[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 63. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, January 11, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: JOHN MILTON AT THE AGE OF TEN.--SEE NEXT PAGE.]
MILTON.
John Milton was a blue-eyed, yellow-haired Saxon boy, the type of the
English race. He was somewhat short, stout, and healthy; his eyes were
bright and sparkling in his youth, before he became blind. But he
inherited weakness of sight from his mother. He was born 1609, in a
pleasant house in Bread Street, London, almost under the shadow of Bow
Bells. It was back in a court. His father, who had made a fortune as a
scrivener, was fond of music, books, and literature, and his son was
carefully educated at St. Paul's School. Milton relates that he
frequently studied in the house in Bread Street until after midnight,
and his head ached and his sight grew dim with these late vigils. He was
then about twelve years old.
When he was six years old he may have seen Shakespeare and Ben Jonson
pass on their way to the Mermaid Tavern, which was in Bread Street, not
far from his father's house. He was one of the best scholars at St.
Paul's School, and loved study as most boys like play. He was eager to
know how men lived and acted in Greece and Rome, what they thought of,
and what they had discovered. He studied the rise and fall of empires
and republics, and became a republican in the midst of kings and
princes. He was always fond of poetry, and soon began to write fine
verses. One of his earliest pieces is his "Ode on the Nativity."
His father leased a place in the country, at Horton, near Windsor, and
here Milton wandered when a young man over the smooth-shaven lawns and
beside the pleasant streams, filling his mind with knowledge and
pictures of fine scenery. It is not likely that as a boy he was fond of
fishing or hunting, as we may well fancy Shakespeare was. He never
tilled the soil like Burns and Virgil. He knew nothing of farming. He
went to Cambridge University, the most learned of its scholars. It was
the custom then to whip the students, and Milton's enemies spread the
report that he was flogged for some breach of the rules. He was always
independent. He travelled, came back to defend republicanism in the
civil war, married, kept a school, was Cromwell's Latin secretary after
he became blind, and published some poetry. But when the republic fell
with Cromwell, Milton was proscribed, and in danger of his life. His
enemies would, gladly have put him to death, and "Paradise Lost" might
never have been written.
Milton hid in obscurity, blind, forgotten, but constantly engaged on his
great poem. He wrote "Paradise Lost" in his old age. He repeated the
verses aloud to his daughters or some friends who came to visit him, and
they wrote them down. It was finished in 1667, and Milton received
twenty-five dollars for the copyright. It was long neglected, until
Addison gave it great fame. Milton died November 8, 1674.
THE MESSENGER BOYS AT THE CAPITOL.
BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
A lad who visits the city of Washington for the first time, and looks
down from the galleries of the House of Representatives or of the Senate
on the busy scene below, will be sure to find his eye attracted by
groups of bright-looking and neatly dressed boys moving hither and
thither about the floor, speaking familiarly with this and that great
man, or amusing themselves on the steps of the Vice-President's or of
the Speaker's platform, and he will perhaps regard these boys with
something like envy--all the more when told that they receive about two
dollars and seventy-five cents a day, during the sessions of Congress,
to pay them for having such a good time.
Possibly our lad would not regard the picture as so pleasant if he knew
how burdensome are the duties of these boys, and how exceedingly well
they earn the money paid them. There are nearly thirty of them attached
to the House, and half as many to the Senate. Their ages run from nine
years upward, some numbering twice as many summers; and it is not by any
means the oldest who are the brightest and the most favored. They are of
respectable families; some of them are nephews of Members of Congress--a
Member once, indeed, had such questionable taste as to procure the
appointment of his own son; and some of them have been known in
after-years to become Members themselves. The recently chosen Senator
from Maryland is doubtless proud to remember that he himself was once a
page. Although in two or three instances these boys have been elected to
their places, instead of appointed, they are usually appointed by the
Sergeant-at-Arms--of course on the recommendation and through the
influence of the Congressmen--and they are under his control. The old
custom of appointing only orphan boys is no longer adhered to. The boy
who fell over the balustrade, and was made a page by special resolution
of the Senate, is a very exceptional case--probably his favorite song
thereafter was, "Such a getting up stairs I ne'er did see."
The pages wear no uniform, or regulation clothes, or badges of any sort.
They are required to present themselves for work at nine o'clock in the
morning, although Congress does not meet till twelve, and they are not
dismissed until adjournment for the day takes place. They put the desks
of the Members in order, file for each the bills and papers which are
strewn about in confusion, then go to the Document-rooms and work there,
helping to put affairs in shape; and they present themselves at twelve
in the great chambers of legislation to answer the clapping of the
Members' and Senators' hands, and attend to their countless wants. Now
they are sent hunting for some book that is needed, for some man, now
for a glass of water, now they take messages from one Member to another
at a distance, from one House to the other, and sometimes to ladies in
the gallery; they fetch a cup of tea into the Cloak-room; fetch the hat
and stick out of it; they distribute mail by the armful; they struggle
into sight, behind piles of palm-leaf fans big as they are themselves,
which are soon cooling the hot air, if it be a late session; and during
the nights preceding the close of the session they do not know what
sleep is, but are worn out with running and waiting. Thus it will be
seen that they are on their feet with but very little intermission,
running and tumbling over each other in their eagerness to please; but
they seem happy and good-natured through it all, and when they do sit
down it is on the steps of the presiding officer's desk, where they are
usually tickling or punching or teasing each other as if they had
nothing else to do, and were passing away the time.
Sometimes during a recess of Congress you may come upon them in a lower
room, assembled in a body, a mimic Senate, one of them in the chair, and
another making a speech, and Mr. Blaine and Mr. Conkling and Mr. Bayard
and the rest are being imitated to the life. It is in some contrast to
these gay rogues that one sees a crippled and dwarfed little hunchback
outside the Hall of Representatives, opening and shutting a door for the
passer in hopes of the coppers or the nickel that may be tossed him,
although he does not beg. At night a little goat carriage comes for him,
and he drives off.
The pages whom we have described do not leave the Capitol during the
hours of their service, and carry no messages beyond the doors. For
outside work there are three riding pages, who are furnished with
horses, and who go to the various Departments, the Executive Mansion, or
on other of the outside errands of the legislators. And theirs is not
exactly the pleasant horseback riding that looks so attractive, but, on
the contrary, it is hard and weary work, cold in the winter, and burning
under a fierce sun in the summer, leaving them meanwhile as badly off
as John Gilpin.
Many of these youths are appointed because there is some great need in
their families, or have been some pitiable circumstances in their
history. This curly-headed little fellow is the only support of a mother
and younger brothers and sisters; there is one who takes care of a
paralyzed father, the only relative he has in the world, going home,
after his hard work, to make life as pleasant as he can for him who can
never do any more work; here is another whose little house is kept for
him by a child-sister, who looks for his step at night with solicitude.
Most of them have somebody besides themselves to take a share of their
earnings.
Beyond their regular pay, there are various perquisites and fees which
swell their income considerably. Thus they may often be seen slipping an
open book, with a bit of blotting-paper, under the nose of some Member
who is sitting at his desk: it is an album for somebody who wants the
signatures of all these statesmen, which the statesmen kindly give, but
which nevertheless are not always easy to obtain, owing to the
difficulty of finding individuals in their seats, as all of the
Congressmen are by no means in constant attendance, many of them being
busy in committee-rooms, or lounging in cloak-rooms, or lunching, or
following the bent of their inclinations in other ways, and seldom
coming in after roll-call, save to hear a heralded speech, or to vote on
measures with which they are already familiar either from the reading of
the daily journal of proceedings, or in the committee-room, or by the
word of mouth of others. For every album that they thus fill with
signatures the boys receive ten dollars from the eager visitor of the
Capitol, and they fill a good many during the year.
In another way they also sometimes earn an additional penny. For after
any gentleman on the floor has made a particularly strong speech, the
Members on his side of the question are wont to subscribe for the
printing of thousands of copies of the speech, to be sent broadcast into
their districts; the pages therefore go about with subscription papers,
and they are allowed two dollars for every thousand of the speeches that
are taken.
If the boys of whom we are speaking are very bright, they are apt to be
spoiled, as in such case the Members and Senators take pleasure in
indulging them to some degree. But there are not many, it may be
imagined, who are thus injured. Some of them, indeed, are as careless as
the blowing wind; these have no awe or reverence in their compositions:
the great men with whom they are brought into contact are not great men
to them, but simply folks who send them on errands, and the directions
given them go in one ear and out the other--as we all know never happens
with boys anywhere else. One little chap, dispatched to the
Document-room for the "Fortification Bill," asks for the "Mortification
Bill"; another, sent for the "Census," asks for the "Ascension Bill";
still another, insisting on the "Compulsive Capacity Bill," and
returning without it, is told that he was sent for nothing of the kind,
but for that on "compulsory pilotage," whereupon he presently comes back
to say that there isn't any bill on "pulsive politics." The same
youngster asked the Document Clerks for the "Bill for the Suppression of
Supreme Literature." A little "compulsive capacity" would have been good
for this urchin, were it to be obtained as easily as was thought by that
gentleman whose daughter lacked capacity, as her teacher said. "Get it,
madam," said he--"get it; she shall want for nothing that money can buy
her." To the same class with these scatter-brained urchins belonged the
little fellow who once brought into the Congressional Library a note
signed by one of the most powerful "Sons of Thunder" in the Senate, and
which we begged the librarian's pardon for reading as it lay a moment on
the desk beside us: "William H. Turner wants _The Headless Horseman; or,
The Scalp-Hunter_. I ask that he may have it under the rules of the
Library."
But to offset such idle fellows as the reader of _The Headless
Horseman_--who certainly could do no better than hunt for a "scalp," and
a head with it, too--there are other pages who make it their business to
understand their duties thoroughly, and two or three who even go so far
as to read for themselves every bill that is introduced, to follow its
fortunes, to be able to tell the person that asks just where it is in
its progress to passage or defeat, and who can always be relied on by
any Member who has been absent or out of the way to let him know exactly
what has been done and said in the mean time, and how the vote stands on
this question or the other. It would be no wonder if boys of this sort
should be indulged; and there is little danger of spoiling such good
material. These boys are learning the business of legislating, and if
they wish, will, in their turn, come back some day to make the laws.
But careless or faithful, their bright faces and light ways are a
pleasant sight to see in all the throng of bustling, noisy men; and as
one looks at them slipping about on their countless errands, one feels
as if the boys themselves bore some small part in the work of governing
the country.
A HERO OF CHIVALRY.
Bertrand du Guesclin was born in 1314 at the castle of Motte Broen, near
Rennes, in Brittany. His heroic character showed itself early. As he was
not troubled with lessons (he never learned to read or write), he formed
a company of boys of his own age, and, acting as their general,
practiced them in battle and combat. His mother often clasped her
forehead in alarm when he came home with bruised face and bleeding head.
Even in his seventeenth year he excelled many older knights in strength
and dexterity in the use of arms. But he was ridiculed by the ladies
because he looked so ugly, and rode such a wretched horse. They jeered
at him, saying that he looked more like a donkey-driver than a knight
and nobleman, and that he must have borrowed his steed from a miller.
Bertrand was indignant, and, as there was another tournament about to
come off, he begged a cousin of his to lend him a steed and armor. Both
were granted, and with a joyful heart he entered the lists, where, in
his strange armor, and with his visor down, no one, not even his own
father, recognized him. A well-known valiant knight opposed him. The
signal was given, they ran at each other with lightning speed, and with
a loud crash their lances broke into splinters in their hands. Bertrand,
however, had struck with such force on his adversary's helmet, that the
latter was thrown from the saddle to a distance of several paces, where
he lay insensible on the sand, and had to be carried out of the lists.
The young victor returned to his post with a fresh lance, and waited for
fresh opponents. Now his own father ranged himself against him. Bertrand
did not wish to fight against him, but was equally unwilling to make
himself known. So he resolved to lower his lance in his tilt, and to
receive his father's blow on his shield without making a counter-thrust.
He did this so adroitly that he kept firm in his saddle, and, without
tottering, galloped by, and then declared positively that he would not
fight again with that knight. People were surprised, but made no
derisive remarks, for the knight's courage had been sufficiently proved
in the former combat. His father rode out of the lists, and gave place
to other knights. Guesclin laid them in the dust, and was unanimously
declared the winner.
Every one was eager to know who the champion was, and his father
especially longed for the unravelling of the mystery.
At length, when the tournament was over, and Bertrand had received his
prize, he rode up to his father, raised his visor, and cried, "Do you
know me now, father?" The old man embraced him with tears of joy, and at
once provided him with a steed and armor. The fame of the young hero now
spread all over France.
Hitherto Bertrand had only won victories in tournaments, but now the
more serious field of battle was to behold the first exploits of his
sword. Duke Charles of Blois made war on John de Montfort for the
possession of Brittany. Philip the Sixth, King of France, sided with the
former; while, on the other hand, the King of England (Edward the Third)
supported De Montfort. Bertrand had naturally no choice in the matter,
for, like a brave Frenchman, he followed his king wherever he led him.
At that time the castle of Fougeray was in the hands of the English, and
Bertrand resolved to take it from them, as it was a place of no mean
importance. With this view he disguised himself and sixty companions as
wood-cutters, and divided them into four bands, which approached the
place from different sides. He then fixed on a time when the governor of
the castle and a part of the garrison had gone out on a reconnoitring
expedition, when he made a party of his men hide themselves in the
neighboring wood during the night. At break of day they loaded
themselves with fagots and brushwood, concealed their weapons under
their clothes, and came up to the castle from different directions.
Bertrand, in a white smock, with a heavy load of wood on his back, was
the first to appear before the draw-bridge, which was instantly lowered
for him. He at once threw down his fagot, drew his sword, and transfixed
the warder; then he raised the cry of "Guesclin." At this signal the
rest hastened forward to come to his assistance and take the bridge. As,
however, there were two hundred Englishmen in the castle, the conflict
was very unequal, and a horrid slaughter ensued. An Englishman clove the
skull of one of Bertrand's companions with his battle-axe. Guesclin, in
return, cut him down, and caught up the axe, with which he dealt
slashing blows on every side. So he fought on, and kept the enemy off
the body for a time, until a troop of cavalry of his own side
accidentally arrived in the neighborhood, rescued him from his perilous
situation, and helped to take the place. It was, indeed, high time for
relief to arrive; for, in his combat against tenfold odds, he had
dropped his battle-axe, and his head was so covered with wounds that the
blood was streaming down his face. The conspicuous valor which he here
displayed gained him the reputation of being the boldest and most
dauntless knight of his time.
[Illustration: SCENE IN AN ITALIAN SCHOOL.]
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER V.
THE COUNTERFEIT TEN-CENT PIECE.
When the doors of the big tent were opened, and the people began to
crowd in, just as Toby had seen them do at Guilford, Mr. Lord announced
to his young clerk that it was time for him to go into the tent to work.
Then it was that Toby learned for the first time that he had two masters
instead of one, and this knowledge caused him no little uneasiness. If
the other one was anything like Mr. Lord, his lot would be just twice as
bad, and he began to wonder whether he could even stand it one day
longer.
As the boy passed through the tent on his way to the candy stand, where
he was to really enter upon the duties for which he had run away from
home, he wanted to stop for a moment and speak with the old monkey who
he thought had taken such an interest in him. But when he reached the
cage in which his friend was confined, there was such a crowd around it
that it was impossible for him to get near enough to speak without being
overheard.
This was such a disappointment to the little fellow that the great tears
came into his eyes, and in another instant would have gone rolling down
his cheeks if his aged friend had not chanced to look toward him. Toby
fancied that the monkey looked at him in the most friendly way, and then
he was certain that he winked one eye. Toby felt that there was no
mistake about that wink, and it seemed as if it was intended to convey
comfort to him in his troubles. He winked back at the monkey in the most
emphatic and grave manner possible, and then went on his way, feeling
wonderfully comforted.
The work inside the tent was far different and much harder than it was
outside. He was obliged to carry around among the audience trays of
candy, nuts, and lemonade, for sale, and he was also expected to cry
aloud the description of that which he offered. The partner of Mr. Lord,
who had charge of the stand inside the tent, neither showed himself to
be better nor worse than Mr. Lord himself. When Toby first presented
himself for work, he handed him a tray filled with glasses of lemonade,
and told him to go among the audience, crying, "Here's your nice cold
lemonade, only five cents a glass!"
Toby started to do as he was bidden; but when he tried to repeat the
words in anything like a loud tone of voice, they stuck in his throat,
and he found it next to impossible to utter a sound above a whisper. It
seemed to him that every one in the audience was looking only at him,
and the very sound of his own voice made him afraid.
He went entirely around the tent once without making a sale, and when he
returned to the stand he was at once convinced that one of his masters
was quite as bad as the other. This one--and he knew that his name was
Jacobs, for he heard some one call him so--very kindly told him that he
would break every bone in his body if he didn't sell something, and Toby
confidently believed that he would carry out his threat.
It was with a very heavy heart that he started around again in obedience
to Mr. Jacobs's angry command; but this time he did manage to cry out,
in a very thin and very squeaky voice, the words which he had been told
to repeat.
This time--perhaps owing to his pitiful and imploring look, certainly
not because of the noise he made--he met with very good luck, and sold
every glass of the mixture which Messrs. Lord and Jacobs called
lemonade, and went back to the stand for more.
He certainly thought he had earned a word of praise, and fully expected
it as he put the empty glasses and money on the stand in front of Mr.
Jacobs. But instead of the kind words, he was greeted with a volley of
curses, and the reason for it was that he had taken in payment for two
of the glasses a lead ten-cent piece. Mr. Jacobs, after scolding poor
little Toby to his heart's content, vowed that the amount should be kept
from his first week's wages, and then handed him back the coin, with
orders to give it to the first man who gave him money to change, under
the penalty of a severe flogging if he failed to do so.
Poor Toby tried to explain matters by saying, "You see, I don't know
anything about money; I never had more'n a cent at a time, an' you
mustn't expect me to get posted all at once."
"I'll post you with a stick if you do it again; an' it won't be well for
you if you bring that ten-cent piece back here."
Now Toby was very well aware that to pass the coin, knowing it to be
bad, would be a crime, and he resolved to take the consequences of which
Mr. Jacobs had intimated, if he could not find the one who had given him
the counterfeit, and persuade him to give him good money in its stead.
He remembered very plainly where he had sold each glass of lemonade, and
he retraced his steps, glancing at each face carefully as he passed. At
last he was confident that he saw the man who had gotten him into such
trouble, and he climbed up the board seats, saying, as he stood in front
of him, and held out the coin: "Mister, this money that you gave me is
bad. Won't you give me another one for it?"
The man was a rough-looking party who had taken his girl to the circus,
and who did not seem at all disposed to pay any heed to Toby's request.
Therefore he repeated it, and this time more loudly.
"Get out the way!" said the man, angrily. "How can you expect me to see
the show if you stand right in front of me?"
"You'll like it better," said Toby, earnestly, "if you give me another
ten-cent piece."
"Get out, an' don't bother me!" was the angry rejoinder; and the little
fellow began to think that perhaps he would be obliged to "get out"
without getting his money.
It was becoming a desperate case, for the man was growing angry very
fast, and if Toby did not succeed in getting good money for the bad, he
would have to take the consequences of which Mr. Jacobs had spoken.
[Illustration: "PLEASE, MISTER, GIVE ME THE MONEY BACK."]
"Please, mister," he said, imploringly--for his heart began to grow very
heavy, and he was fearing that he should not succeed--"won't you please
give me the money back? You know you gave it to me, an' I'll have to pay
it if you don't."
The boy's lip was quivering, and those around began to be interested in
the affair, while several in their immediate vicinity gave vent to their
indignation that a man should try to cheat a boy out of ten cents by
giving him counterfeit money.
The man whom Toby was speaking to was about to dismiss him with an angry
reply, when he saw that those about him were not only interested in the
matter, but were evidently taking sides with the boy against him; and
knowing well that he had given the counterfeit money, he took another
coin from his pocket, and handing it to Toby, said, "I didn't give you
the lead piece; but you're making such a fuss about it that here's ten
cents to make you keep quiet."
"I'm sure you did give me the money," said Toby, as he took the extended
coin, "an' I'm much obliged to you for takin' it back. I didn't want to
tell you before, 'cause you'd thought I was beggin'; but if you hadn't
given me this, I 'xpect I'd have got an awful whippin', for Mr. Jacobs
said he'd fix me if I didn't get the money for it."
The man looked sheepish enough as he put the bad money in his pocket,
and Toby's innocently told story caused such a feeling in his behalf
among those who sat near that he not only disposed of his entire stock
then and there, but received from one gentleman twenty-five cents for
himself. He was both proud and happy as he returned to Mr. Jacobs with
empty glasses, and with the money to refund the amount of loss which
would have been caused by the counterfeit.
But the worthy partner of Mr. Lord's candy business had no words of
encouragement for the boy who was trying so hard to please.
"Let that make you keep your eyes open," he growled out, sulkily; "an'
if you get caught in that trap again, you won't be let off so easy."
Poor little Toby! his heart seemed ready to break; but his few hours'
previous experience had taught him that there was but one thing to do,
and that was to work just as hard as possible, trusting to some good
fortune to enable him to get out of the very disagreeable position in
which he had voluntarily placed himself.
He took the basket of candy which Mr. Jacobs handed him, and trudged
around the circle of seats, selling far more because of the pitifulness
of his face than because of the excellence of his goods; and even this
worked to his disadvantage. Mr. Jacobs was keen enough to see why his
little clerk sold so many goods, and each time that he returned to the
stand he said something to him in an angry tone, which had the effect of
deepening the shadow on the boy's face, and at the same time increasing
trade.
By the time the performance was over Toby had in his pocket a dollar and
twenty-five cents which had been given him for himself by some of the
kind-hearted in the audience, and he kept his hand almost constantly
upon it, for the money seemed to him like some kind friend who would
help him out of his present difficulties.
After the audience had dispersed, Mr. Jacobs set Toby at work washing
the glasses, and clearing up generally, and then the boy started toward
the other portion of the store--that watched over by Mr. Lord. Not a
person save the watchmen was in the tent, and as Toby went toward the
door he saw his friend the monkey sitting in one corner of the cage, and
apparently watching his every movement.
It was as if he had suddenly seen one of the boys from home, and Toby,
uttering an exclamation of delight, ran up to the cage, and put his hand
through the wires.
The monkey, in the gravest possible manner, took one of the fingers in
his paw, and Toby shook hands with him very earnestly.
"I was sorry that I couldn't speak to you when I went in this noon,"
said Toby, as if making an apology; "but, you see, there were so many
around here to see you that I couldn't get the chance. Did you see me
wink at you?"
The monkey made no reply, but he twisted his face up in such a funny
little grimace that Toby was quite as well satisfied as if he had
spoken.
"I wonder if you hain't some relation to Steve Stubbs," Toby continued,
earnestly, "for you look just like him, only he don't have quite so many
whiskers. What I wanted to say was that I'm awful sorry I run away. I
used to think that Uncle Dan'l was bad enough; but he was just a perfect
good Samarathon to what Mr. Lord an' Mr. Jacobs are; an' when Mr. Lord
looks at me with that crooked eye of his, I feel it 'way down in my
boots. Do you know"--and here Toby put his mouth nearer to the monkey's
head, and whispered--"I'd run away from this circus if I could get the
chance; wouldn't you?"
Just at this point, as if in answer to the question, the monkey stood up
on his hind-paws, and reached out his hand to the boy, who seemed to
think this was his way of being more emphatic in saying "Yes."
Toby took the paw in his hand, shook it again earnestly, and said, as he
released it: "I was pretty sure you felt just about the same way I did,
Mr. Stubbs, when I passed you this noon. Look here"--and Toby took the
money from his pocket which had been given him--"I got all that this
afternoon, an' I'll try an' stick it out somehow till I get as much as
ten dollars, an' then we'll run away some night, an' go 'way off as far
as--as--as out West, an' we'll stay there, too."
The monkey, probably tired with remaining in one position so long,
started toward the top of the cage, chattering and screaming, joining
the other monkeys, who had gathered in a little group in one of the
swings.
"Now see here, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, in alarm, "you mustn't go to
telling everybody about it, or Mr. Lord will know, an' then we'll be
dished, sure."
The monkey squatted down in one of the swings, as if he was reproved by
what the boy had said, and Toby, considerably relieved by his silence,
said, as he started toward the door, "That's right--mum's the word; you
keep quiet, an' so will I, an' pretty soon we'll get away from the whole
crowd."
All the monkeys chattered, and Toby, believing that everything which he
had said had been understood by the animals, went out of the door to
meet his other task-master.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE YOUNG TIN-TYPERS.