which lasted seven years, so that I grew up with the names of the great
hostile chiefs, Osceola, Alligator, Wild Cat, and Tiger Tail, making a
part of my childhood.
A sense of peril was always present with us. I remember the feelings
with which we heard of the slaughter of Lieutenant Dade and his command.
The tragedy took place in open battle, yet it seemed dreadful that so
many brave men should be shot down in the dark woods, with the painted
savages yelling around them.
In the spring when I was thirteen and my brother Arthur fifteen the war
was at its worst, and my father talked strongly of removing to a greater
distance from the danger.
Among our few slaves, consisting only of two black families, was a
half-idiotic young negro named Jason, who had the privilege of wandering
pretty much as he pleased. He would often remain all day in the forest,
either lying asleep or mocking the gobble of the wild turkeys.
One day he returned with an appearance which startled us. His woolly
head had been completely shaved, and his black face dyed to a bright
scarlet. He had, however, received no real hurt, and seemed not in the
least terrified by the ordeal through which he must have passed.
We gathered from his broken sentences that he had fallen in with
Indians; and it was plain that they had been in some measure true to the
proverbial respect of their people for idiots. An ordinary person they
would have sacrificed without mercy; but when Jason stared aimlessly at
the tree-tops, or gobbled like a turkey, they simply set their mark upon
him, and let him go.
The incident showed that our danger was more immediate than had been
supposed; but there was fortunately a squad of United States cavalry
picketed within a few miles of us, and my father lost no time in
notifying the officer in command of what had occurred. The soldiers,
however, could find nothing of the enemy, and in the mean time we passed
a couple of days in very anxious suspense. The movements of Indian
warriors are erratic, and to white men unaccountable.
My parents began to regain confidence, believing that the Seminoles were
gone from the neighborhood, as they doubtless were for the time. Father
said they were probably scouts, and there was no telling how they might
have scattered themselves, or at what point some of them might appear
next. He hoped, however, that the presence of the soldiers had led them
to abandon any design they might have entertained of attacking us.
On the third day after Jason's adventure we were feeling much relieved.
The negro men were at work in the fields, and father had gone to a
considerable distance from the house. Mother, Arthur, and myself, with
the female servants, were within-doors.
Presently, not far off, we heard the gobble of a wild turkey, or what
seemed such, although, as turkeys were not in the habit of approaching
so near the house, we imagined Jason to be at his old silly pastime
again, imitating the call which he could so well counterfeit.
The notes were continued with great regularity at intervals of a minute
or two, and so natural were they that Arthur would have been all on fire
to seize his rifle and hurry in quest of the game had he not remembered
how often he had been led upon a fruitless chase by the vocal powers of
the poor idiot.
"We all excel in something," said my mother, "and Jason was made to call
turkeys. But I do wish he would be quiet; it makes me nervous to hear
him."
"Jason," said a little negro girl who just then came in from the rear of
the premises; "why, missus, Jason done gone asleep in de shade at de
back ob de wash-house. I done seen him dis minute."
Arthur hastened out-doors, looked behind the wash-house, and having
assured himself that the black boy had nothing to do with the gobbling,
returned quickly for his rifle.
"It is a real turkey," he said, "and he's somewhere in the hollow."
The hollow was made by a depression of the ground about fifty rods from
the house front, and running parallel with it. Upon its further side was
a decayed stump, some four or five feet high, standing below the sloping
bank, and with its top just visible from the house. Of this stump the
portion next to the slope had so fallen away as to leave a large cavity
capable of containing a man.
The gobble indicated the turkey's whereabouts pretty definitely.
"He's somewhere near that stump," said Arthur; "perhaps inside of it,
sitting up on the rotten wood toward the top. I'm afraid he'll get high
enough to see me. But I'll make a circuit, and creep around where the
ground is lower."
He went out at the back door, so as to make sure of not being seen. The
land on our right, a few rods from the house, was very low, the
depression stretching off in crescent shape until it reached the gully,
which crossed it at fair rifle-shot distance from the stump.
Arthur, young as he was, had already become an excellent marksman,
having for two years possessed a rifle of his own, which father had
bought him, and which was almost always in his hands. We had no doubt
that, with anything like an ordinary chance, he would put a ball through
the turkey's head, and return in triumph.
But somehow, after he went out, a sudden thought seemed to strike
mother. Wasn't it strange that a turkey should come so far out of the
woods, and keep up such a gobbling in the hollow? No, not strange,
perhaps, nor very unusual; and she wondered at her own uneasiness. But
her nerves had been shaken by poor Jason's incident.
The house had a half-story in front, with two small windows above the
ground rooms, and mother's feelings impelled her to run up there for a
better view. She wished to see where father was, and perhaps might
discover something of the wild turkey.
I was close at her side. We saw father with his rifle away off across
the fields, and the negroes at a distance from him engaged in their
work. The stump, too, was visible nearly to its foot, and at intervals
we caught sight of Arthur carefully working his way in a half-circuit
toward the gully.
Father had evidently heard the turkey, and was warily approaching the
spot where it seemed to be. His half-stooping posture showed that he
feared the bird might get upon the stump and see him.
Suddenly mother started, and her face had a look of ghastly terror.
Something which certainly was no turkey rose a little above the stump,
between its shattered rim and the grass of the bank. I saw it too, and
my blood ran cold.
It was something that greatly resembled the head of an Indian. We felt
that the face must be peering through the grass toward my father, while
we saw the black, gleaming hair behind.
Without doubt it was a Seminole warrior in ambush, watching father's
approach.
Mother gave an agonized cry. "What shall I do?--oh! what shall I do?"
she exclaimed.
Would not any signal or outcry she could make be misunderstood at such a
distance, and only hasten the catastrophe, since father was still thirty
rods beyond the Indian, and eighty from the house? Then where was
Arthur, who had now disappeared? And should she by a sudden alarm cause
him to show himself, might not the Seminole rise up and shoot him on the
spot? She was dizzy with her sense of the dreadful situation.
But in a moment I called out to her, "There's Arthur, mother! there's
Arthur!" for I saw him among the rank grass, lying flat upon the ground,
within good rifle-shot of the stump, which he seemed to be watching
intently.
Once again the Indian's head was shown slightly, and we got an instant's
glimpse of Arthur's rifle. But the black hair disappeared, and the
weapon was lowered.
Father was now so near the scene of danger that we had no alternative
but to watch. Terrible as was her anxiety, mother now felt that Arthur
had discovered what kind of game the old stump contained. She knew that
the Indian could not fire at father without exposing his own head, and
that the moment it appeared it would be covered by her brave boy's
rifle.
How our hearts beat for the few moments that intervened! Another gobble
came from the stump. Father was working his way stealthily toward it in
anticipation of a prize, and Arthur lay still as death in the grass.
All at once we saw the sunlight glance upon a mass of long raven hair
that rose slowly above the gnarled wood which had hidden it. Father was
within six rods of the spot. It was a dreadful moment.
Our eyes turned to Arthur. The grass in front of the slight knoll where
he lay was not high enough to interfere with his aim as his elbow rested
on the ground. We could see him drop his young face against the breech
of his gun. The barrel gleamed for a single instant, a puff of smoke
streamed from the muzzle, and he leaped to his feet.
But there was a still more sudden leap from the old stump, for an
Indian, with flying hair, and with his rifle still clutched in his hand,
sprang up and fell dead against the slope which had concealed him from
father's view.
The reunion which followed, when we all ran into each other's arms,
joyful, yet thrilled with consternation, I will not dwell upon.
We found the dead enemy to be a tall young warrior, hideously painted,
and having in his belt a hatchet and a knife.
He had no doubt entered the gully from the swamp, and seeing father at a
distance, had attempted to decoy him within gunshot by imitating a wild
turkey.
The occasion proved to be the only one on which the Seminole war was
brought home to us, as the successes of the United States troops
afterward kept the Indians at a distance from our neighborhood.
[Illustration: "WHO'S AFRAID OF A GOOSE?"--DRAWN BY S. G. MCCUTCHEON.]
[Illustration]
THE LION'S RIDE.
[Illustration]
The lion is the desert's King; through his domain so wide
Right swiftly and right royally this night he means to ride.
By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink, close crouches the
grim chief;
The trembling sycamore above whispers with every leaf.
At evening on the Table Mount, when ye can see no more
The changeful play of signals gay; when the gloom is speckled o'er
With kraal fires; when the Caffre wends home through the lone karoo;
When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the stream the gnu--
Then bend your gaze across the waste: what see ye? The giraffe,
Majestic, stalks toward the lagoon the turbid lymph to quaff;
With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he kneels him down to cool
His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul and brackish pool.
A rustling sound--a roar--a bound--the lion sits astride
Upon his giant coursers back. Did ever King so ride?
Had ever King a steed so rare, caparisons of state
To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits elate?
In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged with ravenous greed;
His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the steed.
Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and surprise,
Away, away, in wild dismay the camelopard flies.
His feet have wings; see how he springs across the moonlit plain!
As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring eyeballs strain;
In thick black streams of purling blood full fast his life is fleeting;
The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumultuous beating.
Like the cloud that through the wilderness the path of Israel traced--
Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the waste--
From the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout from ocean,
A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the courser's fiery motion.
Croaking companions of their flight, the vultures whir on high;
Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and sly,
And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in the horrid race;
By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat their monarch's course
they trace.
They see him on his living throne, and quake with fear, the while
With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's painted pile.
On! on! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and strength remain!
The steed by such a rider backed may madly plunge in vain.
Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and breathes his last;
The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the rider's fell repast.
O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is descried:
Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of beasts doth ride.
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.
A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.
BY JIMMY BROWN.
I have been in the back bedroom up stairs all the afternoon, and I am
expecting father every minute. It was just after one o'clock when he
told me to come up stairs with him, and just then Mr. Thompson came to
get him to go down town with him, and father said I'd have to excuse him
for a little while and don't you go out of that room till I come back.
So I excused him, and he hasn't come back yet; but I've opened one of
the pillows and stuffed my clothes full of feathers, and I don't care
much how soon he comes back now.
It's an awful feeling to be waiting up stairs for your father, and to
know that you have done wrong, though you really didn't mean to do so
much wrong as you have done. I am willing to own that nobody ought to
take anybody's clothes when he's in swimming, but anyhow they began it
first, and I thought just as much as could be that the clothes were
theirs.
The real boys that are to blame are Tom Wilson and Amzi Willetts. A week
ago Saturday Joe Hamilton and I went in swimming down at the island.
It's a beautiful place. The island is all full of bushes, and on one
side the water is deep, where the big boys go in, and on the other it is
shallow, where we fellows that can't swim very much where the water is
more than two feet deep go in. While Joe and I were swimming, Tom and
Amzi came and stole our clothes, and put them in their boat, and carried
them clear across to the deep part of the river. We saw them do it, and
we had an awful time to get the clothes back, and I think it was just as
mean.
Joe and I said we'd get even with them, and I know it was wrong, because
it was a revengeful feeling, but anyhow we said we'd do it: and I don't
think revenge is so very bad when you don't hurt a fellow, and wouldn't
hurt him for anything, and just want to play him a trick that is pretty
nearly almost quite innocent. But I don't say we did right, and when
I've done wrong I'm always ready to say so.
Well, Joe and I watched, and last Saturday we saw Tom and Amzi go down
to the island, and go in swimming on the shallow side; so we waded
across and sneaked down among the bushes, and after a while we saw two
piles of clothes. So we picked them up and ran away with them. The boys
saw us, and made a terrible noise; but we sung out that they'd know now
how it felt to have your clothes carried off, and we waded back across
the river, and carried the clothes up to Amzi's house, and hid them in
his barn, and thought that we'd got even with Tom and Amzi, and taught
them a lesson which would do them a great deal of good, and would make
them good and useful men.
This was in the morning about noon, and when I had my dinner I thought
I'd go and see how the boys liked swimming, and offer to bring back
their clothes if they'd promise to be good friends. I never was more
astonished in my life than I was to find that they were nowhere near the
island. I was beginning to be afraid they'd been drowned, when I heard
some men calling me, and I found Squire Meredith and Amzi Willetts's
father, who is a deacon, hiding among the bushes. They told me that some
villains had stolen their clothes while they were in swimming, and
they'd give me fifty cents if I'd go up to their houses and get their
wives to give me some clothes to bring down to them.
I said I didn't want the fifty cents, but I'd go and try to find some
clothes for them. I meant to go straight up to Amzi's barn and to bring
the clothes back, but on the way I met Amzi with the clothes in a basket
bringing them down to the island, and he said: "Somebody's goin' to be
arrested for stealing father's and Squire Meredith's clothes. I saw the
fellows that stole 'em, and I'm going to tell." You see, Joe and I had
taken the wrong clothes, and Squire Meredith and Deacon Willetts, who
had been in swimming on the deep side of the island, had been about two
hours trying to play they were Zulus, and didn't need to wear any
clothes, only they found it pretty hard work.
Deacon Willetts came straight to our house, and told father that his
unhappy son--that's what he called me, and wasn't I unhappy, though--had
stolen his clothes and Squire Meredith's; but for the sake of our family
he wouldn't say very much about it, only if father thought best to spare
the rods and spoil a child, he wouldn't be able to regard him as a man
and a brother. So father called me and asked me if I had taken Deacon
Willetts's clothes, and when I said yes, and was going to explain how it
happened, he said that my conduct was such, and that I was bringing his
gray hairs down, only I wouldn't hurt them for fifty million dollars,
and I've often heard him say he hadn't a gray hair in his head.
And now I'm waiting up stairs for the awful moment to arrive. I deserve
it, for they say that Squire Meredith and Deacon Willetts are mornhalf
eaten up by mosquitoes, and are confined to the house with salt and
water, and crying out all the time that they can't stand it. I hope the
feathers will work, but if they don't, no matter. I think I shall be a
missionary, and do good to the heathen. I think I hear father coming in
the front gate now, so I must close.
THEIR BEST SECRET.
BY ELLA M. BAKER.
Two healthy, happy New England girls had been hunting for May-flowers
all the morning. They had found them growing so pink and in such
quantities that they were too busy filling their hands to notice the
sudden shadow sweeping over the sky. Percy Shipley in her brown calico,
her dark blue apron, and her log-cabin sun-bonnet, Reba Bradford in her
gray calico, her red apron, and a sun-bonnet to match Percy's, knelt
breathless on the warm turf, bewitched--and no wonder--by the pink and
white beauties that smiled up at them from among the dead leaves, like
babies just awakening in their pillowed cradles. So the dash of
impetuous rain fell, without any warning, smartly on the two log-cabin
sun-bonnets; but they only laughed merrily at it, sprang up, and ran for
the nearest pine-tree. Reba pulled off her "blinders," as she called the
sun-bonnet, while she ran. How black the cloud was growing! and against
the cloud stood out all the more distinctly a low white steeple.
"Percy! Percy! run for the old church," cried Reba, wheeling about.
Away they flew, dashing through the alders, dodging under the birches,
never minding the clinging blackberry vines, the low huckleberry bushes,
the bit of bosky swamp. The rain, as if it were running after them,
pattered faster and faster. It was in a delightful panic of haste and
heat that they brought up finally on the narrow stone steps of the old
church, and drew a long breath under the ugly little portico with half
its supporting pillars fallen out. Not another house was in sight; the
road in front had ridges of grass through the very middle, saucily
making themselves at home where it was plain horses did not often claim
right of way nowadays. Ever since Reba and Percy could remember--indeed,
long before that--the old church had stood just so, only growing more
forlorn year by year, seeming to be forgotten by everybody. As the new
village sprang up among the valley mills, the new churches were built
there, and the low-roofed houses one by one crumbled away, which the
Shipleys and Bradfords of fifty years ago had known in their prime.
"Let's get in if we can," said Reba, boldly.
"It don't look as if we could," Percy answered, doubtfully.
[Illustration: AT THE DOOR OF THE OLD CHURCH.--DRAWN BY JESSIE CURTIS
SHEPHERD.]
But nobody cared now to lock the disused door. At the united eager push
of the two girls, it opened in a rusty, rheumatic way, not widely, but
far enough for them to squeeze in.
"There!" said Reba. She pushed forward, sank on the pulpit stairs, and
shook the water from her sun-bonnet.
"There!" echoed Percy, with a great sigh. She deposited the old brown
egg basket full of the May-flowers that looked so pearly among the
wealth of thick green leaves, took off her "blinders" also, and sat down
in the nearest pew. They were both so out of breath that they said no
more at first.
The longer they kept silent, the more still and solemn seemed the empty
place. Dusty, indeed, littered, and defaced, it all was. Thick, dingy
cobwebs hung from the pulpit; a gray hornets' nest showed in one lofty
corner; the pulpit stairs were broken; many of the pews were gone
entirely; splinters of board and laths, stray leaves of hymn-books, a
tuning-fork, a broken lamp, fragments of mortar, and varied rubbish,
strewed the uneven floor. In spite of all that, it was still a church to
Percy. With reverent eyes she looked up at the pulpit, where the
minister used to stand, at the gallery, where the singers' seats used to
be. She wondered who used to sit in this very pew years and years ago;
she wondered if the clothes they wore, their Sunday best, looked like
the queer bonnets and gowns that Aunt Bethiah kept laid away in her old
locker. When Reba said, "Percy," she started, half shocked, as though
somebody had called out her name in service-time.
Reba, meanwhile, had been just as busy thinking, but her thoughts had
been very different ones.
"Percy Shipley," said she, solemnly, "I've thought of something
perfectly splendid."
"You have? What is it?" asked Percy, expectantly.
Reba was exploring the cobwebby pulpit. She leaned over the edge, and
said, in a low, impressive voice, with a flap of the damp sun-bonnet
toward Percy, who rose eagerly in her pew to listen: "Nobody uses this
church. Let's you and I use it."
"What! preach in it?" gasped Percy.
"No, no," said Reba, laughing until the sun-bonnet fell out of her hand,
and went tearing through the cobwebs, "but have it for our place, don't
you see? to keep house, and tell secrets, and have a lovely time in. Oh,
Percy! wouldn't it be grand?"
"Oh, Reba! would you dare?"
The soft, clear eyes, full of wonder and appeal, in Percy's pew, lifted
up wide open toward the great black ones of Reba looking down from the
pulpit. The dark ones, with a flash of excitement in them, never
wavered.
"Dare? yes, indeed, I'd dare for both of us if there were anything to be
afraid of. But there isn't, Percy. Why, nobody comes here; it's out of
everybody's sight. We won't tell a soul; and as for asking leave, no one
owns it, so there's no one to ask. And we can't hurt it." The pulpit
spoke with authority and slight impatience. The pew replied gently but
persistently.
"It would be the greatest fun, and it's just like you to think of it,
Reba; I only mean that perhaps it would be wrong to play and make good
times here. Remember, it's a church, Reba."
"Well, _let's_ remember it's a church," answered the pulpit, meeting the
scruples with a ready argument as skillful as any that may have
proceeded from it before: "let's agree, to begin with, that we'll always
behave when we're here, and just run outside if we want to be cross, or
selfish, or anything not fit for a church. We won't do anything here
that we'd be ashamed to do if we remembered its being a church. That
will make it all right, for I'm sure, Percy, a church is the very place
to be good in."
The pew was convinced. Percy fairly clapped her hands, and cried, "It
will be the very best secret we ever had, Reba!" as they helped each
other enlarge upon the plan.
And I think myself that few girls have a nicer secret. With tidy
housekeeping instincts that they had learned at home, Percy and Reba
first set themselves to make the place as neat as circumstances would
allow. They picked up the litter, and swept the floor over and over.
Many a torn leaf of catechism and hymn-book they lingered to read over
as they labored, imagining that they should find there something new and
strange. They never did, and the catechism answers did not stay long in
their memories; but a single couplet of one hymn that they found
afterward they never did forget, perhaps because it was so associated
with the sweeping of the old church. The line was this well-known verse,
"Who sweeps a room as by Thy laws
Makes that and the action fine."
As high as they could reach they rid the place of dust and cobwebs.
Percy chose one square pew, and Reba another, to be peculiar personal
property, in which to set up housekeeping, and many an imaginary comedy
or tragedy they enacted in those pews, many an odd treasure came to be
stored there with nobody to say, "Do take that rubbish off!" Oh! it felt
grand to have so much room, so much airy, unused space, and to be able
to trim up whenever they liked with evergreen branches, blossoming
boughs, and all the lavish greenery they had patience to bring! Here
they learned their lessons together; here they practiced each other on
the "pieces" that were to be declaimed at school on exhibition-day. It
was fine to see Reba ascend the broken stairs, and courtesying to Percy
with a flourish, recite "Casabianca" or "We are Seven," until it would
seem the very hornets' nest must be thrilled with her accents. Percy,
somehow, never was willing, when her turn came, to occupy the same high
place, but she used to be sure that she would make no mistake on
exhibition-day if only she could have that same broken window, filled in
with blue sky, to fix her eyes upon as she spoke.
She would not forget, nor let Reba forget, the compact they had agreed
upon. To be sure, they were not often tempted to be cross or unjust to
each other, but there did occur a crisis sometimes when one or the other
would stop in the middle of an impatient word and run out of the church.
Nearly always her companion would follow after; in the open air it would
all be made up, and with arms entwined they would go peacefully back
into the church again.
But there came a week when everything seemed to go wrong. It was
intensely hot and dry. Reba complained fretfully that nothing but heat,
dust, and flies came in at their windows. Percy declared that the hum of
the hornets made her nervous.
"And, Reba," said she, "I don't think it's fair for you to disarrange
the things in my part. You never used to do it."
"I haven't touched your things, Percy," retorted Reba, in a lofty tone;
"and I shouldn't think you'd better say much, when you've been mussing
over here in my pew the way you have."
"Why, Reba Bradford! what do you mean?"
"Why, Percy Shipley! you needn't pretend."
Reba's eyes flashed angrily; Percy's cheeks were all afire.
"Perhaps you know what you mean, Reba Bradford; I don't," said Percy,
bitterly. "But I do know that the frosted cake my mother gave me, and
that I saved to make a feast of with you, is all gone but a few crumbs,
and nothing in my keepsake box is as I left it."
"And you don't know anything about the mottoes and sugar kisses I was
saving up for you in my keepsake box, I suppose?" sneered Reba. "And you
couldn't account for the way my gilt mug came broken here?"
"Do you dare to think I'd steal from you?" cried Percy, stamping her
foot.
Oh, it was quite dreadful! They both forgot the place and their compact.
I'm afraid they both called each other names, and the end of it all was
that they marched off home different ways, one weeping angry tears, and
the other vowing "never to speak to her again."
For three doleful days Reba did not go near the old church nor Percy's
house. At the end of the three days she said frankly to herself, "If
Percy should spoil all my things, and eat every sugar-plum I ever have,
it would be better than this." She set off that very minute to go and
tell Percy so. But Percy's mother met her at the door.
"No, dear, you mustn't come in," she said, kindly. "I know how you love
Percy; but her fever seems pretty high, and you mustn't run any risk of
catching it. Wait until she is better."
Reba gave a sob and hurried away, dreadfully shocked and frightened.
Poor Percy! perhaps it was the sickness coming on that had made her so
unlike herself that foolish day when they quarrelled. Reba instinctively
hurried to the old church to cry by herself; and having arrived there,
she did cry until every tear was spent. Her face was still buried in her
apron, when there came echoing through the silent space a rough voice
that said, pitifully, "Don't take on so; what is the matter?"
Reba was no coward, but she did give a great leap that brought her to
her feet. A boy's face was peering over the gallery at her. It was a
homely face, but a kind one. Reba was sure she had never seen it before.
"Who are you? What are you here for?" said she, sharply.
The boy laughed; then he grew sober at once. "I wouldn't tell you," said
he, "if I didn't believe you're the 'pon honor sort. As 'tis, I'll tell
you the whole truth, and trust you. If you shouldn't be 'pon honor, so
much the worse for me. I'm running away."
"Running away from what?" questioned Reba, as sharply as before.
"From a bad master," said the boy, with a scowl, "and I was getting
along very well till I hurt this foot of mine, not far from here. When I
couldn't drag myself much further, I came in sight of this old church,
and crawled in for the night. I was pretty hungry, and perhaps you won't
blame me so much if I did rummage over your little traps down there in
hopes of finding something to eat. I'm sorry I broke the mug; I hit it
in the dark; and now you won't blame the other one, will you? I meant,
any way, to clear her before I went."
"You've been here ever since?" cried Reba; "and do you mean to say you
haven't had anything else to eat?"
"Oh yes," said the boy, cheerfully; "when I found I couldn't get along
further till my foot healed, I hobbled out and found roots and berries
quite near."
Reba loved adventures, and in Plumley adventures happened but rarely.
She made much of this one, only longing for Percy to share it. How she
enjoyed taking meat, bread, and fruit to the refugee in their own old
church, tyrannizing over him, and making him bathe, bandage, and salve
his injured foot just as she said, coaxing him to tell her the whole
story of his hard life, and contriving a couch for him out of the few
faded melancholy cushions to be found on the premises!
And when Percy was better, and able to talk, what a great thing it was
to tell her all about the strange thing that had happened!
"He's just as much your boy as mine," declared Reba, magnanimously, "and
I wouldn't do or say anything about him till you were well enough to
tell what you think best, Percy. Everything about the old church is half
yours, and more than half, and we'll remember better than ever after
this, won't we?"
What Percy advised was that Reba's father should be told the whole
story, and taken properly in his capacity of Doctor to see the lame
foot.
"Well, well, certainly the most unexpected call I ever had in my life,"
said the Doctor, when Reba proudly escorted him to the old church.
"Who'd ever have thought of finding a patient here?"
But he took the kindest interest in the friendless orphan, carried him
in his carriage to his own house, and ended by liking him so well for
his plain, blunt, manly ways that, when the foot was healed, he engaged
him as office-boy.
As long as the old church stood, Bob Sheffield used to look at it with
gratitude; and years after a bolt of lightning had destroyed it during
one summer night, Percy in her new home at the West, Reba in her stately
house in an Eastern city, loved to tell the children stories of the good
times two little country girls used to have under the roof of an old
deserted church out in the woods.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
Most of our boys and girls are busy, happy, and well. Do you ever think
what a glorious thing it is to be simply _well_--not to have a headache,
or a pain, or the least bit of weariness, no matter how long you play,
or how high you climb, or how far and fast you run? Half the fun and
pleasure you have comes from the fact that you can go to sleep the
moment your heads touch the pillow, and that when you awake in the
morning, you wake all over at once, and spring out of bed, ready for
anything that may be before you. If you do happen to be ill
occasionally, there are always kind hands to care for you; and it gives
you a good chance to find out what a loving father and mother you have,
so tenderly they see to your wants. Even the doctor, with his shrewd
face and droll manner, becomes dear to you when you are sick; and you
always call him yours, in a new way, after you have taken his pills and
powders, with mother's nice jam to take their taste away. So now, boys
and girls, will you please read the letter a lady has asked us to
publish, and make up your minds about helping along in the work she
proposes?
TO THE CHILDREN, LARGE AND SMALL, SICK AND WELL, WHO READ THIS PAPER:
Do you all want to do something for me? I am sure your answer is,
Yes; for I think children always like to be helping others. Well, I
want you to give me ever so much money. I imagine I see round eyes
grow big, and hear you say: "Pray what for? You are a stranger, and
we never have much money; nor do we know what you want it for,
anyway." I will tell you, for though you don't know me, it makes no
difference, as I do not ask it for myself. I want it to do good to
some poor little sick children, and to yourselves in giving it. In
the city of New York, as most of you know, there are a great many
little children who, when they are sick, or meet with an accident,
have no one to take care of them, or if they have, are compelled to
stay in a small close room, where there are a great many people, a
great deal of noise, which makes it very hard for them to get well.
Knowing this, some kind people have built a house, called "St.
Mary's Free Hospital for Children," 405 and 407 West Thirty-fourth
Street. It is an Episcopal institution, under the care of some kind
women. They take in any child, black or white, of any creed, under
fourteen years old, who has no disease which other little ones
might take, so long as they have space and money to take care of
them.
In the Rev. Dr. Houghton's church, Twenty-ninth Street, New York,
is a society which sews for and takes care of sick little children;
and this year they have furnished one ward in the hospital, for
children under six years old. This is the ward I want you to take a
special interest in. I hope you will go some day and see them. On
any day, except Sunday, between 11 and 12 A.M., and 3 and 4 P.M.,
they will be very glad to see you. Oh, such a dear little baby as I
saw there the other day! He had fallen down stairs and broken his
hip, and his mother brought him there because the doctor said he
never could get well in his own home; and though he had to lie on
his back for some weeks, he was merry as a cricket, and seemed very
happy. Those who can be up have playthings of all sorts to keep
them busy; and for these also there is a nice, sunny, large
play-room up stairs, where they have fine times. What I want you to
send your money for is to endow a bed in this "little folks' ward."
To "endow" means that when you shall have paid money enough, there
will be one bed always there for some little sick child, and money
to take care of it while there. This would be called the "Harper's
Young People Cot"; and if every one of you tries to help, you will
be able to have it. When you buy candy, it is soon eaten, and that
is the end of both candy and money; but in this case the good of
your money will last always, and the self-denial it costs will help
you to grow stronger to "fight for the right." Jesus will know it,
and will send His blessing to those who care for His suffering
little ones.
"Little self-denials,
Cost us what they may,
Help us in this earthly life
To learn the heavenly way."
If you will all set to work in _earnest_, we shall soon be able to
have the amount needed. Who will send the first contribution, and
head the list? The first of every month the names and amounts
contributed will be published in this paper, which has kindly
offered its help. Send your contribution, with name, for "Young
People's Cot," to St. Mary's Hospital for Children, New York, to
Miss E. A. Fanshaw, care of Mr. George A. Fanshaw, 43 New Street,
New York.
The sooner the better. Don't you remember that story of the "Daisy
Cot" which pleased you all so much? Let us have a "Young People's
Cot."
* * * * *
VERONA, ITALY, _June_ 23, 1881.
Although so far away in the old city of Verona, I have the great
pleasure to receive every week, through my papa's kindness,
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, which delights me. I think the readers of
YOUNG PEOPLE would like to receive little accounts from my
note-book. I will send a letter now and then.
When in London I went to the great Westminster Abbey, in which I
saw the urn which contains the bones of the two Princes murdered in
the Tower in the year 1483. In the Tower I saw the steps where
their bodies were found. In the Arsenal were primitive cannon-balls
made of stone, and all sorts of old weapons; also ten small cannons
presented to Charles II., when a boy, to practice with; also much
old armor, and many instruments of torture. Among many curious
things in the British Museum, I saw a gigantic land tortoise, which
weighed 870 pounds when found, was supposed to be eighty years old,
and was still growing.
In my next letter I will tell you about Paris.
I am nine years old, and before my next birthday I expect to see
many old and wonderful things on the Continent.
ALBERTO D. M.
* * * * *
CINCINNATI, OHIO.
I was much interested in your account of the flying-squirrel given
in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 87, Vol. II. I have never seen this
graceful little animal, but from what I have heard, I suppose it is
a pretty creature.
The little common squirrel inhabiting the woods is frequently seen
where I live, on Walnut Hills. One day, when I was walking down a
certain street with a friend of mine, I saw a pet squirrel nestling
on the shoulder of a boy, who kept hold of a chain which was
fastened around the little squirrel's neck. I did not think that
this precaution was necessary, for the little creature did not show
any inclination to run away, but, on the contrary, seemed quite
contented.
I have often wondered whether or not squirrels would be happier
when frisking about among the branches of trees in their native
woods than when shut up in close cages. I should think that they
would pine for their former freedom.
LIZZIE C. C.
Unless the squirrels are made captives when they are very young, they
are very wretched in confinement. We once knew about a squirrel which
really fretted itself to death in its cage, and we wondered how the boy
who owned it could ever be happy afterward. He gave it quite a little
funeral, and erected its monument in the garden, with an inscription;
but that did not make up for its unhappy days, nor restore its life. A
squirrel's cage should be large enough for a boy of twelve to stand up
and take several steps in, and it should be dressed with green boughs,
to make it seem as much like a bit of the woods as possible. Children
who have such pets should not chain them unnecessarily, and they should
be careful to keep their homes clean, and give them plenty of food and
fresh water.
* * * * *
ETNA, CALIFORNIA.
I have just been reading some of your interesting letters, and I
thought that I would sit down and write to your nice paper, which
we all enjoy reading. We live in Northern California, among the
mines, ninety-two miles from the railroad. Papa kept store for a
while, and the miners changed gold for money; and once a man
brought a piece of gold, that he had just dug out of his mine, in
the shape of a horseshoe.
My sister is thirteen years of age, and I am eleven. We both take
music lessons. We have a nice day-school and Sunday-school. There
are fourteen little girls in my class in the latter. We are
building a new church. My sister is secretary of the Sunday-school.
NELLIE J. F.
* * * * *
AUGUSTA, MAINE.
I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE almost a year, and I like it
ever so much. I just loved Toby Tyler, and wasn't the big, fat
woman good? I like such _big_ folks, because they are so kind
always. I live away down in Maine, on the beautiful Kennebec River.
Augusta is the capital, and is the head of navigation. We have
large schooners which come up here, but no ships. The schooners
bring coal, and carry away ice. Papa says the Kennebec produces the
best ice in the world, and our ice crop last year brought into the
State over $1,000,000. I like the letters from all the boys and
girls, and hope mine is not too long to be put in with others.
CHARLIE F. P.
We always wonder why Maine people say "away _down_ in Maine." It is
quite far up on the map. Yours is a nice letter, and the information
about the ice is very pleasant in this sultry weather.
* * * * *
HOPE, INDIANA.
I love to read the children's letters in your nice little paper. I
have two sisters, one eight and the other fifteen years old, and
one brother who is twenty years old. For pets I have a little dog
named Trippy and a little bird named Ruby. They are both very cute.
I am thirteen years old.
We have a piano, and I spend a good deal of my time playing. I can
not do much work, as I am crippled, and have to walk with crutches.
I have been sick a long time. I was taken ill last November a year
ago, but I am again able to go to school. I have been attending the
young ladies' seminary this spring. It has just closed, and we had
a musical entertainment, in which I was able to take part. My papa
is postmaster in this place.
Please print this, as I have not seen any letters from this place.
GERTRUDE E. M.
It is very pleasant to play well. It is a real resource to yourself, and
music enables you to entertain your friends agreeably. I am sure papa
likes to hear his little daughter's piano. Girls who play should not
grow tired of scales and finger exercises, but practice them faithfully,
and they will be repaid by becoming fine performers.
* * * * *
DAYTON, OHIO.
This is my first letter to YOUNG PEOPLE, and I hope to see it
printed before long. I write to congratulate the young naturalists
on beginning, and hope the society will prove a success. I would
like very much to join a society of this kind; but it is
impossible, as there are no boys and girls old enough in our
neighborhood to join.
ADDIE E. C.
You may be an independent member, and whenever you discover anything
interesting, report to the Post-office Box.
* * * * *
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA.
This is the first letter I ever wrote to a paper, though my brother
and I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE since before Christmas. We live in
Philadelphia in winter, but in summer we stay at Cape May. We feel
very sorry for President Garfield, and I run to the bulletin-board
to see how he is as often as a new bulletin appears.
We have a splendid large Newfoundland dog. He was too large and too
curly to get an honor at the dog show, but we would not part with
him for anything.
FRANCIS R. P.
* * * * *
HUNTINGTON, WEST VIRGINIA.
I regard the Natural History Society as a very important
arrangement, and agree with Madison C., Jun., in all but one thing,
and that is that there should be no limited number.
GEORGE C. MCI.
* * * * *
AUBURN, MASSACHUSETTS.
I take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and I like "The Cruise of the
'Ghost'" so much that I wish it would never end. I live in
Germantown, but am spending my vacation here. Before I came here I
went to West Newton, and saw a steam road roller which came from
England. I think it is great fun to make the wiggles.
W. S. N.
* * * * *
SAN AUGUSTINE, NEW MEXICO.
I have not been to school in my life. Mamma is going to get a
teacher. I am writing this myself. I have a sister twelve years
old; her name is Jessie. We have a pet pony, and his name is Billy.
We live on a ranch. Papa keeps the Post-office. I have taken YOUNG
PEOPLE since the first number.
EFFIE D.
* * * * *
SYRACUSE, N. Y.
I have a canary-bird named Dick, which I want to tell you about.
When he was a young bird, he was so small that he could get through
the bars of his cage, and one day, when he was hung out-of-doors,
he flew away, and staid all night. Early in the morning my mother
looked out of a window, and saw Dick on the porch, and she put the
cage out, and he flew into it. He is very tame, and will come on my
shoulder, and drink out of my mouth. I like HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
very much.
Frank J. M.
No doubt the little truant was very glad indeed to find himself at home.
Once upon a time, a long while ago, we took care of a friend's bird
while she went away on a visit. The very day we expected her home, the
cage door was left ajar, and Fluff flew away over the trees, and the
garden wall, and out of sight. Imagine our despair. What to do we did
not know. Finally, we borrowed a neighbor's bird, a very sweet singer,
and set his cage and the deserted one, with its door open, side by side
on the window-sill. The little girl of the family sat in the shadow of
the curtain to watch, and two hours after our little fly-away came home,
allured, we thought, by the songs of our borrowed bird, and perhaps by a
thought of the nice fresh seed and cool water in his little house.
* * * * *
MARKESAN, WISCONSIN.
I am a little boy twelve years old, and live in Green Lake Co.,
Wis. I would like to tell the little readers of YOUNG PEOPLE about
the swarms of locusts we have here this summer. About half a mile
west of our village there is a high hill covered with large
oak-trees, and they are swarming with locusts, and they make a
roaring noise which sounds like machinery; we can hear them very
plainly down in the village. They have stripped some of the trees
quite bare of leaves. They are harmless little creatures, only
eating leaves of the oak.
I have a pure water-spaniel dog that will bring ducks out of the
water, and anything else that I wish. I take him to the post-office
and give him the mail, and tell him to take it home; he will take
it in his mouth and run home, and wait on the veranda until mamma
opens the door, and then he will wag his tail and seem so pleased.
Now I do so hope this will not go into the waste basket, as this is
the second time I have tried to get a letter printed.
EDDIE ATKINSON.
Why did you not tell us your dog's name? He must be a splendid little
fellow. What a pity the locusts should need so many leaves for their
dinners! We should be sorry to see the oak-trees stripped, and glad that
the locusts do not come every summer.
* * * * *
The following exchanges are offered by correspondents:
I live at Beverly, New Jersey, and am ten years old. I am making a
"Zoo" garden on a small scale, and will exchange a dried
balloon-fish or star-fish, or a spike from a wreck at Atlantic
City, for a small live snake, lizard, or gold-fish. "First come,
first served."
W. H. E., 238 S. Third St., Philadelphia, Penn.
* * * * *
ALBANY, NEW YORK.
This is my first letter to the Post-office Box. I am going away
soon. I like HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE very much. "The Brave Swiss
Boy," "Toby Tyler," and "The Cruise of the 'Ghost'" are about the
best stories. I will give a collection of one hundred and eleven
(all foreign) stamps--as Finland, Russia, Japan, Cuba, Portugal,
Brazil, Norway, Sweden, Newfoundland, Hong-Kong, etc.--for a good
collection of shells. Correspondents will please write before
sending. My address is
A. S., JUN., 258 Clinton Avenue.
* * * * *
Foreign stamps from Europe, East Indies, Bahamas, Cuba, and United
States, for stamps from Asia, Africa, South America, Oceanica,
Mexico, and Central America.
CHARLES L. MILLER,
Lock Box 108, Bristol, R. I.
* * * * *
Stamps from Denmark, France, Austria, Germany, Italy, Norway, and
Bavaria, for stamps from Mexico, Central America, Cape of Good
Hope, Japan, New Zealand, and Nova Scotia. No duplicates given or
taken.
L. B. CRANE,
229 East Nineteenth St., New York City.
* * * * *
Blue gum, cactus, orange, lemon, Spanish-bayonet, California moss,
and a stone from California, for Indian relics or other
curiosities.
R. H. DOWSE, P. O. Box 144,
Riverside, San Bernardino, Cal.
* * * * *
Five foreign stamps (no duplicates), for one Chinese or African
stamp.
MORISON C. MANCHESTER,
40 Lawrence St., Lowell, Mass.
* * * * *
One of Scott's albums containing 350 stamps, 300 very rare,
including 12 unused stamps, for a $2 printing-press.
G. B. DONNELLY,
331 Hicks St., Brooklyn, L. I.
* * * * *
Leaves of the oak and hickory trees near here, for leaves from
other places; or tree tulips, for foreign coins, or leaves from the
large trees of California or other famous trees. Label specimens.
J. B., P. O. Box 1179, Canton, Ohio.
* * * * *
Seeds, mosses, flint glass, ferns, wood, and leaves, for fairy
stories or a second-hand toy magic lantern.
E. A. SMITH, Conover, N. C.
* * * * *
Some French, German, and English stamps, for stamps from any other
country, or stamps for coins if more desirable.
WILLIAM F. SEALY,
811 Second Avenue, New York City.
* * * * *
Pieces of bark from the white cedar of Canada, for foreign stamps
and postmarks.
LIBBY AND ADELE TITUS,
P. O. Box I., Poughkeepsie, Dutchess Co., N. Y.
[_For other exchanges, see third page of cover._]
* * * * *
C. W. T., FLORIDA.--Florida was first visited in 1512 by Ponce de Leon,
who went there to look for the fountain of youth. In 1565, the Spaniards
built a fort at St. Augustine, and most of the country was held by Spain
until 1763, when Spain gave it to Great Britain for Cuba, which the
English had taken. The British kept Florida until 1781, when the
Spaniards drove them out. After the Revolution, the country belonged to
Spain until 1821, when it was sold to the United States. In 1845,
Florida became a State of the Union.
* * * * *
GEORGE C. McI.--The supply of bound volumes of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for
1880 is exhausted.
* * * * *
We do not care to so much as mention the initials of one correspondent
who sent a very dictatorial letter to the Post-office Box the other day,
complaining because we had not published his exchange. Exchangers
usually understand that the convenience we give them in YOUNG PEOPLE is
a favor, and not a right; and if occasionally they are overlooked or
obliged to wait a while, they must remember what we have often told
them, that we print their offers as soon after receiving them as we can,
and as nearly as may be in the order we receive them. We are quite sure
the correspondent to whom we refer will regret his manner of writing
when he thinks the whole affair over calmly and coolly.
* * * * *
JACQUELINE.--There is but a limited demand for French translations, and
even experienced translators have great difficulty in finding publishers
to look at their work. It would be excellent practice for you to
translate the book you mention, but we do not think you would be
successful in procuring anybody to print it for you. Translation should
be literal, and elegant as well, and there is no better way of becoming
familiar with the idioms of French or any other foreign tongue than by
studying its literature, and rendering it into your own language.
* * * * *
ROBERT H. R.--Read article on "The Young Tin-Typers," HARPER'S YOUNG
PEOPLE No. 63, Vol. II.; and if that does not aid you, go to some
obliging carpenter for help.
* * * * *
"SILVER SAUL," JOHNNIE T. P., AND OTHERS.--You may send your puzzles for
examination if you wish. Birds' eggs are not allowed as exchanges.
* * * * *
FRED H. W.--We can not give addresses, nor arrange for private
correspondence.
* * * * *
William Shattuck, H. S. Buffum, Marion S. Hare, B. P. Craig, William H.
Paine, Joe S. McKnight, and Edward W. Smith withdraw from our exchange
list, their supplies being exhausted.
* * * * *
L. L. B.--The best authorities give _dec_-orative, which is the common
pronunciation. The present æsthetic whim is, however, to say
de-_cor_-ative. This usage is not yet general.
* * * * *
We can not adjust differences of opinion as to the worth of specimens
and articles exchanged. It would be well in most cases for exchangers to
have a brief correspondence by postal cards before sending their wares.
Thus trouble would be avoided in the end.
* * * * *
J. C.--Frederick William Nicholas Charles is the Crown Prince of
Prussia, and on the death of his father, the Emperor William, will
succeed him on the throne of Germany.
* * * * *
"CANOE."--The price of a Racine canoe is $75. Address E. G. Durant,
Racine Manufacturing Co., Racine, Wis., for circular.
* * * * *
"INQUIRER."--The size of a bicycle is the diameter of the front wheel.
On a 36-inch machine the "spools," or pedals, when the cranks are
horizontal, should be 22 inches from the saddle, or seat.
* * * * *
"IN EXPECTATION."--You can probably ride a 44-inch bicycle.
* * * * *
ED S. BECK.--Send to the Pope Manufacturing Co., 597 Washington St.,
Boston, Mass., for a book called _The American Bicycler_.
* * * * *
E. J. HATCH AND H. J. WHEELER.--See HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 26 for
directions, with working plans, for building a canvas canoe. The fine
workmanship necessary in a cedar canoe could only be performed by an
experienced and skillful builder. The best and safest sails for canoes
are the triangular sails known as "leg-of-mutton," made of unbleached
muslin, having a hoist of eight feet, and the foot laced to a boom of
such a length that it will swing clear of the "dandy," or after mast.
The "dandy," or "mizzen-sail," as it is sometimes called, should have a
hoist of four feet, and a boom of the same length.
* * * * *
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Mary H. Denny,
Charles H. Brooks, Enos H. Dyer, Charlie Trimble, Robert N. McMynn,
"_Lord Glenalvon_," _Percy L. McDermott_, "School-Boy," Frank S. Davis,
George Washington, "King Billy," "Vi O. Let," Lizzie C. Carnochan,
"Pickwick," "North Star," "Phil I. Pene," "Clem A. Tis," "Pepper," K. E.
Brown, _Maud M. Chambers_, F. Trafford, Mamie and Josie, Charlie
Trimble, Leo Marks.
* * * * *
PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.
No. 1.
EASY NUMERICAL CHARADE.
I am composed of 11 letters, and am one of the United States.
My 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 is to unite.
My 8 is one of the vowels, and perhaps the most important.
My 9, 10, 11 is to sever.
MURRAY C. B.
* * * * *
No. 2.
ENIGMA.
I am in drink, but not in eat;
Also in pea, but not in sweet.
You find me in ink, and not in pen,
In some little birds, but not in the wren;
Always in idle, and never in smart;
Likewise in sweet, and never in tart;
Also in lungs, and not in heart.
My whole are flowers which even a bride
Has been known to wear with grace and pride.
F. T.
* * * * *
No. 3.
EASY CONCEALMENTS.
Did you hear Leo pardon John? James ate a pear. Is Isaac at work in the
barn? Did you see Rob at the gate to-night? Do you know bad Gertrude? I
saw fish in the river as I came by. The Arab bit a sour apple. Her ring
was set with a diamond surrounded by pearls. Did Henry pass here to-day?
REBA H.
* * * * *
No. 4.
MALTESE CROSS.
Central Letter.--In choose.
Top.--Free. Establish. Generation. A letter.
Right.--Generous. Certain. An animal. A letter.
Left.--Patient. Placed. An insect. A letter.
Down.--Leave. Thickened. Tar. A small animal. A letter.
Centrals read downward.--A deputy.
Across.--A word signifying to contract.
WILL A. METTE.
* * * * *
No. 5.
WORD SQUARE.
1. A tall growing plant. 2. A gulf in Russia. 3. Easter morning food. 4.
Very comfortable.
S. T. McK.
* * * * *
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 88.
No. 1.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime;
And, departing, leave behind us
Foot-prints on the sands of time.
--HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
No. 2.
Cloves.
No. 3.
A T L A S
T O U C H
L U C R E
A C R I D
S H E D S
No. 4.
T R A P P E A R
R A N E A T
A N A T
P R
No. 5.
P P
E E L S E T
P E C A N P E D A L
L A D T A P
N L
* * * * *
A personation, on page 592--Beethoven.
* * * * *
OUR NEW SERIAL.
In No. 92 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, issued August 2, will appear the
first chapter of a new serial story entitled
TIM AND TIP;
OR,
THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.
By JAMES OTIS, author of "Toby Tyler."
The story of "Tim and Tip" is that of a homeless boy and his faithful
dog, who follows him in all his wanderings, and shares in all his
adventures. It is full of incident on land and water, and those readers
who followed with such kindly interest the fortunes of Toby Tyler and
Mr. Stubbs, the monkey, will, we feel sure, sympathize equally with our
new hero and his four-footed companion.
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
SINGLE COPIES, 4 cents; ONE SUBSCRIPTION, one year, $1.50; FIVE
SUBSCRIPTIONS, one year, $7.00--_payable in advance, postage free_.
The Volumes of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE commence with the first Number in
November of each year.
Subscriptions may begin with any Number. When no time is specified, it
will be understood that the subscriber desires to commence with the
Number issued after the receipt of the order.
Remittances should be made by POST-OFFICE MONEY-ORDER OR DRAFT, to avoid
risk of loss.
HARPER & BROTHERS,
Franklin Square, N. Y.
A RAILROAD PUZZLE.
BY THE DOCTOR
Dear "YOUNG PEOPLE,"--Not many days ago I was travelling on a railroad,
and here is what happened. The train on which I was riding came to a
stand-still out in the country, away from any dépôt. On looking out to
ascertain why we had stopped, I saw a long freight train just ahead of
us on the _same_ track, standing still, but headed toward us. In other
words, we were going _down_ the track, and they were coming _up_.
Between these two trains there was a switch, on which stood a "gravel
train." The engine of the "gravel train" was off the track, and so could
not back up on the switch, and give room enough for our train to get on
and let the freight train go by. In fact, there was only room enough on
the switch to accommodate half of our train. The question was, How were
we to get past each other?
Of course one of the trains could be backed up to a switch at the
nearest dépôt, and let the other by, but that was some miles away.
Neither did we wish to wait until the engine of the "gravel train" could
be put upon the track, and then back up to give us room on the switch at
hand. One or the other of these things would have to be done if some
method were not known by means of which--and the little piece of
unoccupied switch--we could accomplish our desire.
We did get past each other, occupying only twelve minutes, _leaving the
cars of each train in the same order in which they stood when we met_. I
give this to you for a puzzle. If any of you have fathers who are
railroad men, they must not tell you how until you have tried a long
time yourself. I give a little sketch, which you may use if it will make
things any plainer. The freight train was about three times as long as
the passenger train. From the beginning of the switch to the engine D
there is room for _not more than half_ of the passenger train; so if you
think that will help you any, you are at liberty to use it.
[Illustration: A is the passenger train, going down.
B is the freight train, going up.
C is the "gravel train," on the switch.
D is the engine of the "gravel train," off the track.]
A GAME OF BALL AS PLAYED IN JAPAN.
There is a Japanese ball game which is very popular in its native land,
and which might well receive some attention in this country. It is known
as "Temari." The "Temari" is a ball about two inches in diameter, and
made generally of cotton wound round with thread, so that it keeps its
roundness and is elastic. Its outside is often ornamented with figures
made of threads of different colors. A number of girls stand in a
circle, and one of them--say, for example, our friend Jessie--takes the
ball and throws it perpendicularly on the ground, and when it rebounds,
she strikes it back toward the ground with her open hand. If it rebounds
again toward her, she continues doing just as before. But if it flies
away, the one toward whom the ball flies, or who is nearest to the
direction of the flying ball, strikes it toward the ground, as Jessie
has done, and the game continues until one of the players misses her
stroke or fails to make the ball rebound. She then steps out of the
circle, and the others play again in the same way as before until
another girl fails and is obliged to step out. The same process
continues until there is only one girl left, to whom belongs the honor
of victory.
LULU TAKES CARE OF KITTY.
BY M. E.
They brushed the clothes, they beat the clothes,
One sunny April day--
Their winter clothes, I mean--and then
They packed them all away
In paper boxes tied around
With very strongest strings,
First freely sprinkling them with some
Tobacco dust and camphor gum,
And other sneezy things.
And when, their labor done, they took
Their tea and toasted bread,
"Why, where is kitty?" some one asked,
And "_I_ know," Lulu said;
"She's in my dollie's biggest trunk;
I brushed and beated her;
There can't not any moths, I dess,
Det into her nice fur.
She scratched my finders when I put
The camphor stuff about.
Div' me some toast that's buttered froo."
They left it all to her, and flew
To let poor kitty out.
COAL FOR NOTHING.
If any one wishes to be supplied with coal for nothing, he has only to
rent a house near a railway, invest in a monkey, and follow the example
set in the following story:
An eminent menagerist lived in a suburb where forty trains a day passed
his garden. The weather was cold, but coal was expensive. The
menagerist, however, was a man of resources, and conceived a plan for
utilizing the forty trains a day. From his menagerie in town he brought
a large Barbary ape, which unfortunate animal was chained to the top of
a pole at the end of the garden.
The result was as pleasant as owning a colliery, without any wages to
pay, or fear of floods and explosions. Every fireman, and occasionally
an engineer, on the passing trains, had a shot with a lump of coal at
the Barbary ape. The ape was never hit, but the garden was littered with
coal, which the menagerist triumphantly conveyed to his cellar.
[Illustration: "WHAT A PLEASURE IT IS TO SEE THE DEAR CHILDREN ENJOYING
THEMSELVES!"]
[Illustration: "GOING FAR?"]
End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, July 26, 1881, by Various
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