Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, June 22, 1880, by Various
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Title: Harper's Young People, June 22, 1880
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: May 31, 2009 [EBook #29009]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, JUNE 22, 1880 ***
Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 34. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, June 22, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: RECESS AT THE ACADEMY.--DRAWN BY A. B. SHULTS.]
BABY, BEE, AND BUTTERFLY.
BY MARY D. BRINE.
[Illustration]
Baby, Bee, and Butterfly,
Underneath the summer sky.
Baby, bees, and birds together,
Happy in the pleasant weather;
Sunshine over all around,
In the sky, and on the ground;
Hiding, too, in Baby's eyes,
As he looks in mute surprise
At the sunbeams tumbling over
Merrily amid the clover,
Where the bees, at work all day,
Never find the time for play.
Happy little baby boy!
Tiny heart all full of joy;
Loving everything on earth,
As love welcomed him at birth;
Ever learning new delights,
Ever seeing pleasant sights;
Taking each day one step more
Than he ever took before.
Shine out, sunbeams, warm and bright,
Lengthen daytime, shorten night,
Till so wise he grows that he
Spells _baby_ with a _great big B_.
AN AMERICAN SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.
BY M. LOCKWOOD.
One hundred and twenty years ago there lived a plain, honest farmer in
the beautiful town of Woodstock, in the province of Connecticut, by the
name of Eaton. He belonged to the fine, intelligent New England stock,
and did his duty like a man in the state of life to which God had been
pleased to call him, working on his farm in summer, and teaching school
in winter; for he needed all he could earn to put bread in the mouths of
his thirteen children, who were taught early to help themselves, after
the fashion of their stalwart Anglo-Saxon forefathers. One of Farmer
Eaton's boys, named William, was born February 23, 1764, and was a
high-spirited, clever, reckless little chap, keeping his mother
continually in a state of anxiety on his account; indeed, if she had not
been so used to boys with their pranks and unlimited thirst for
adventures, I think Bill would have been the death of her, for she never
knew what he would be about next. For all his love of sport and out-door
amusement, the boy was so fond of reading that he nearly always managed
to conceal a book in his pocket when he went out to work in the fields
or woods, and often, when left alone, or when his companions stopped for
rest or meals, Bill would steal time to read. When his elders caught him
at it he would often get soundly scolded for not being better employed,
but the very next chance he would be at it again.
One Sunday, when he was ten years old, he was returning from church, and
passing a tree laden with tempting red cherries, climbed up in his usual
reckless fashion to help himself; but either the branch broke or he lost
his footing, for he fell to the ground with such violence that he
dislocated his shoulder, besides being so stunned that he lay senseless
for several days after he was picked up and carried home. The neighbors
came in to offer their services when they heard of the accident, for
though they no doubt shook their heads and remarked, "I told you so," "I
knew how it would be," they were, all the same, very kind to the poor
little chap who lay there, white and death-like, for so many long hours.
A neighbor, who was a tanner by trade, was sitting by his bed when at
last he opened his eyes. I suppose the tanner was glad enough to see the
boy come to life again; but all he said was, "Do you love cherries,
Bill?"
"Do you love _hides_?" spoke up Bill, as quick as a flash.
You see, he came to the full possession of his senses at once after his
long sleep, and wasn't going to let himself be taken at a disadvantage
by any tanner in the land.
When Eaton was twelve our country declared itself free and independent,
and all true patriots rose up to defend, by sword or whatever other
means was in their power, the sacred cause of liberty.
Our young friend Bill fairly burned with desire to go off and do
something great. His soul was on fire with patriotic ardor. How could he
stay quietly in Woodstock, and lead a humdrum life, when the soldiers of
the tyrant were threatening all the Americans held most dear? But his
friends at home did not encourage his practical patriotism. He was told
that he must stay at home, and work on the farm, and get ready for
college; the country would get on very well without him; and so he did
stay for four years, and the war seemed no nearer an end than ever. At
last one night he could stand it no longer; so he ran away, and joined
the nearest camp, where he enlisted. But the pride of the
sixteen-year-old boy received a blow: they made him servant to one of
the officers, and in this menial position he was obliged to stay. He
found that he was far from being his own master now. He behaved so well,
though, that he was placed in the ranks after a while, and in 1783 was
made a sergeant, and discharged.
He went home, and taught, to support himself, while he prepared for
college; for he had no father now to help him along. He entered
Dartmouth College, and graduated honorably, though he had lost five
years for study out of his young life. Not long after his graduation,
while he was teaching again, he was given a captain's commission in the
army for his service during the Revolution. A soldier's life suited his
bold character far better than the quiet occupation of country teacher.
Then he married, and went first west, then south, on military service,
and saw plenty of wild life, and made enemies as well as friends, for
the best of us can not expect to please everybody, and Captain Eaton had
too strong a character not to make some people, who did not think as he
did, very angry.
When he was about thirty-five years old, trouble rose between the United
States government and some of the countries of Africa, and the President
sent Eaton out to Tunis as consul. Tunis is one of the Moorish kingdoms
of Africa that border on the Mediterranean Sea, and were called "Barbary
States." The other Barbary States were Morocco, Algiers, and Tripoli.
For a long time these countries had been nests of pirates, who made
their living by preying on the commerce of Christian nations, and making
slaves of their seamen, so that the black flags of their ships were the
terror of the Mediterranean. These robbers had the daring to demand
tribute of European nations, which many of them paid annually for the
sake of not being molested, and lately they had tried to extort money
from the United States on the same plea. Eaton managed so cleverly and
successfully with the Bey, or ruler, of Tunis, that he made a very
satisfactory arrangement with him, and then returned home: but the other
agents did not manage so well, and at last war was declared, for the
United States had no idea of being cowed and threatened by these
pirates and murderers--far otherwise! The memory of her recent
successful struggle with the greatest nation of the earth was too fresh
to make it possible that an American ship should voluntarily lower its
flag before a Moorish marauder. But what we would not do voluntarily we
had to do by compulsion. The frigate _Philadelphia_, sailing in African
waters, under Captain Bainbridge, was captured by the Bey of Tripoli,
and towed into the harbor of that town. Her crew was carried off into
slavery by the pirates, some languishing in hopeless imprisonment,
others toiling their lives away under the burning sun of Africa.
Captain Decatur soon after sailed into the harbor in a vessel that he
had captured from the Tripolitans, and retook and burned the
_Philadelphia_; but, alas! hero as he was, he could not rescue his
unfortunate countrymen. A few months later, in 1805, Eaton was sent back
to the Barbary States as Naval Agent, and first stopped in Egypt. Here
he made up his mind that he would bend all his energies toward rescuing
the captives at Tripoli. He found that the rightful ruler of Tripoli,
named Hamet Caramelli, had been driven away from his dominions by his
brother Yusef, and was in Alexandria. Eaton offered to assist him to
recover his throne, and collected a little army of five hundred men,
most of them Mussulmans, a few Greek Christians, and nine Americans.
With these followers he and Hamet marched across the desert toward
Derne, in the kingdom of Tripoli. Eaton had not lost his boyish love of
adventure yet, you see. This was just one of the bold, daring
undertakings that he may have dreamed of in those early days when he
stole away from his work to read with eager delight stories of wild
venture and perilous escape in the peaceful shades of the forest around
Woodstock. Doubtless these desert marches now entered upon far exceeded
all his young imagination had pictured them.
It was a perilous journey, for the Arab sheiks and their followers, who
made up most of his army, sometimes behaved in a very mutinous manner,
and it took all Eaton's force of will and strict discipline to keep them
in any sort of order, for Hamet showed very little decision of
character, and proved that he was not very well fitted to be a ruler of
men.
They were liable to be attacked by brigands from the mountains, too, so
that ceaseless vigilance was needed. Some friendly Arab bands joined
them on the road; so, when they reached Derne, Eaton found himself at
the head of quite an army. Here he was met by two American ships, and
with their help he bombarded the town, and took it by assault, driving
the wild Arabs who were defending it back to the mountains. Now Eaton
was in a situation to dictate his own terms to the usurper Yusef Bey,
since he had brought Hamet Caramelli triumphantly into his own city of
Derne, and had driven all enemies before him. He had laid his plans to
march on Tripoli, drive off the usurper, and deliver his poor captive
countrymen at the edge of the sword, when suddenly his successful career
was brought to an end in rather a mortifying way. Yusef, frightened out
of his defiance, consented to come to terms with Colonel Lear, American
Consul-General at Algiers. If Colonel Lear had not been too hasty in
concluding a treaty which forced the United States to pay sixty thousand
dollars ransom money, when not a cent should have been given, and left
the cruel Yusef safe on his throne, General Eaton might have marched on
Tripoli with his victorious army, restored Hamet, and let the captives
go in triumph.
Most people agreed that but for Eaton's promptness and bravery the
troubles might have lasted much longer; and when he returned to America,
soon after, he was received with great distinction by his countrymen,
who made him quite an ovation. The Massachusetts Legislature voted him
ten thousand acres of land in the district of Maine. The remainder of
his life was passed in his pleasant home at Brimfield, Massachusetts,
where he died June 1, 1811, at the age of forty-seven.
Aaron Burr tried to draw Eaton into his famous conspiracy, but Eaton was
a firm patriot, and refused with horror to play the traitor. Wishing to
make his true sentiments known, once for all, he gave this toast at a
public banquet, in Burr's presence: "The United States--palsy to the
brain that shall plot to dismember, and leprosy to the hand that will
not draw to defend our Union!"
THE HARE AND THE BADGER.
A Story from the Japanese.
BY WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS.
A good while ago there lived near the Clack-clack Mountains an old man
and his wife, who, having no child, made a great deal of a pet hare.
Every day the old man cut up food and set it out on a plate for his pet.
One day a badger came out of the forest, and in a trice drove away the
hare, and eating up his dinner, licked the plate clean. Then, standing
on his hind-legs, the badger blew out his belly until it was as round as
a bladder and tight as a drum, and beating on it with his paws to show
his victory, scampered off to the woods. But the old man, who was very
angry, caught the badger, and tying him by the legs, hung him up head
downward under the edges of the thatch in the shed where his old woman
pounded millet. He then strapped a wooden frame to hold fagots on his
back, and went out to the mountains to cut wood.
The badger, finding his legs pain him, began to cry, and begged the old
woman to untie him, promising to help her pound the millet. The tired
old dame, believing the sly beast, like a good-hearted soul laid down
her pestle and loosened the cords round the beast's legs. The badger was
so cramped at first that he could not stand; but when well able to move,
he seized a knife to kill the old woman. The hare, seeing this, ran away
to find the old man, if possible, and tell him. The badger, after
stabbing the old woman, crushed her to death by upsetting the bureau
upon her, and then threw her body into the mortar, and pounded her into
a jelly. Setting the pot on to boil, he made the woman's flesh into a
mess of soup, and ate all he could of it. Then the badger, by turning
three double somersaults, turned himself into an old woman, looking
exactly like the one he had just eaten. All being ready, he waited till
the husband came home tired and hungry.
Soon the old man came back, thinking of nothing more than the hot supper
he was soon to enjoy. Throwing down his fagots, he came into the house,
and while he warmed his hands at the hearth, his wife (as he supposed)
set the mess of soup and millet, with a slice of radish, before him on a
tray. He fell to, and ate heartily, his wife (as he supposed) waiting
dutifully near by till her lord was served. When the meal was finished
he pulled out a sheet of soft mulberry paper from his bosom and wiped
his old chops, smacking them well, as he thought what a good supper he
had so much enjoyed. Just then the badger took on his real shape, and
yelled out: "Old fool, you've eaten your own wife. Look in the drain,
and you'll find her bones." And he puffed out his body, beat it like a
drum, whisked his tail scornfully, and ran off.
Almost dead with grief and horror, the old man gathered up the bones of
his wife, and decently buried them. Then he made a vow to take revenge
on the badger. Just then the hare came back from the mountains, and
after condoling with the old man, said he would also take revenge on the
badger.
[Illustration]
So the hare buckled on his belt, in which he kept his flint and steel,
and made ready a plaster of red peppers.
Going into the forest, he saw Mr. Badger walking home with a load of
fagots and brush on his back. Creeping up softly behind him, the hare
set the bundle on fire. The badger kept on, until he heard the crackling
of the burning twigs. Then he jumped wildly, and cried out, "Oh, I
wonder what that noise is!"
"Oh, this is the Clack-clack Mountain; it always is crackling here,"
said the hare, looking down from the top of the hill.
The fire grew more lively, and the badger became scared. He fell down,
and threw out his fore-paws wildly.
[Illustration]
"Katchi-katchi" (clack-clack), went the dry fagots, as the red-hot coals
flew about.
"What can it be?" said Mr. Badger.
"This mountain is called Katchi-katchi (Clack-clack); don't you know
that?" said the hare, coolly standing on the bridge, and leaning on his
axe.
"Oh! oh! oh! help me!" howled the badger, as the blazing twigs began to
burn the hair off his back. And running through the woods to a stream
near by, he plunged in, and the fire was put out. But his running had
only increased the fire and burning, and his back was all raw. When the
hare found the badger at home in his house, he was howling in misery,
and expecting to die from his burn.
"Let me take a look at your burn, Mr. Badger," said the hare; "I have
some famous salve to cure it"--as he pretended to be very pitiful, and
held up a bowl of what seemed to be fine salve in one paw, while in the
other was a soft brush of fine hair. Then the hare clapped on the
red-pepper plaster, and ran away, while the badger rolled in pain.
By-and-by, when the badger got well, he went to see the hare, to have it
out with him. He found the hare building a boat. "Where are you going in
that boat?" said the badger.
"I'm going to the moon," said the hare. "Come along with me. There's
another boat."
So the badger, thinking to catch some fish by going on the water, got
into the boat, and both launched away.
Now the boat in which Mr. Badger rowed was made of clay, which soon
began to melt away in the water. Seeing this, the hare lifted his
paddle, and with one blow sunk the boat, and the badger was drowned.
The hare went back and told the old man, who was glad that his wife had
been revenged, and more than ever petted the hare to the end of his
life.
[Begun in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 31, June 1.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY W. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER IV.
Some time in the middle of the night Joe Sharpe woke up from a dream
that he had fallen into the river, and could not get out. He thought
that he had caught hold of the supports of a bridge, and had drawn
himself partly out of the water, but that he had not strength enough to
drag his legs out, and that, on the contrary, he was slowly sinking
back. When he awoke he found that he was very cold, and that his blanket
felt particularly heavy. He put his hand down to move the blanket, when,
to his great surprise, he found that he was lying with his legs in a
pool of water.
Joe instantly shouted to the other boys, and told them to wake up, for
it was raining, and the tent was leaking. As each boy woke up he found
himself as wet as Joe, and at first all supposed that it was raining
heavily. They soon found, however, that no rain-drops were pattering on
the outside of the tent, and that the stars were shining through the
open nap.
"There's water in this tent," said Tom, with the air of having made a
grand discovery.
"If any of you fellows have been throwing water on me, it was a mean
trick," said Jim.
All at once an idea struck Harry. "Boys," he exclaimed, "it's the tide!
We've got to get out of this place mighty quick, or the tide will wash
the tent away."
The boys sprung up, and rushed out of the tent. They had gone to bed at
low tide, and as the tide rose it had gradually invaded the tent. The
boat was still safe, but the water had surrounded it, and in a very
short time would be deep enough to float it. The tide was still rising,
and it was evident that no time should be lost if the tent was to be
saved.
Two of the boys hurriedly seized the blankets and other articles which
were in the tent, and carried them on to the higher ground, while the
other two pulled up the pins, and dragged the tent out of reach of the
water. Then they pulled the boat farther up the beach, and having thus
made everything safe, had leisure to discover that they were miserably
cold, and that their clothes, from the waist down, were wet through.
Luckily, their spare clothing, which they had used for pillows, was
untouched by the water, so that they were able to put on dry shirts and
trousers. Their blankets, however, had been thoroughly soaked, and it
was too cold to think of sleeping without them. There was nothing to be
done but to build a fire, and sit around it until daylight. It was by no
means easy to collect fire-wood in the dark; and as soon as a boy
succeeded in getting an armful of driftwood, he usually stumbled and
fell down with it. There was not very much fun in this; but when the
fire finally blazed up, and its pleasant warmth conquered the cold night
air, the boys began to regain their spirits.
"I wonder what time it is?" said one.
Tom had a watch, but he had forgotten to wind it up for two or three
nights, and it had stopped at eight o'clock. The boys were quite sure,
however, that they could not have been asleep more than half an hour.
"It's about one o'clock," said Harry, presently.
"I don't believe it's more than nine," said Joe.
"We must have gone into the tent about an hour after sunset," continued
Harry, "and the sun sets between six and seven. It was low tide then,
and it's pretty near high tide now; and since the tide runs up for about
six hours, it must be somewhere between twelve and one."
"You're right," exclaimed Jim. "Look at the stars. That bright star over
there in the west was just rising when we went to bed."
"You ought to say 'turned in,'" said Joe. "Sailors never go to bed; they
always 'turn in.'"
"Well, we can't turn in any more to-night," replied Tom. "What do you
say, boys? suppose we have breakfast--it'll pass away the time, and we
can have another breakfast by-and-by."
Now that the boys thought of it, they began to feel hungry, for they had
had a very light supper. Everybody felt that hot coffee would be very
nice; so they all went to work, made coffee, fried a piece of ham, and,
with a few slices of bread, made a capital breakfast. They wrung out the
wet blankets and clothes, and hung them up by the fire to dry. Then they
had to collect more fire-wood; and gradually the faint light of the dawn
became visible before they really had time to find the task of waiting
for daylight tiresome.
They decided that it would not do to start with wet blankets, since they
could not dry them in the boat. They therefore continued to keep up a
brisk fire, and to watch the blankets closely, in order to see that they
did not get scorched. After a time the sun came out bright and hot, and
took the drying business in charge. The boys went into the river, and
had a nice long swim, and then spent some time in carefully packing
everything into the boat. By the time the blankets were dry, and they
were ready to start, the tide had fallen so low that the boat was high
and dry; and in spite of all their efforts they could not launch her
while she was loaded.
"We'll have to take all the things out of her," said Harry.
"It reminds me," remarked Joe, "of Robinson Crusoe that time he built
his big canoe, and then couldn't launch it."
"Robinson wasn't very sharp," said Jim. "Why didn't he make a set of
rollers, and put them on the boat?"
"Much good rollers would have been," replied Joe. "Wasn't there a hill
between the boat and the water? He couldn't roll a heavy boat up hill,
could he?"
"He could have made a couple of pulleys, and rigged a rope through them,
and then made a windlass, and put the rope round it," argued Jim.
"Yes, and he could have built a steam-engine and a railroad, and dragged
the boat down to the shore that way, just about as easy."
"He couldn't dig a canal, for he thought about that, and found it would
take too much work," said Jim.
"But we can," cried Harry. "If we just scoop out a little sand, we can
launch the boat with everything in her."
[Illustration: TOM MAKES A CALCULATION.]
The boys liked the idea of a canal; and they each found a large shingle
on the beach, and began to dig. They dug for nearly an hour, but the
boat was no nearer being launched than when they began. Tom stopped
digging, and made a calculation. "It will take about two days of hard
work to dig a canal deep enough to float that boat. If you want to dig,
dig; I don't intend to do any more digging."
When the other boys considered the matter, they saw that Tom was right,
and they gave up the idea of making a canal. It was now about ten
o'clock, and they were rather tired and very hungry. A second breakfast
was agreed to be necessary, and once more the fire was built up and a
meal prepared. Then the boat was unloaded and launched, and the boys,
taking off their shoes and rolling up their trousers, waded in the water
and reloaded her. It was noon by the sun before they finally had
everything in order, and resumed their cruise.
There was no wind, and it was necessary to take to the oars. The
disadvantage of starting at so late an hour soon became painfully
evident. The sun was so nearly overhead that the heat was almost
unbearable, and there was not a particle of shade. The boys had not had
a full night's sleep, and had tired themselves before starting by trying
to dig a canal. Of course the labor of rowing in such circumstances was
very severe; and it was not long before first one and then another
proposed to go ashore and rest in the shade.
"Hadn't we better keep on till we get into the Highlands? We can do it
in a quarter of an hour," said Tom.
As Tom was pulling the stroke oar, and doing rather more work than any
one else, the others agreed to row on as long as he would row. They soon
reached the entrance to the Highlands, and landed at the foot of the
great hill called St. Anthony's Nose. They were very glad to make the
boat fast to a tree that grew close to the water, and to clamber a
little way up the hill into the shade.
"What will we do to pass away the time till it gets cooler?" said Harry,
after they had rested awhile.
"I can tell you what I'm going to do," said Tom; "I'm going to get some
of the sleep that I didn't get last night, and you'd better follow my
example."
All the boys at once found that they were sleepy; and having brought the
tent up from the boat, they spread it on the ground for a bed, and
presently were sleeping soundly. The mosquitoes came and feasted on
them, and the innumerable insects of the summer woods crawled over them,
and explored their necks, shirt sleeves, and trousers legs, as is the
pleasant custom of insects of an inquiring turn of mind.
"What's that?" cried Harry, suddenly sitting up, as the sound of a heavy
explosion died away in long, rolling echoes.
"I heard it," said Joe; "it's a cannon. The cadets up at West Point are
firing at a mark with a tremendous big cannon."
"Let's go up and see them," exclaimed Jim. "It's a great deal cooler
than it was."
With the natural eagerness of boys to be in the neighborhood of a
cannon, they made haste to gather up the tent and carry it to the boat.
As they came out from under the thick trees, they saw that the sky in
the north was as black as midnight, and that a thunder-storm was close
at hand.
"Your cannon, Joe, was a clap of thunder," said Harry. "We're going to
get wet again."
"We needn't get wet," said Tom. "If we hurry up, we can get the tent
pitched and put the things in it, so as to keep them dry."
They worked rapidly, for the rain was approaching fast, but it was not
easy to pitch the tent on a side-hill. It was done, however, after a
fashion, and the blankets and other things that were liable to be
injured by the wet were safely under shelter before the storm reached
them.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
NEW YORK PRISON-SHIPS.
On the Long Island shore, where the Navy-yard now extends its shops and
vessels around Wallabout Bay, there was in the time of the Revolution a
large and fertile farm. A number of flour mills, moved by water, then
stood there. The flat fields glowed with rich crops of grain, roots, and
clover. Their Dutch owners still kept up the customs and language of
Holland; at Christmas the kettles hissed and bubbled over the huge
fires, laden with olycooks, doughnuts, crullers; at Paas, or Easter, the
colored eggs were cracked by whites and blacks, and all was merriment.
The war no doubt brought its difficulties to the Dutch farmers; they
were sometimes plundered by both parties, and they had little love for
King George. They lived on in decorous silence, waiting for the coming
of peace, remembering how their ancestors in Holland had once fought
successfully for freedom against the Spaniards and the French. But in
front of the quiet farm at Wallabout, and anchored in the bay, were seen
several vessels, decayed, unseaworthy, and repulsive. They were the
prison-ships of New York. Here from the year 1776 a large number of
American prisoners were confined until the close of the war, and the
tragic tales of their sufferings and fate lend a melancholy interest to
the Wallabout shore.
The largest of the prison-ships--the old _Jersey_--was crowded with
miserable captives. She was an old man-of-war, worthless, decayed; her
low decks and dismal hold were converted into a jail; her crowded
inmates were only thinned by the hand of death. The old _Jersey_ may
well be taken as one of the best symbols of the terrors of war. Her
miserable captives pined away for months and years, deprived of all that
makes life tolerable. In the chill and bitter frosts of winter no fires
warmed her half-clad inmates; in the hot summer they faded away beneath
the pitiless heat. Disease preyed upon them, yet no physician, it is
said, was suffered to visit them. They were clothed in rags and tatters;
their food was so scanty and often so repulsive that they lived in
continual starvation. The fair youth of Connecticut and Rhode Island,
the young sailors of New York and New Jersey, confined in these floating
dungeons, were the sacrifices to the ambition of King George. They died
by hundreds and even thousands during the war; the whole shore was lined
with the unmarked graves of the patriot dead; the prison-ships were the
scandal of the time, and their starved inmates seldom bore long the
pains of the merciless imprisonment. It is said that the bones of eleven
thousand dead were found upon the shore, and reverently buried in a
common tomb.
Yet the prisoners of the old _Jersey_ and the other ships were not left
always without sympathy and aid. Often a boat was seen sailing from the
rich farms on the Wallabout, laden with provisions for the famished
patriots. The Dutch farmers from their own diminished resources gave
bountifully to the sufferers. The ladies of the household worked warm
stockings with the busy knitting-needle; the spinning-wheel was never
idle; the fair Dutch damsels, demure and prudent, blushing with the rich
complexions of Amsterdam, were never weary of their charitable toil; and
many a poor prisoner was saved and strengthened by the gifts of his
unknown friends. As the war advanced, too, the successes of the
Americans seem to have convinced the royal chiefs that they were at
least deserving of tolerable treatment. Some of the worst abuses of the
system were removed. Hospital-ships were provided; the sick were
separated from the healthy; the _Whitby_, the most infamous of the
floating jails, was abandoned. Yet still, an observer relates, the dead
were carried away every morning from the old _Jersey_, and still the
horrors of captivity in the prison-ships exceeded all that had been
known in every recent European war.
Several curious escapes are related. Once, in 1777, as a boat hung
fastened to the old _Jersey_ unnoticed, three or four prisoners let
themselves down into it quietly, cast off the rope, and drifted away
slowly with the tide. It was evening, and the darkness saved them. Their
escape was discovered, and guns were fired at random after them; but
they floated unharmed along the East River, passed what are now the
Fulton and South ferries, and reached by a miracle the New Jersey shore.
Here they found friends, and were safe. At another time, in the cold
winter of 1780, fifteen half-clad, half-famished prisoners escaped in
the night on the ice; others who followed them turned back, overpowered
by the cold. One was frozen to death. It is almost possible to see in
fancy the miserable band of shivering fugitives fleeing over the ice of
the restless river in the deep cold of the winter's night, chased by the
fierce winds, half lost in the blinding snow. They made their way to the
Connecticut shore. A very remarkable escape from the Old Sugar-House is
related of a Boston prisoner. He dug a passage under Liberty Street from
the prison to the cellar of the house on the opposite side of the way.
The difficulty of making the excavation will be plain to every one who
looks at the labors of a party of workmen opening a trench for gas-pipes
or water. Yet the Boston boy burrowed under-ground until he found
himself free.
The prison-ships were retained in use until 1783. Several were burned at
different times, either by accident or by the prisoners in their
despair. At the close of the war the remaining ships were all sunk or
burned. A few years ago the wreck of the old _Jersey_ could still be
seen on the Wallabout shore.
THE TIGER.
The royal tiger of Asia is an animal celebrated for its beauty and its
agility, cunning, and prodigious strength. Its skin is a bright tawny
yellow, with glossy black stripes running downward from its back. Its
tail, which is long and supple, is ringed with black, and its large head
is marked in a very handsome manner. It is like a great cat. Its puffy
cheeks are ornamented with white whiskers, and its big paws are like
those of a pussy magnified fifty times. Its motions are very graceful,
and whether lying down, its nose on its paw, sleeping, or walking
through the paths of its native jungle with soft cat-like tread, it
appears formed of muscle and sinew, without a bone in its body, so
gracefully does it curve and twist itself as it moves.
The tiger is not considered a courageous beast by hunters, who say that
if it is faced boldly, it will turn and slink away among the bushes, if
it can. But if it can attack a hunter from behind, it will spring upon
him, filling the air with its savage growls, and probably kill him with
the first blow of its mighty paw.
The strength of this creature is almost incredible. It will break the
skull of an ox, or even that of a buffalo, with the greatest ease. A
story is told of a buffalo belonging to a peasant in India, which, while
passing through a swamp, became helplessly entangled in the mire and
underbrush. The peasant left the buffalo, and went to beg his neighbors
to assist him in extricating the poor beast. When the rescuing party
returned, they found a tiger had arrived before them, and having killed
the buffalo, had just shouldered it, and started to march home to its
lair with the prey. The tiger was soon dispatched by the peasant and his
friends, and his beautiful skin was made to atone in a measure for the
murder of the buffalo, which, when weighed, tipped the scales at more
than a thousand pounds--a tremendous load for so small an animal as a
tiger to shoulder and carry off with ease.
The tiger is very troublesome to the inhabitants of certain localities
in India, as it attacks the herds, and makes off with many a fat
bullock; and when unable to find other provender it will even attack the
huts of the natives, sometimes tearing away the thatch, and springing in
with a loud roar on a startled family. Instances are rare, however, of
tigers attacking human beings, except when surprised and driven to
self-defense. In some portions of the country they are very abundant,
and may be heard every night roaring through the jungles in search of
deer and other beasts upon which they prey. Even the savage wild boar of
India does not terrify this queen of cats, and often bloody battles
occur between these two powerful beasts.
As a mother the tiger is very devoted, and will fight for its pretty
kittens to the last extremity. A story is told of an English officer
who, while hunting in India, came upon the lair of a tiger, in which a
tiny kitten, about a fortnight old, was lying all alone. Thinking that
the mother was probably among the beasts killed by his party, the
officer took the kitten to the camp, where it was chained to a pole, and
amused the whole company with its graceful gambols. A few hours later,
however, the whole camp was shaken by terrible roars and shrieks of
rage, which came ever nearer and nearer. The kitten heard them, and
became a miniature tiger at once, showing its teeth, and answering with
a loud wail. Suddenly there leaped into the camp inclosure a furious
tigress with glaring eyes. Without deigning to notice the robbers of her
baby, she seized the little thing in her teeth, snapped the small chain
which held it with one jerk, and briskly trotted off with it into the
jungle. Not a man in the camp dared move, and no one was malicious
enough to fire at the retreating mother that had risked her life to
regain possession of her baby.
[Illustration: A ROYAL BENGAL TIGER.]
Any one who has watched the feeding of caged tigers in a menagerie can
easily imagine how terrible a hungry tiger would be, were he running
free in his native jungle. As supper-time approaches, the tigers begin
to roar and growl, and march restlessly up and down the cage. When the
keeper approaches with the great pieces of raw beef, their roaring makes
everything tremble. With ferocity glaring in their eyes, the tigers
spring for the food, and begin to devour it eagerly. They often lie down
to eat, holding the meat in their fore-paws like a cat, rolling it over
and over while they tear it in pieces, growling savagely all the while.
The royal tiger is found only in Asia; for the beast called a tiger in
South America and on the Isthmus of Panama is properly the jaguar, and
its skin is not ornamented by stripes, but by black spots. It is not so
powerful as its royal relative, but very much like it in its habits.
Like the tiger, it is an expert swimmer, and as it is very fond of fish,
it haunts the heavily wooded banks of the great South American rivers,
and is a constant terror to the wood-cutters, who anchor their little
vessels along the shore.
The crocodiles and the jaguars are at constant war with each other. If a
jaguar catches a crocodile asleep on a sand-bank, it has the advantage,
and usually kills its antagonist; but if the crocodile can catch its
enemy in the water, the jaguar rarely escapes death by drowning.
Jaguars are not as plentiful on the Isthmus of Panama as formerly,
before the scream and rumble of the locomotive disturbed the solitudes
of the dense tropical forest. Still, large specimens are occasionally
killed there, and their beautiful skins bring a high price when brought
to market.
BICYCLING.
BY THE CAPTAIN.
One of the prettiest and most interesting sights ever seen in the gay
city of Newport was the parade of bicyclers last Decoration-day, where,
among the one hundred and fifty riders, were to be seen the uniforms of
twenty-five crack clubs.
The illustration of the procession on next page shows it on Bellevue
Avenue while passing the quaint and beautiful Casino Building. First of
all rides the commander, Captain Hodges, of the Boston Bicycle Club, and
directly behind him, riding three abreast, are the six marshals of the
procession, who act as his aides. Then come the men of the New York
Club, in gray and scarlet, riding in column of fours, and followed by
the long line of glittering steel and gay uniforms that stretches for
nearly a mile along the pleasant street.
Crowds of people have gathered to watch the procession, and their
cheers, as some particularly well-drilled club passes, cause the men to
ride with great care, and to preserve their lines so well that they move
with the steadiness and precision of a body of cavalry.
Of all the riders in this long procession, the youngest was probably the
best. Theodore R----, or "the young captain," as he is called, is but
fourteen years old, and looks much younger. He lives in Philadelphia,
and has practiced riding the bicycle in a rink in that city until his
performances upon it are as wonderful as those of a circus rider on his
horse.
In the picture of "the young captain" he is represented as mounted on
his own machine, of which the driving-wheel is but forty-two inches in
diameter. His most wonderful riding is, however, done upon a bicycle
twelve or fourteen inches higher than this, and of which he can but
barely touch the pedals as they come up. Thus he keeps the machine in
motion by a succession of little kicks or pushes. He rides bicycles so
tall that to gain the saddle he has actually to climb up the backbone of
the machine after he has set it in motion with a vigorous push.
"The young captain" is a very bright boy, and excels in all games and
feats of skill, while at the same time he is a good scholar, and stands
well in all his classes.
Since the great Newport meet of bicyclers, or "wheelmen," as they are
now generally called in this country, a number of letters containing
questions about bicycles have been written by boys anxious to become
riders, and sent to YOUNG PEOPLE. In the following hints to young riders
I will try and answer all these questions:
Any active boy of ten years of age and upward may become a wheelman.
It is best to learn to ride on an old-fashioned wooden machine, or
"bone-shaker," or on a bicycle so low that the rider may touch the
ground with his toes. By this means he will learn to maintain his
balance without getting any serious falls.
Anybody who can ride a "bone-shaker" can ride a bicycle, though in the
latter case he must learn to mount his machine before he can ride it.
To learn the "mount" take your machine by the handles, give it a running
push, place your left foot on the step, and, rising from the ground,
maintain your balance as long as possible in that position without
attempting to gain the saddle. After trying this a dozen times or more,
try to take your seat in the saddle, not with a spring, but slide in
easily, and do not let your body lean forward or you may pitch over the
handles.
A beginner should have his saddle set well back on the spring. Although
this position gives less power, it is much safer.
In going up hill lean well forward, and transfer the entire weight from
the saddle to the pedals. Do not be ashamed to dismount in going up
hill, but do so in every case rather than exhaust yourself.
In going down hill lean back as far as possible, and keep your machine
under control. A little practice in back-pedalling, or pushing against
the pedal as it comes up rather than as it goes down, will enable you to
take your machine down very steep hills at ordinary walking pace. If
your machine does escape from your control, throw your legs over the
handles, and "coast," as you are less liable to get a bad fall while in
this position than in any other.
Keep to the right of the road as much as possible. Always keep to the
right when you meet a team, foot-passenger, or other bicycle, and in
overtaking any of these always pass to the left. Dismount and walk past
any horse that becomes frightened at your bicycle.
Always carry a light when riding at night.
Be careful not to use your whistle or bell more than is absolutely
necessary, otherwise you will become a nuisance, and as such will not be
a welcome addition to the ranks of wheelmen.
Remember that while you have rights for which you are bound to stand up,
others have equal rights, which you are equally bound to respect.
In selecting a bicycle, be sure that it fits you perfectly. Do not
gratify a mistaken ambition by trying to ride a wheel that is too large
for you. The larger the wheel, the more difficulty you will find in
driving it up hill.
As soon as you own a bicycle, make yourself familiar with every part of
it, and especially with all its adjustments.
Never lend your bicycle.
Always clean and adjust it yourself. If it gets broken, send it to none
but a first-class machinist for repairs.
[Illustration: FIRST GRAND MEET OF AMERICAN WHEELMEN.--DRAWN BY W. P.
SNYDER.]
THE PIG'S PENNY.
BY W. O. STODDARD.
It was the pig did it.
The bigger that pig grew, the more he squealed, and the less he seemed
to like his pen.
Ben knew it, but for all that he wondered how it came to pass that he
should find that pig in the village street, half way down to the tavern.
"Out of the pen into the barn-yard, and out of that into the street when
the gate was open. Won't I have a time getting him home!"
There was little doubt of that, for the pig felt that it was his duty to
root as he went, and he refused to walk quietly past any good
opportunity to thrust his snub-nose into something.
Ben worked, and so did the pig.
"Hullo! What's that?"
The pig had turned up a clod of earth with something sticking on it, and
Ben sprang forward to pick it up.
"It's a cent!"
It was round; it was made of copper; it was a coin of some kind; but it
was black and grimy, and Ben rubbed hard to clean it.
"I never saw a cent like that before. I can't even read what it says on
it."
"What have you found, Ben, my boy?"
"Guess it's a kind of a cent. The pig found it."
All the boys in the village knew old Squire Burchard, only they were
half afraid of him. It was said he could read almost any kind of book,
and that was a wonderful sort of man for any man to be.
"The pig found it? I declare! I guess I'll have to buy it of you."
"Don't you s'pose it'll pass?"
"Well, yes, it might; but it'll only buy a cent's worth. I'll give you
more than that for it."
"Going to melt it over and make a new cent of it?"
"No, Ben, not so bad as that. I'll keep it to look at. It's a very old
German coin, and I'm what they call a numismatist."
Ben listened hard over that word for a moment, and tried to repeat it.
"Rumismatics--I know; it's a good deal like what father says he has
sometimes. Gets into his back and legs."
"Not quite, Ben; but it makes me gather up old coins, and put them in a
glass case, and look at them."
"Father's is worse 'n that; it takes him bad in rainy weather."
"Well, Ben, I'll give the pig or you, just as you say, a quarter of a
dollar for that cent."
Ben's eyes fairly danced, but all he could manage to say was, "Yes, sir.
Thank you, sir. Guess I will."
"There it is, Ben. It's a new one. I don't care much for new ones.
What'll you do with it?"
Ben hesitated only a moment, for he was turning the quarter over and
over, and thinking of just the answer to the squire's question.
"It's a puppy, sir. Mrs. Malone said I might have it for a quarter, and
father said I couldn't buy it unless I found the money."
"It'll be the pig's puppy, then? All right; but you can't make pork of
him."
The pig was driven home in a good deal of a hurry, without another
chance given him to root for old coins; and when Ben's father came in
from the corn field that night, there was Ben ready to meet him with the
puppy.
"Got him, have you?"
Ben had to explain twice over about the old cent and the Squire.
"Oh, the pig did it. Well, Ben, I don't see what we want of another dog;
though that is a real pretty one. Too many dogs in this village,
anyhow."
The next day Ben's father went to town with a load of wheat, and Ben
went with him.
He had not owned that puppy long enough to feel like leaving him at
home, so the little lump of funny black curls and clumsiness had to go
to town with him.
Ben's father was in the store, selling his wheat, and Ben was sitting on
top of the load in the wagon, when a carriage with a lady in it was
pulled up in the street beside it.
"Is that your puppy, my boy?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Will you sell it? I want one for my little boy."
"It's a real nice puppy--"
"What will you sell him for?"
Ben did not feel at all like parting with his new pet, but he knew very
well what his father thought about it. Still, it might save him the
puppy if he asked a tremendous price for it.
"I'll take five dollars, ma'am."
"Bring him to me, then. It's just such a dog as I thought of buying."
It seemed to Ben a good deal as if he were dreaming; but he did as he
was told, and climbed back to his perch on the heaped-up bags of wheat
to wait for his father.
It was not long before he had sold the wheat and came out.
"Why, Ben, where's your puppy?"
"There he is, father."
"Why, if that ain't a five-dollar bill! You don't say so!"
Ben explained, and added, "The pig did it, father."
"Well, yes, the pig did it. It just beats me, though."
"He won't know what to do with a five-dollar bill."
"Nor you either. But soon's I can throw off this load we must drive on
up town. There's to be a horse auction."
Ben knew what that meant, for his father knew all about horses, and was
all the while buying and selling them. So it was not long before the
wagon was empty, and Ben and his father made their way to where the
horses were to be sold.
"There's a good many of 'em," said Ben's father, "but the whole lot
isn't worth much. I guess there isn't anything here I want."
Not many people were bidding for the horses, and they were indeed a
poor-looking lot; but pretty soon a gray horse was led out that limped
badly, and was as thin as if he had been fed on wind. One man bid a
dollar for him, and another bid two, and there was a good deal of fun
made about it; but Ben's father had very quietly slipped down from the
wagon, and taken a careful look at the lame horse.
For all that, Ben was a little surprised when the auctioneer's hammer
fell, and he shouted, "Sold! for five dollars, to--What's your name,
mister?"
"Ben Whittlesey."
Ben's father said that. But it wasn't his name. His name was Robert.
"Ben," said his father, when he came back to the wagon, "hand me that
five-dollar bill. If I can get that horse home, I'll cure him in a
fortnight. There's no great thing the matter with him."
There was trouble enough in making the poor lame animal limp so many
miles, and they got home after dark; but that was just as well, for
nobody saw the new horse, or had a chance to laugh at him or his owner.
"It's the pig's horse," said Ben.
Ben's father was as good as his word about curing the lameness, and
plenty of oats and hay, and no work, and good care, did the rest. The
man who sold the gray for five dollars would not have known him at the
end of two weeks.
It was just about two weeks after that that Ben's father drove the
pig's horse to town and back in a buggy, and with a nice new harness on.
He stopped at the blacksmith's shop on his way home, and Mr. Corrigan,
the blacksmith, seemed to take a great fancy to the gray.
"Just the nag I want, Mr. Whittlesey; only I've no ready cash to pay for
him."
"I don't sell on credit, you know," said Mr. Whittlesey. "Anything to
trade?"
"Nothing that I know of. Unless you care to take that vacant lot of
mine, next the tavern. Tisn't doing me any good. I had to take it for a
debt, and I've paid taxes for it these three years."
"Will you swap even?"
"Yes, I might as well."
There was more talk, of course, before the trade was finished, but it
came out all right in the end. Before the next day at noon Mr. Corrigan
owned the pig's horse; but the deed of the town lot was made out in the
name of Ben Whittlesey, and not of the pig.
"Father," said Ben, at the tea table, "mayn't I let that pig out into
the road every day?"
"No, Ben; all the pigs in the village can't root up another cent like
that."
"He did it."
"Well, Ben, he did and he didn't. Do you know how he got the town lot
for you?"
"Why, yes. Don't I?"
"Not quite. You saw him turn up the cent, and knew what to do with it;
he didn't."
"Yes, father."
"And Squire Burchard saw the cent, and knew what to do with it; you
didn't."
"Yes, father."
"And the lady saw your puppy, and knew what to do with it, and you
didn't, nor I either. And I saw the gray horse, and knew what to do with
him; the rest didn't."
"But I don't know what to do with the pig's town lot."
"No, nor Mr. Corrigan didn't, nor I either; but the man from town that's
just bought the old tavern is going to build it over new, and wants to
buy that lot to build on. I tell you what, Ben, my boy, there isn't much
in this world that's worth having unless somebody comes along that knows
what to do with it."
"Ben!" suddenly exclaimed his mother, as she looked out of the window,
"there's that pig out in the garden!"
"Jump, Ben," said his father. "If he gets into your patch of
musk-melons, he'll know just exactly what to do with them."
Before Ben got the pig out of the garden, the pig learned that Ben knew
exactly what to do with a big stick.
MISS VAN WINKLE'S NAP.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
CHAPTER I.
"Mamma, will you please listen a moment?"
"How can I, Quillie dear? just see how busy I am," answered mamma,
turning over a letter she was writing, while a man was bringing in
trunks from the store-room, and another man was waiting for orders, and
through a vista of open doorways was seen a dress-maker at work upon
gingham slips and linen blouses.
"If you please, ma'am, a bit of edging will look none the worse on these
cambrics, and the flannels need a touch of scarlet; even the wild
flowers have vanity enough for a little color of their own."
"True enough, Ellen. Well, get your samples ready. Now, Quillie, I am
going to address this letter, and then I promise to listen to you."
Quillie sighed--she found it so difficult to wait when she had so much
to say. But she only fidgeted a little as mamma scrawled off an address
in letters which Quillie thought would cover half her copy-book, then
the little taper was lighted, the wax was melted, the pretty crest was
imprinted on the seal, and mamma turned with a relieved smile to the
little girl.
"Well, Quillie, what is it?"
"It's only this, mamma," began Quillie, impetuously: "I want to take a
friend to the country with us."
"Who is the friend? why can not she go with her own people?" said mamma.
"Now, mammy dear, please don't hurry me; you know madame, our French
teacher at school, has a little girl about my age--eight and a half.
Well, if it wasn't for her, madame says she could go with some pupils to
their country-seat, and teach them all summer, but they will not have
her child, which is very hateful and disobliging, I think; and it popped
into my head that perhaps you would let us have Julie with us, for the
madame says she can not leave her alone in the city, and she has no
relatives--hardly any friends--and I think it would make madame so happy
not to lose this chance of giving lessons, and yet to have Julie,
and--and--"
Mamma stooped down and kissed her little girl. "There," she said, in her
quick, decisive way, "that will do. It was a kind thought, and I will
consider it. Now run off and dig in the garden; your seeds are coming up
nicely."
"But, mamma," said Quillie, not quite satisfied, "are you sure you won't
forget?"
"I promise not to," was the answer, and she arose to change the
coquettish cap and morning-gown for her street costume. Then she took
out her pencil, and jotted down two or three errands in her
memorandum-book, and gathering up the samples to match for Ellen's work,
out she went.
It was a warm day, a balmy air, but one which induces languor, and as
Mrs. Coit stopped at a street corner and bought a bunch of roses, she
thought she would get the children out of town as soon as possible. Her
eye was next attracted by some exquisite laces. She wanted a few yards,
and stopped to price them. They were thread, filmy as cobwebs; they were
costly; and as she held them in her hand, debating the purchase, she
thought of Quillie's request: the cost of the lace would more than meet
the expense of sending little Julie away. She concluded not to buy the
laces. And so she went on with her errands.
At last she had finished, and turned off into a side street, got into a
car, and was whisked away to a quiet place in the old part of the city.
She stopped before a house which had in its day been fine; now it looked
like a person who is keeping up appearances--a little shabby and worn,
and wanting freshness. She rang the bell, and asked if Madame Garnier
lived there. She was directed by a slovenly maid to a room on an upper
floor, and left there. The air was redolent of garlic. She knocked at
the door, and a little pattering of feet was heard, the door was opened
on a crack, and a small head was to be seen, covered with a tiny
handkerchief tied under the chin; a large checked apron concealed the
rest of the small person. When the small person saw that the visitor was
a lady, she no longer kept the door more than half closed, but throwing
it wide open, she made a profound courtesy, and said, "Pardon, madame;
please to enter."
Mrs. Coit paused, smilingly taking in the background of this interior. A
sunny window full of plants, a bed with ruffled pillow-cases, a gilt
clock, a canary, a table set out for two, a writing-desk and books in a
corner, and a cooking stove, with a bubbling saucepan sending the cover
dancing up and down. It was very close and warm, and the little hostess
was pale, despite the heat.
Mrs. Coit had no time to spare. She asked the child if she were Julie
Garnier, and if she wanted to spend two or three months in the country.
The child opened her eyes in silent wonder. "Could madame be in earnest?
Was it possible?"
Mrs. Coit explained, and in addition took out her pencil, and with
rapidity wrote a note to madame.
The little Julie fairly wept with delight. To be in the country, with
birds and bees and brooks--ah! it was too much felicity. Her mother
would be wild with pleasure.
Then Mrs. Coit was going; but Julie could not let her depart without a
taste of her _pot au feu_, which she was cooking for her dear _pauvre
petite maman_--just one sip, if madame could take no more; and pushing a
chair to the table, and hurriedly wiping off an old cracked faience
bowl, pretty enough in its day, the little eager hands dipped out a
ladleful of soup. Mrs. Coit found it delicious. Warm as was the room and
the repast, it was yet refreshing; so thanking the child for her
hospitality, she at last took her departure.
A week from this time behold an eager group of little ones on the deck
of a Hudson River night boat kissing their hands to Mr. and Mrs. Coit on
the wharf. Nurse is on guard, and counts the heads to see if all are
with her. Quillie's yellow locks are beside Julie's dark tresses; Fred
and Willie come next; and little Artie, who scorns being the baby, waves
in great dignity, as color-bearer, a small American flag. Long before
the stars are out they beg to go to their state-rooms. They creep into
the little beds, and imagine themselves on the tossing ocean. Nurse
hears them discussing who shall be in the upper and who in the lower
berths, and whether they shall be able to remain in them at all, for the
vessel may pitch them all out; then Julie silences all with a vivid
account of her travels. She gesticulates as she talks, occasionally
rolls those dark eyes of hers, speaks of the great steam-ships, the
mighty waves, the roar of the wind, the scream of the fog-whistle, and
the terrible _mal de mer_. Instinctively they yield to her vast
experience, and offer no more remarks, but silently prepare for their
slumbers.
Quite with the early dawn they awake again, refreshed, eager, and taking
in long draughts of the pure air into which they have come. Where are
the docks and wharves and shipping? where the scenes of the night
before? In the rosy flush of the morning lie the green hills and
meadows. The birds are straining their throats with melody, the cocks
are crowing, the geese cackling, and they hear the lowing of cows and
the bleating of sheep.
"Is it paradise?" asks Julie.
"No, it is only Catskill," responds Quillie, tossing back her yellow
locks.
"Hallo! there is Mr. Brown's wagon," screams Fred; and Will shouts till
the farmer responds with a smiling nod.
[Illustration: FRED'S STEAMBOAT.--DRAWN BY W. M. CARY.]
Soon they are all safely stowed in the wagon, and jolting over the
well-remembered roads, an hour or more bringing them to the comfortable
farm. Then what savages more wild than they in their gambols! They roam
from one haunt to the other, visit the cattle and the poultry, and
expect a welcome from all. Breakfast waits, but no one comes. Nurse has
to go after them. There they are on an old hay wagon, which Fred has
made into a steamboat by dragging out of the lumber-room of the barn a
piece of stove-pipe, and Artie's flag at the stern. Julie has her doll,
and Will has the puppy he claims already, but Quillie emerges from some
other corner with two darling kittens. What can nurse do to get them in
to Mrs. Brown's table, with its wild strawberries, its crisp radishes,
its cream, and golden butter, and piles of brown-bread? She hits upon a
happy plan.
"Children, if you will all come in this moment, I will tell you
something splendid."
Their ears were pricked at once. "What is it, nurse? what is it?"
"Not a word more till you obey me."
They scrambled down at that, and hastened into the house.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
LEADVILLE, COLORADO.
We live 'way up in Leadville, in the Rocky Mountains, ten thousand
feet above the level of the sea. Although it is very cold here,
some people live in tents all the year round. We live where we can
see the snow on the range of the Rocky Mountains all summer. We
have a little shepherd dog that eats candy. We like YOUNG PEOPLE
very much, and watch eagerly for its coming. I am eleven years
old, and Susie is ten.
CLARA AND SUSIE J.
* * * * *
OMAHA, NEBRASKA.
We have a great many pets. We have a nice gray mare and a pony,
both named Nell, and a little colt a week old that we call
Cyclone. He is a cunning little fellow, and pretends to eat hay
like his mother. We have lots of chickens of all kinds. I have
some little white bantams, and my brother has some game bantams.
My oldest brother keeps fancy chickens.
S. V. B.
* * * * *
PETALUMA, CALIFORNIA.
I read the letter of Arthur N. T. about gophers. They are very
numerous where I live. I kill them sometimes, but they are very
shy. I have a large gray cat that catches a great many of them.
The wild flowers bloom here about the first of March. I take YOUNG
PEOPLE, and like it very much. I learn lots of things from it,
too. I live so far away that I do not get it till almost two weeks
after it is published.
O. A. H.
* * * * *
WINDSOR, CONNECTICUT.
I found a great number of flowers in May, but I do not think you
will print my list of names, for mamma says it is too long, and
would take up too much space in YOUNG PEOPLE. One day when I was
hunting for flowers in the woods, I found a turtle marked "L. E.
1816."
HARRY H. M.
We are pleased to see that you take such an interest in botany, for it
is a beautiful study, but as your list contains the names of
thirty-seven different flowers, it is a little too long to print,
especially as many of them are given in the paper on "Easy Botany," in
No. 29.
* * * * *
LAREDO, TEXAS.
I live 'way out on the Rio Grande. I like to read the letters in
YOUNG PEOPLE. I have two pet pigeons, one blue and one white. I
would like to know how to catch and tame birds. My kite, which you
told me how to make, was a success.
WILLIAM C.
* * * * *
TROY, OHIO.
I had a water turtle that I wanted to pet. I kept it in a bucket
of water, and it would swim round and round, and try to get out.
When I would take it out, it would creep toward the river. I felt
sorry for it, and my brother put it back in the river again. I
tried Puss Hunter's recipe, and think it real nice. I am going to
send a recipe for her club some time.
BERTHA D. A.
* * * * *
PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA.
Papa takes YOUNG PEOPLE for me, and I like it so much! I have a
little sister who is very much interested in fancy-work, and she
wishes to know if you will not give some instructions for making
some fancy and at the same time useful articles for an old lady. I
had some rabbits, and one bit me. I have tried Fanny S.'s recipe
for caramels, and I like it very much. I have a little dog, but he
eats very little. Can any one tell me what is the matter with him?
TOM G.
* * * * *
LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY.
I take great pleasure in letting you know that I am one of the
many readers of YOUNG PEOPLE. I am a little Scotch girl, but can
remember nothing of my country. I have become crippled since
coming to America, and I enjoy reading very much indeed. I wish
YOUNG PEOPLE much success.
MAGGIE C.
* * * * *
HELENA, ARKANSAS.
I wish to tell you of an entertainment which was given by our
Sunday-school. We called it a Bazar, because we had ever so many
pretty things, made by the Sunday-school children, to sell. There
was a nice stage in the hall where we had the Bazar, and we had a
pretty little exhibition. Some of us represented an art gallery.
We had pictures and statues. I represented a statue. We made over
one hundred dollars, and we are going to buy a new library for the
Sunday-school with the money.
JULIA S.
* * * * *
NEW LONDON, NEW YORK.
I like the letters in Our Post-office Box best of all, and read
every one of them myself, but as I am only six years old, I can
not write very well, so I have asked mamma to write for me. My
father has taken HARPER'S big paper many years, and when the first
YOUNG PEOPLE came, I coaxed him to subscribe for it for me.
We live on a nice, pleasant farm in Oneida County, and have all
kinds of domestic animals. My pets are a pair of pure white twin
calves, just alike. My brother climbed a tall tree in the woods
yesterday, and brought down four young crows, which he killed, and
hung in the corn field to scare away the big crows.
WALTER C. R.
* * * * *
The following letter will be welcome to the many inquirers for this
little flower girl of the Pacific coast:
When my letter was published in YOUNG PEOPLE, I was away from
home, and I have only just now seen it in print. I am sorry the
prettiest flowers of the valley are gone, but I have a few pressed
that I will send to each address, and I will ask some of my
friends to send me some of the mountain flowers.
GENEVIEVE HARVEY,
Galt, Sacramento County, California.
* * * * *
My father has a nice cabinet of minerals, corals, shells, Indian
relics, and other things. I would like to exchange spar of
different colors, iron ore, and other minerals, with some little
girls, for pressed flowers and shells. I have a great many
flowers, and this fall, when the seed gets ripe, I would like to
exchange flower seeds.
There is an abundance of lovely ferns here. Will you please tell
me the best way to press ferns and flowers?
EDITH LOWRY,
Elizabethtown, Hardin County, Illinois.
Ferns and flowers should be laid carefully between two sheets of clean
paper, the leaves artistically arranged in graceful shape, and placed
under heavy pressure until they are dry. If the ferns are to be used for
decoration, a warm iron, not too hot, must be passed over them, always
putting clean paper between them and the iron, otherwise the heat of the
room will curl them as soon as they are placed upon the wall. It is
better not to iron them until they are dry, as the suddenly applied heat
is liable to change the color of fresh ferns, causing them to look dull
and faded. The sugar-maple leaf you send is well pressed, and
beautifully varnished. What kind of varnish did you use? No doubt some
little girls who are preserving leaves would like to know.
* * * * *
I would like to exchange postage stamps of foreign countries with
some other boys who are readers of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
SIDNEY ST. W.,
326 East Fifty-seventh Street, New York city.
* * * * *
MAY 31, 1880.
I am making a collection of birds' eggs, and as soon as I collect
a few more, I would like to exchange some with Samuel P. Higgins,
if he will send me his full address. I have seen morning-glories
in blossom this year, and would like to know if any other
correspondents have seen them so early.
THOMAS HORTON,
Care of Benjamin J. Horton, Lawrence, Kansas.
* * * * *
If Mary Wright will send me some leaves, I will be very happy to
send her some. And I would like to exchange flowers with Mabel
Sharp, if she will send me some as soon as possible. I will send
her some in return as soon as I receive hers. I would like to
exchange leaves or flowers with any others who would like to do
so. Those sending any will please mark each specimen distinctly,
so that I may know the name. I am fourteen years old, and my pets
are birds and flowers, which I will write about another time.
IDA P. SMITH,
P. O. Box 380, Holyoke, Massachusetts.
* * * * *
I take YOUNG PEOPLE, and like it very much. I have two pigeons
that laid eggs and hatched two little ones. I am making a
collection of birds' eggs, and would like to exchange eggs with
any of the correspondents of YOUNG PEOPLE. My address is No. 308
Carlton Avenue, Brooklyn, New York; but after the 25th of June I
will be at Glen Cove, where I get almost all of my eggs. My name
is T. Augustus Simpson, and my address this summer will be care of
S. M. COX, Glen Cove, Long Island.
T. A. S.
* * * * *
ROCHESTER, NEW YORK.
I send a recipe for Puss Hunter's Cooking Club. It is for
Florentines. Make a rich pie crust, using butter instead of lard;
mix with cold sweet milk, roll it thin, spread it with butter,
fold it, then roll it again into a sheet one-eighth of an inch
thick; now spread it with jam, and place it in the oven. When it
is baked, frost it; strew it plentifully with minced almonds or
nuts of any kind; sift sugar over it, and place it in the oven a
few moments to brown.
WINIFRED B.
* * * * *
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA.
I tried Nellie H.'s recipe for candy, only I used maple sugar
instead of molasses, and I liked it very much. Here is another
recipe for candy Puss Hunter may like to try: Six dolls' cups of
sugar; one of vinegar; one of water; one tea-spoonful of butter,
put in last, with a little pinch of saleratus dissolved in hot
water. Boil, without stirring, half an hour, or until it crisps in
cold water; flavor to taste, and pull it white with the tips of
your fingers.
SADIE MCB.
* * * * *
AYLETT'S POST-OFFICE, VIRGINIA.
I have never written to the Post-office Box before, and I thought
now I would send Puss Hunter some recipes for her cooking club. I
have tried hers, and I liked it very much. One of mine is for nice
molasses candy: One quarter of a pound of sugar and one pint of
molasses. Boil quickly, and drop a little in water occasionally
until it crisps. A small piece of butter is an improvement. When
done, cool it in buttered tins. Here is a recipe for Everton
taffy: One pound of brown sugar; three ounces of butter; a little
lemon flavoring. Boil about twenty minutes, until it crisps,
stirring constantly.
LOUISA W.
* * * * *
CLOYD D. B.--Write again, and tell us how you amuse yourself while you
are sick, and we will try to print it. Your last letter was so much a
business communication that we could not put it in the Post-office Box.
* * * * *
JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA.
I saw a letter from Indian River, so I thought I would write too.
I have a little sister, five years old, who goes to a Kindergarten
school. I have a little turtle, and I would like to know how to
feed it. I am almost nine years old.
RALPH D. P.
Turtles like a diet of flies, and small insects, and fruit. You will
find directions for the care of different kinds of turtles in the
Post-office Box of YOUNG PEOPLE No. 5 and No. 18. The "Letter from a
Land Turtle," in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 27, will also give you information.
* * * * *
I thank Zenobia in regard to the whip-poor-wills, but she does not
say when was the earliest she heard them this year. The first one
I heard was on the morning of March 30, which is the earliest I
ever heard one in this locality. Zenobia lives farther north than
I do, and probably whip-poor-wills are not so early in her
vicinity. I want to learn all I can of this mysterious bird, and
would be thankful for any information concerning its habits. If
Zenobia will send me her address, I would like to exchange pressed
Missouri flowers for Illinois flowers with her. I have pressed
flowers from California and Tennessee, and I have been studying
botany this spring.
WROTON M. KENNY,
Pineville P. O., McDonald County, Missouri.
The whip-poor-will is a native of North America, and is found from the
Pacific to the Atlantic. In winter it travels southward, and spends the
cold season in the forests of Central America. It is a brownish-gray
bird, and has a large mouth, armed with bristles at the base of the
bill, with which it retains the moths and other soft-bodied insects upon
which it feeds. It is a very shy bird, and hides itself all day, coming
out at evening and early morning to skim along with noiseless flight
near the ground, seeking its food. It is sometimes called the
night-swallow. It makes no nest, but deposits two greenish eggs, spotted
with blue and brown, in some snug corner, among fallen leaves, on the
ground.
* * * * *
ELK CITY, KANSAS.
My paper comes on Saturday, and I read all the letters in the
Post-office Box first. I have a pet. It is a very funny one. It is
a horny toad. I found it near Pocket Creek. I would like to know
what to feed it with. Papa found a little bug this morning on the
sweet-potato vines. It changes its color very often. Sometimes it
is gold, sometimes green, sometimes red. Can any one tell me the
name of it?
MARY W. (11 years old).
Your bug is probably one of the small iridescent beetles, of which there
are many varieties. As they move about in the light, the color appears
to change, like the color of the head and throat of a South American
humming-bird. If the appetite of your horny toad is like that of a
common toad, it will prefer an insect diet. But it will live weeks
without eating anything, and unless you allow it to hunt for itself, it
will probably die of starvation some day.
* * * * *
GEORGE H. M.--A neat black walnut box, about five inches deep, will make
a good case for butterflies. Glue pieces of cork in the bottom, on which
to mount your specimens, and have a tightly fitting glass cover. You
must scatter bits of camphor in your case, to keep away moths, as they
destroy dried insects, and when your case is full, paste thin paper over
the cracks to make it as air-tight as possible.
* * * * *
L. B. POST.--See Post-office Box No. 18.
* * * * *
"ADMIRER."--The _Passion Play_, which is celebrated once in ten years in
the peasant village of Oberammergau, in the Bavarian Tyrol, is a relic
of the ancient Miracle Plays and Mysteries which were so popular among
the common people throughout Europe during the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries. The _Passion Play_ represents the closing scenes in the life
of Christ, and sometimes includes, as it does this year, _tableaux
vivants_ of incidents in the Old Testament. Usually about five hundred
performers appear on the stage, although the speaking roles number only
a little over two hundred. All the characters are represented by the
peasants of the village, the principal ones being selected fully two
years previous to the performance, that they may become perfectly
drilled in the parts allotted to them, and allow their hair or beards to
grow to imitate as nearly as possible the best existing pictures of the
various characters they are to represent. The theatre is an immense
wooden structure erected for the purpose, capable of containing nine or
ten thousand spectators; for, so widespread is the fame of this peasant
festival that crowds flock to see it from every part of Germany, and
travellers from England and the United States make efforts to be present
at this strange performance. You will find a full account of the
_Passion Play_ in HARPER'S MAGAZINE for January, 1871.
* * * * *
PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.
No. 1.
DIAMOND.
In errand. A poisonous reptile. A flower. A vegetable. In errand.
A. H. E.
* * * * *
No. 2.
ENIGMA.
My first is in May, but not in June.
My second is in lead, but not in copper.
My third is in day, but not in gloom.
My fourth is in ink, but not in water.
My fifth is in season, but not in year.
My sixth is in house, but not in tent.
My seventh is in hound, but not in deer.
My whole was an honored President.
M. B. AND M. H.
* * * * *
No. 3.
WORD SQUARE.
First, a minute quantity. Second, a kind of tune. Third, wrath. Fourth,
thoughts. Fifth, an ancient language.
WILLIE.
* * * * *
No. 4.
ANAGRAMS.
[From each sentence make one word.]
1. Ben has a foil. 2. I harm no cat. 3. I lent a dime. 4. The nice rain.
5. Harry, go past. 6. Shun fat flies.
* * * * *
No. 5.
DOUBLE ACROSTIC.
A boy's name. A city in Japan. A vegetable. To ascend. One of the United
States. A household article. A river west of the Rocky Mountains.
Answer--Two Territories of the United States.
M. E. N.
* * * * *
No. 6.
ENIGMA.
My first is in brown, but not in green.
My second in candy is always seen.
My third is in lamb, but not in kid.
My fourth is in kettle, but not in lid.
My fifth is in lean, but not in fat.
My sixth is in rabbit, but not in cat.
My seventh is in modest, but not in meek.
My eighth is in cone, but not in peak.
My ninth is in cold, but not in freeze.
My tenth is in turnips, but not in peas.
My eleventh is in watch, but not in look.
My whole is the author of many a book.
CHESLY B. H.
* * * * *
Favors are acknowledged from Philip D. Rice, May S., Matie Greene,
J. S., Howard Starrett, Carrie Smith, Walter H., Jennie Hall, Alice
G. M., Fannie W. O., Irene V. Over, Willie C. Pattison, Dorsey E. Coate,
Charlie Iankes, Willie H. Joyce.
* * * * *
Correct answers to puzzles are received from Rebecca Hedges, Percy T.
Jameson, M. S. Brigham, Harry Starr K., Willie Gray Lee, Julia Smith,
Anne M. Franklin, Josie and Austin, Louie P. Lord, J. R. Blake,
W. H. W., L. B. and R. H. Post, S. V. B., Marion E. Norcross, George S.
Schilling, Cora Frost, Anna L. Kuhn, Leon M. Fobes, Mamie E. F., Eddie
S. Hequembourg, Eddie A. Leet, "Blue Light."
* * * * *
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN NO. 31.
No. 1.
Bolivar.
No. 2.
C O R D O V A
P A R I S
R E D
S
I D A
G H E N T
G R A N A D A
No. 3.
M
N E D
M E R R Y
D R Y
Y
No. 4.
B I D E
I D E A
D E A R
E A R L
No. 5.
Raleigh.
No. 6.
D um B
E lih U
F athe R
O ttoma N
E uripide S
Defoe, Burns.
* * * * *
Charade on page 440--Courtship.
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Address
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The Child's Book of Nature, for the Use of Families and Schools:
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Observation of Nature. In Three Parts. Part I. Plants. Part II. Animals.
Part III. Air, Water, Heat, Light, &c. By WORTHINGTON HOOKER, M.D.
Illustrated. The Three Parts complete in One Volume, Small 4to, Half
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48 cents; Part III, 48 cents.
* * * * *
A beautiful and useful work. It presents a general survey of the kingdom
of nature in a manner adapted to attract the attention of the child, and
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The Three Parts of this book can be had in separate volumes by those who
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* * * * *
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Books for the School and Family.
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THE CHILD'S BOOK OF NATURE. The Child's Book of Nature, for the Use of
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Children in the Observation of Nature. In Three Parts. Part I. Plants.
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HOOKER, M.D. Illustrated. The Three Parts complete in One Volume, Small
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* * * * *
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
_Sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on
receipt of the price._
A LATIN WORD SQUARE.
BY H.
My first was highly prized of old;
They thought the future it foretold,
And nothing did without it;
But now we listen with a smile
When once 'tis mentioned in a while,
And hardly think about it.
My second has no proper hue,
Though white, red, yellow, black, and blue,
'Tis called by one or t'other.
We pass it over night and day,
And yet when man becomes its prey
They swallow each the other.
My second backward spells my third,
And shows what magic's in a word.
It makes a part of being.
'Tis singular, and yet 'tis true,
Imperfect as it is, to you
It shows how time is fleeing.
Now take my first, reverse its spell,
'Twill make my fourth; and _he_, note well,
Could solve the problems mighty--
To square the circle, change to gold,
Perpetual motion to unfold,
And make elixir vitæ.
THE MISSING LINK PUZZLE.
[Illustration]
Put on your thinking cap, and see if you can not find out the true
inwardness of these sausages.
THE GAME OF GEOGRAPHY.
AS ARRANGED BY G. B. BARTLETT.
This play, although instructive, can not fail to be amusing, as the best
scholars can hardly help making blunders in the excitement and hurry of
the game. Two leaders are chosen, who each select in turn, until all the
players are taken, and are formed in two lines facing each other, a
chair for each being placed behind him. The leader on one side calls out
some letter, and says "Sea," or mentions some other body of water. The
leader on the other side immediately names one beginning with the
letter, and each one on his side gives another in rapid succession. If
there is a pause, the leader of side No. 1 counts ten rapidly, and calls
"Next"; the player who stands next answers, and the one who missed takes
his seat. If a mistake is made by giving a wrong name to the piece of
water called for, as by calling a river by the name of a sea or isthmus,
or by giving the wrong letter as its first one, and it is not corrected
by some member of the same side before the leader of the opposite side
calls out "Miss," then all of side No. 2 must take their seats, which
counts two for side No. 1.
The leader of side No. 2 requests all his side to again stand in line,
with the exception of those who missed, and calls out some piece of
land, as mountain, State, county, etc., and a letter, which the opposite
side answer in the same way; and if every one succeeds in answering to
the call, and each one gives a correct reply without mistake, they score
three for their own side. The game is won by the side that first scores
ten; and as all who have missed must keep their seats until the end of
the play, they have abundant opportunity for laughing at the mistakes
which are made by their friends. If it should happen that the leader of
one side has no one to call upon to stand in line, he is obliged to
answer alone; and if he also fails, the victory belongs to the other,
even if they have not scored ten.
Another game of geography is played by each person taking pencil and
paper, and in a given time--say, five minutes--writing as many
geographical names, beginning with a certain letter, as he can remember.
When "Time" is called, a player reads his list, and any name that he
has, and the others have not, counts as many for him as there are
players besides himself. Each then reads his list in turn, and the one
who scores the greatest number, when all have read, wins the game. If
during the reading any name is challenged, and the writer is unable to
describe it, if it be a river, sea, bay, etc., or locate it if it is a
city, town, or cape, every other player counts one.
[Illustration: BESIEGED.]
End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, June 22, 1880, by Various
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