[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 62. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, January 4, 1881. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FISHING THROUGH THE ICE.--DRAWN BY W. R. YEAGER, FROM A
SKETCH BY F. H. TAYLOR.]
MR. CHALKER'S RUSE.
BY FRANK H. TAYLOR.
Every country boy in New England knows that the village school-house is
generally located upon the top of the bleakest hill in the neighborhood,
and is the sport of every eddying gust of wind that drives down from the
great pine wilderness of Maine, heaping the great drifts across the road
and about the door for the children to break through, and then shake
themselves free of the clinging snow like so many young Newfoundlands.
And where, by any chance, was there ever a school-house containing a
stove that didn't roast the scholars seated near it, and leave the
others to freeze?
All wide-awake boys who know the pleasures of skating will agree with me
that however cold and stormy it is upon the hill-tops, the mill-pond
(and what does a village amount to without a mill-pond, indeed?) is
always down in the coziest nook between the hills, where the winds can't
come with more force than is needed to blow the falling flakes across
its smooth surface, piling them in great heaps among the bordering
willows, and leaving the ice in tempting order for "shinny."
In fact, upon this the coldest morning of the winter, the school-house
on the hill-top is not to be mentioned or thought of in comparison with
mill-ponds for comfort or attractiveness, and it is hardly surprising
that Mr. Chalker, the school-master, walked to and fro in solitary
state, surveying with vexed air an array of vacant desks.
He was not altogether alone, however, for three boys had fought bravely
through the drifts, and now sat huddled by the red-hot stove, trying
hard to look as though they, at least, didn't think the weather a good
excuse for staying at home to hunt hens' nests in the depths of the
haymow.
Now School-master Chalker was a shrewd observer, and loved a good joke
as well as any one. He had adopted many original plans of instruction.
He could see one end of the mill-pond, half a mile away from his window,
and as he gazed out upon the bleak waste of snow-clad fields he saw a
couple of small black figures gliding over its surface, and a trace of a
smile shone among his wrinkles as an idea seemed to strike him.
Perhaps he had recalled the time, ever so many years ago, when he too
was a lad and the "wildest cub in the town," as his father often
declared. Turning to one of the boys, he said, "Ben, it seems to me that
the pond's a much nicer place for us than the school-house to-day. Let's
go fishing. I can't skate, but perhaps I can show you how we used to
catch pickerel down there fifty years ago."
Ben and his two companions looked at Mr. Chalker with eyes widely
opened, but they soon found that he was in earnest, and they agreed to
the proposition joyfully.
"Now," said Mr. Chalker, "two of you get out the bob-sled, and heap on
plenty of sticks from the wood-pile. Be sure and get some big ones; and
you, Berton, go down to Mr. Sampson, the miller, with this note. He will
let you have some lines, and a few minnows for bait."
When the school-house had been properly locked up, and they had started,
dragging the sled after them, it occurred to Ben to suggest a slide. So
all three got upon the wood, and slid away merrily toward the pond. The
road was steep but straight, though near the bottom there was a sharp
curve, where the wind had blown away the snow, leaving a crust of smooth
ice. Over this they sped at a lively pace, Ben steering. Poor Ben
couldn't turn the corner, and in another second the sled, school-master,
and all plunged into the depths of a big drift. Nothing was to be seen
of Mr. Chalker for a moment but his heels; but he shortly emerged,
puffing and laughing heartily, much to the boys' relief, who had begun
to think the fun was all over. But Mr. Chalker shook himself, and
declared he enjoyed it, and was ready to try it over; in fact, he didn't
act a bit like a school-master, but just like a boy let loose--a very
old boy, to be sure, but a very hearty one, for all that.
It only required a few minutes to cut a couple of round holes in the
ice, and to build a roaring fire upon a platform of heavy sticks and
flat stones--a fire that flung its forked tongues into the keen air in
merry defiance of the Frost King and all his servants.
The half-dozen boys already on the pond viewed these preparations with
considerable wonder; but gathering courage, finally skated up and warmed
their fingers at the fire.
Then somewhat more than a dozen other boys looked out from the windows
of the houses scattered along the hill-side, and said something like
this: "Mother, I guess there ain't any school to-day; I don't see any
smoke comin' out of the chimney. Can't I go down to the pond?"
And an equal number of mothers replied: "Why, of course not. It's much
too cold for you to go out. You said so yourself, and, besides, you
don't feel very well."
"There's lots of the boys on the pond, mother, an' the skating's
splendid. I don't feel so badly now. Can't I go? I won't stay long. I
think you might let--"
Upon which all the mothers said, in effect, "Well, do go along; but mind
you don't get into any air-holes."
Thus, before an hour had passed, nearly all of the boys in the school
were gliding over the pond, or gathered in the group watching Mr.
Chalker and his fishing party.
Meanwhile the school-master and Ben had enjoyed remarkable luck. Four
fine pickerel lay on the ice, and a fifth (much the biggest ever seen in
the pond, of course) had been lost by Ben in pulling him up.
Now it occurred to Mr. Chalker that it would be much nicer if everybody
had seats, so he suggested to the boys that they should bring some fence
rails, and sit down in a circle about the fire; all of which was done
with a merry good-will, and Mr. Chalker surveyed them with infinite
satisfaction through his glasses as he hauled in another struggling
victim of his hook.
"Now," said he, "I see plainly that it is all a mistake to hold school
up there in that uncomfortable building on the hill in such weather as
this, and so I'm going to propose that on all cold days this winter we
shall meet here on the pond and hold our classes; in fact, I think we
may as well begin now." Without further ado the teacher pulled a supply
of spellers from his several capacious pockets, and said, "The first
class in spelling will take seats on this side."
Then it dawned upon the minds of the boys that they had been fairly
trapped, and they nearly choked with inward laughter as they went
through with spelling, arithmetic, and reading, taking turns at keeping
their toes warm by the fire; and though a big pickerel was doing his
best to carry off one of the lines, none of them dared to pull him up,
for Mr. Chalker looked like a very severe and dignified pedagogue
indeed, and Ben could scarcely realize that he had seen him tumbled head
over heels into a snow-drift but a couple of hours before.
When he thought that the real lesson of the day had been well impressed
upon the scholars, Mr. Chalker dismissed his school, and as he landed
the last fish, and strung him through the gills with the others upon a
willow twig, he chuckled to himself, "I don't know who's had the most
fun to-day, the boys or the master, but I'll venture to say they'll be
on hand, cold or no cold, after this."
JOHN'S "CAMEL-BIRD."
BY LOUISE STOCKTON.
"Now," said John, "if you are really good, I'll give you something you
like."
The ostrich looked at John out of his small bright eyes, and he gave his
dingy-looking plumes a little shake, but he did not stir from the spot
where he was standing; so John took out of his pocket a handful of
nails, and gave one to the ostrich, who immediately swallowed it, and
then bobbed his head down for another, and got it.
"But you must not be in such a hurry," said John; "it is not good for
your health to eat so fast."
But really, if any creature can eat nails and screws and bits of glass,
as John's ostrich could, it makes little difference whether it eats fast
or slow. These things, however, never made the ostrich sick. He ate them
just as the canary-bird eats gravel, and they agreed with him.
After John had finished feeding his ostrich he turned and went into the
house, and the ostrich, knowing he was to get nothing more, put up his
funny little wings, and off he went on his long legs like the wind. No
one tried to stop him, although two or three men stood by, for in the
first place, no one could do it, and in the second, Perry--that was his
name--used to go off this way every day.
Of course John did not live in this country, but in the southern part of
Africa, where his father was an English officer. Perry was a tame
ostrich, and had been given to John when the boy was quite a little
fellow, and many a good time they had had together. Sometimes they would
go out walking; but Perry was not fond of this, because John went so
slowly, even when he ran. The best arrangement was for John to ride.
Perry would stand perfectly still, and Captain Richards would put John
on his back. John would catch tight hold of Perry's neck, and away they
would go. Go! Why, a race-horse was slow to him. His legs just twinkled
as he ran, and you could no more have seen them than you can count the
spokes in a carriage wheel when it is rapidly turning. Perry was strong
enough to carry Captain Richards, but the Captain could not bear his
speed as John did, for it almost took his breath away; and once, he
said, he began to be afraid he would die before Perry stopped. But John
did not mind it. He liked it, and when he came to England on a visit,
and rode his cousin's pony, he thought it was like going to a funeral.
When Perry was standing still he was not very handsome. He was dull in
color, and his splendid feathers often looked dingy and ragged. His head
was small, but his legs were so long that when John was seven years old
he did not come to the top of them. When he ran, however, Perry looked
splendid. He held his head firmly, he opened his queer little wings, his
fine plume-like tail was erect, and every feather seemed to make him
swifter and lighter, and he would go round and round like a gust of
wind, and then, swooping closer, would fly back to John for a bit of
iron, or perhaps a handful of grass.
Captain Richards told John why the ostrich was called the "camel-bird."
The Arabs have a story that a King once said to the ostrich, "Fly," and
it answered, "I can not, for I am a camel." So then he said, "Carry,"
and it replied, "I can not, for I am a bird." So, while it has the
endurance of a camel and the swiftness of a bird, it will neither bear a
burden nor fly through the air; and so, as John said, is neither, and
yet both.
But one thing he could do. He could see very far. Some of the natives
said he could see six miles, but John did not believe that. He thought
no creature could see from his father's house to General Howard's, and
that was only five miles away.
The one person who did not like Perry was Mrs. Richards. She used to be
afraid to see John mounted on him, and, as she said, if Perry chose to
run off into the wilds with John, who could stop him?
"But he won't," said her husband. "A tame ostrich is sure to come home
to be fed."
"Well, he may throw the child off," she would reply.
"That depends on John himself, and I don't believe he will let go."
"Very well," she would say, "I am glad you are so content; but if you
had the feelings of a mother you wouldn't be."
To this Captain Richards could make no reply. He had the feelings of a
father; but then he was a soldier, and was used to taking risks.
And once Perry, roaming around, looked in a window, and on a table close
by lay Mrs. Richards's coral breast-pin. It was pretty, and it looked
good; so in went Perry's head, and in a flash the pin was down his
throat.
Then, also, he would eat the little chickens. No one cared how many rats
and grasshoppers he ate, but it was very provoking to have a pretty
little brood of chickens gobbled up by this long-legged camel-bird. Even
John did not like this, and he was glad when his father had a slatted
coop made for the hens and their little ones. For a time all went well,
but suddenly the chicks began to disappear, and then Mrs. Richards set a
man to watch.
After a while up walked Perry, and stood watching the chickens.
Presently a little one came near the slats. Quick as a flash in went
Perry's head, and _that_ little chicken was gone.
But they spoiled Perry's fun very quickly, for the men went to work at
once and fixed the coops so Perry could not reach one of the chickens.
Every year Perry used to lose some of his feathers, and after Mrs.
Richards had saved quite a number of them she sent them to her sister in
London, and told her what to do with the money for which they were to be
sold.
John knew nothing of it, and you may know he was surprised when one hot
Christmas-day he received a box of books and a fine microscope from
London. He showed them to Perry, but as the ostrich did not seem to care
for them, John gave him all the nails and clamps from the box, and these
Perry really did enjoy.
THE LOST STANDARD.
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
On the glorious field of Austerlitz
Napoleon stood when the day was o'er;
"Legions of France!" he cried, "pass by,
Bearing your eagles, stained with gore,
And torn with shot; but show to France
_That none are lost_. Advance! advance!"
Then with a shout the legions rose--
Napoleon watched them marching by;
Each flung its banner to the breeze,
And proudly sought their Emperor's eye.
Above the surging thousands toss'd
The precious eagles--not one lost.
_Not one?_ Without its fife and drum
A silent legion sadly tread;
The weary men were dull and dumb--
There was no flag above their head:
The eagle that Napoleon gave
Floated no longer o'er the brave.
Then, white with anger, "Halt!" he cried,
And sternly called the legion's name.
"Your eagle, men!--the flag I gave?
Why die you not for very shame?
Life hath been bought at shameful cost,
If honor and your flag are lost."
With martial tread two veterans step
From out the sad and silent band:
"Sire, we have fought where'er you led,
In Italy, or Egypt's land.
Amid the thickest of the fray,
Our eagle touched the earth to-day.
"And we, unable to retake,
Pressed where the Russian foe came on--
Behold, our Emperor! for thy sake
_Two Russian standards_ we have won;
Yet if our honor thou still doubt,
Then let our lives the stain wipe out."
The Emperor bared his head; then said,
With misty eyes and eager breath:
"Heroes! you've _won_ your eagle now--
Won it from out the jaws of death.
Pass on! these flags shall bear your name
Among the standards kept by Fame."
Beneath the Invalides' grand dome
These Russian standards still find room;
'Mong royal flags of many lands
They droop above Napoleon's tomb.
Such praise and glory have the brave,
Who knew when honor's sign was lost,
At any price, at any cost,
Honor itself to save.
[Illustration]
NOBLESSE OBLIGE.
BY MRS. M. E. SANGSTER.
Brownie, old fellow, the grain in the manger
Is yours, and you've earned it. No wonder you stare,
Amazed and displeased, when a pert little ranger
Comes hopping in boldly your dinner to share.
You beautiful creature! so rugged and steady,
So swift and sure-footed, so willing and wise;
Whoever may need you, so gentle and ready,
I know what you're thinking; it beams from your eyes.
He ruffles his feathers, this petty intruder,
And arches his crest, and is gallant and gay.
No conduct could possibly seem to you ruder
Than his, as he leisurely stands in your way.
But you? Why, you'd scorn to be put in a passion;
The cause is too slight. You will patiently wait
Till the satisfied rooster, in vain rooster fashion,
Flies off, without thanks, to some meek little mate.
The thorough-bred follows the law of his being,
'Tis only with equals he cares to contend;
He bears with annoyance quite patiently, seeing
That sooner or later annoyance must end.
BITS OF ADVICE.
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
SPENDING MONEY.
"I wish I had some to spend!" exclaims Florence, as she reads this
title; "but as I have none, I may as well skip this column of YOUNG
PEOPLE."
Please read it, Florence. To know how to use money, how to save it, and
how to spend it are very important parts of education. Every penny is an
opportunity, and pennies make dollars. There are very few young ladies
and gentlemen who do not spend a generous sum in the course of the year,
and so often it goes for trifles of no real value that when the year is
over they have nothing to show for it. Take the small sum of ten cents.
It may be expended in chocolate cream drops, and eaten up in a few
minutes. It may be spent in buying a dainty little easel for your
mother's photograph, or a pretty illuminated card, or a gay fan, which,
hung on the wall, will make a vivid bit of color, quite brightening the
room. Down the street there is a crippled boy, who watches you with a
sad, wistful face as you go bounding past his window on your way to
school. Poor Jimmy! the hours move very slowly indeed to him. He is fond
of reading, but he has read all the books he possesses till he knows
them almost by heart. For ten cents you can buy a beautiful story, or a
charming illustrated paper, which will give Jimmy two or three days of
delight. The money which we deny ourselves, that we may bestow some
pleasure on others, always is the best investment, for it returns us the
most true happiness.
Perhaps you can persuade your parents to give you a small amount weekly
or monthly for your particular expenses. Julia and Arthur, a brother and
sister of my acquaintance, have such a sum, and they are careful to keep
an exact account of all that they buy and all that they give away. Their
pens and pencils, luxuries of every sort, and car fare, as well as their
charity fund, come from this allowance, and they are learning the right
use of money as they never could in any other way. A boy who has a
scroll-saw may earn a little income for himself, if he is industrious,
in his play-time. So may one who has a printing-press. A girl who has
learned to embroider nicely, or to paint cups and saucers, can often
have her own money; and let me tell you, money that is earned by one's
own diligence is much more enjoyed than any other.
A few years ago little Ailee, a friend of mine, was moulding in clay and
drawing with crayons just for her childish amusement. Last year, though
not eighteen, she was able to buy her entire wardrobe from the proceeds
of her pencil. _Economy_ is a noble word. It does not mean stinginess,
but rather good management of whatever one has, and care in the use of
one's means.
[Illustration: BRINGING WOOD FOR GRANDPA'S FIRE.]
[Illustration: OLD BEN COMES TO THE RESCUE.]
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER IV.
THE FIRST DAY WITH THE CIRCUS.
When Toby awakened and looked around he could hardly realize where he
was, or how he came there. As far ahead and behind on the road as he
could see, the carts were drawn up on one side; men were hurrying to and
fro, orders were being shouted, and everything showed that the entrance
to the town was about to be made. Directly opposite the wagon on which
he had been sleeping were the four elephants and two camels, and close
behind, contentedly munching their breakfasts, were a number of tiny
ponies. Troops of horses were being groomed and attended to; the road
was littered with saddles, flags, and general decorations, until it
seemed to Toby that there must have been a smash-up, and he now beheld
ruins rather than systematic disorder.
How different everything looked now, compared to the time when the
cavalcade marched into Guilford, dazzling every one with the gorgeous
display! Then the horses pranced gayly under their gaudy decorations,
the wagons were bright with glass, gilt, and flags, the lumbering
elephants and awkward camels were covered with fancifully embroidered
velvets, and even the drivers of the wagons were resplendent in their
uniforms of scarlet and gold. Now, in the gray light of the early
morning, everything was changed. The horses were tired, muddy, and had
on only dirty harness; the gilded chariots were covered with
mud-bespattered canvas, which caused them to look like the most ordinary
of market wagons; the elephants and camels looked dingy, dirty, almost
repulsive, and the drivers were only a sleepy-looking set of men, who,
in their shirt sleeves, were getting ready for the change which would
dazzle the eyes of the inhabitants of the town.
Toby descended from his lofty bed, rubbed his eyes to thoroughly awaken
himself, and under the guidance of Ben went to a little brook near by
and washed his face. He had been with the circus not quite ten hours,
but now he could not realize that it had ever seemed bright and
beautiful. He missed his comfortable bed, the quiet and cleanliness, and
the well-spread table; even though he had felt the lack of parents'
care, Uncle Daniel's home seemed the very abode of love and friendly
feeling compared to this condition, where no one appeared to care even
enough for him to scold at him. He was thoroughly homesick, and heartily
wished that he was back in the old town where every one had some slight
interest in him.
While he was washing his face in the brook he saw some of the boys who
had come out from the town to catch the first glimpse of the circus, and
he saw at once that he was the object of their admiring gaze. He heard
one of the boys say, when they first discovered him,
"There's one of them, an' he's only a little feller; so I'm going to
talk to him."
The evident admiration which the boys had for Toby pleased him, and this
pleasure was the only drop of comfort he had had since he started. He
hoped they would come and talk with him, and, that they might have the
opportunity, he was purposely slow in making his toilet.
The boys approached him shyly, as if they had their doubts whether he
was made of the same material as themselves, and when they got quite
near to him, and satisfied themselves that he was only washing his face
in much the same way that any well-regulated boy would do, the one who
had called attention to him said, half timidly, "Hello!"
"Hello!" responded Toby, in a tone that was meant to invite confidence.
"Do you belong to the circus?"
"Yes," said Toby, a little doubtfully.
Then the boys stared at him again as if he had been one of the
strange-looking animals, and the one who had been the spokesman drew a
long breath of envy as he said, longingly, "My! what a nice time you
must have!"
Toby remembered that only yesterday he had thought that boys must have a
nice time with a circus, and he now felt what a mistake that thought
was; but he concluded that he would not undeceive his new acquaintance.
"And do they give you frogs to eat, so's to make you limber?"
This was the first time that Toby had thought of breakfast, and the very
mention of eating made him hungry. He was just at that moment so very
hungry that he did not think he was replying to the question when he
said, quickly, "Eat frogs! I could eat anything, if I only had the
chance."
The boys took this as an answer to their question, and felt perfectly
convinced that the agility of circus riders and tumblers depended upon
the quantity of frogs eaten, and they looked upon Toby with no little
degree of awe.
Toby might have undeceived them as to the kind of food he ate, but just
at that moment the harsh voice of Mr. Job Lord was heard calling him,
and he hurried away to commence his first day's work.
Toby's employer was not the same pleasant, kindly-spoken man that he had
been during the time they were in Guilford, and before the boy was
absolutely under his control. He looked cross, he acted cross, and it
did not take the boy very long to find out that he was very cross.
He scolded Toby roundly, and launched more oaths at his defenseless head
than Toby had ever heard in his life. He was angry that the boy had not
been on hand to help him, and also that he had been obliged to hunt for
him.
Toby tried to explain that he had no idea of what he was expected to do,
and that he had been on the wagon to which he had been sent, only
leaving it to wash his face; but the angry man grew more furious.
"Went to wash your face, did yer? Want to set yourself up for a dandy, I
suppose, and think that you must souse that speckled face of yours into
every brook you come to? I'll soon break you of that; and the sooner you
understand that I can't afford to have you wasting your time in washing,
the better it will be for you."
Toby now grew angry, and not realizing how wholly he was in this man's
power, he retorted: "If you think I'm going round with a dirty face,
even if it is speckled, for a dollar a week, you're mistaken, that's
all. How many folks would eat your candy if they knew you handled it
over before you washed your hands?"
"Oho! I've picked up a preacher, have I? Now I want you to understand,
my bantam, that I do all the preaching as well as the practicing myself,
and this is about as quick a way as I know of to make you understand
it."
As the man spoke he grasped the boy by the coat collar with one hand,
and with the other he plied a thin rubber cane with no gentle force to
every portion of Toby's body that he could reach.
Every blow caused the poor boy the most intense pain, but he determined
that his tormentor should not have the satisfaction of forcing an outcry
from him, and he closed his teeth so tightly that not a single sound
could escape from his mouth.
This very silence enraged the man so much that he redoubled the force
and rapidity of his blows, and it is impossible to say what might have
been the consequences had not Ben come that way just then, and changed
the aspect of affairs.
"Up to your old tricks of whipping the boys, are you, Job?" he said, as
he wrested the cane from the man's hand, and held him off at
arm's-length to prevent him from doing Toby any more mischief.
Mr. Lord struggled to release himself, and insisted that since the boy
was in his employ, he should do with him just as he saw fit.
"Now look here, Mr. Lord," said Ben, as gravely as if he was delivering
some profound piece of wisdom: "I've never interfered with you before;
but now I'm going to stop your games of thrashing your boy every morning
before breakfast. You just tell this youngster what you want him to do,
and if he don't do it, you can discharge him. If I hear of your flogging
him, I shall attend to your case at once. You hear me?"
Ben shook the now terrified candy vender much as if he had been a child,
and then released him, saying to Toby as he did so, "Now, my boy, you
attend to your business as you ought to, and I'll settle his account if
he tries the flogging game again."
"You see, I don't know what there is for me to do," sobbed Toby, for the
kindly interference of Ben had made him show more feeling than Mr.
Lord's blows had done.
"Tell him what he must do," said Ben, sternly.
"I want him to go to work and wash the tumblers, and fix up the things
in that green box, so we can commence to sell as soon as we get into
town," snarled Mr. Lord, as he motioned toward a large green chest that
had been taken out of one of the carts, and which Toby saw was filled
with dirty glasses, spoons, knives, and other utensils such as were
necessary to carry on the business.
Toby got a pail of water from the brook, hunted around, and found towels
and soap, and devoted himself to his work with such industry that Mr.
Lord could not repress a grunt of satisfaction as he passed him, however
angry he felt because he could not administer the whipping which would
have smoothed his ruffled temper.
By the time the procession was ready to start for the town, Toby had as
much of his work done as he could find that it was necessary to do, and
his master, in his surly way, half acknowledged that this last boy of
his was better than any he had had before.
Although Toby had done his work so well, he was far from feeling happy;
he was both angry and sad as he thought of the cruel blows that had been
inflicted, and he had plenty of leisure to repent of the rash step he
had taken, although he could not see very clearly how he was to get away
from it. He thought that he could not go back to Guilford, for Uncle
Daniel would not allow him to come to his house again; and the hot
scalding tears ran down his cheeks as he realized that he was homeless
and friendless in this great big world.
It was while he was in this frame of mind that the procession, all gaudy
with flags, streamers, and banners, entered the town. Under different
circumstances this would have been a most delightful day for him, for
the entrance of a circus into Guilford had always been a source of one
day's solid enjoyment; but now he was the most disconsolate and unhappy
boy in all that crowd.
He did not ride throughout the entire route of the procession, for Mr.
Lord was anxious to begin business, and the moment the tenting ground
was reached, the wagon containing Mr. Lord's goods was driven into the
inclosure, and Toby's day's work began.
He was obliged to bring water, to cut up the lemons, fetch and carry
fruit from the booth in the big tent to the booth on the outside, until
he was ready to drop with fatigue, and having had no time for breakfast,
was nearly famished.
It was quite noon before he was permitted to go to the hotel for
something to eat, and then Ben's advice to be one of the first to get to
the tables was not needed.
In the eating line that day he astonished the servants, the members of
the company, and even himself, and by the time he arose from the table,
with both pockets and his stomach full to bursting, the tables had been
set and cleared away twice while he was making one meal.
"Well, I guess you didn't hurry yourself much," said Mr. Lord, when Toby
returned to the circus ground.
"Oh yes, I did," was Toby's innocent reply. "I ate just as fast as I
could;" and a satisfied smile stole over the boy's face as he thought of
the amount of solid food he had consumed.
The answer was not one which was calculated to make Mr. Lord feel any
more agreeably disposed toward his new clerk, and he showed his
ill-temper very plainly as he said, "It must take a good deal to satisfy
you."
"I s'pose it does," calmly replied Toby. "Sam Merrill used to say that I
took after Aunt Olive and Uncle Dan'l: one ate a good while, an' the
other ate awful fast."
Toby could not understand what it was that Mr. Lord said in reply, but
he could understand that his employer was angry at somebody or
something, and he tried unusually hard to please him. He talked to the
boys who had gathered around, to induce them to buy, washed the glasses
as fast as they were used, tried to keep off the flies, and in every way
he could think of endeavored to please his master.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE YOUNG ESQUIMAUX.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"It's no use, Fred."
"Why not, Rory? We could do it. I just know we could."
"You and I wouldn't be enough. Besides, we haven't the things, and we
can't get 'em."
"No white bears, do you mean?"
"Yes, and no canoes, and spears, and bows and arrows. And look at the
way they're dressed. It's no use playing Esquimaux, and not have
anything to do it with."
"Now," said Fred, with another long look at the picture in the book,
"you're going for too much. We can get all the boys."
"Guess we can, now they daren't start another snow-ball match."
"Think of all the snow, Rory. It's just thawed enough to pack. We can go
back of the orchard and make a snow house as big as that."
Fred had spent his whole evening, the night before, over that book of
_Arctic_ Voyages, and he had brought it to bear on Rory the first thing
after breakfast.
"I'll read it when we get home," said Rory; "but I'd better go around
after some boys now."
"And I'll go and pick out a good place, and start the house."
The snow was deep enough anywhere that winter, but it was not a very
cold day, and every drift and level was in prime condition for
snow-balling. The difficulty was that too much of that kind of fun had
been going on all the week, and so the grand "match" set for that
Saturday had been forbidden by the Academy Trustees.
"They'd about half kill themselves if we'd let 'em," had been the solemn
comment of old Squire Garrison, and nobody dreamed of disputing his
decision, for he was President of the Board, and the wisest man in the
village.
Rory was not gone long, and when he returned, and went through the yard
and garden into the orchard, half a dozen boys were following him.
Fred had been at work. He had carried out the big wooden snow-shovel and
the grain-scoop shovel and the spade, but the first question Bob Sanders
asked was:
"Boards? What are they for? You don't want any boards in a snow house."
"And the Esquimaux don't have any," said Rory.
Fred had put down four of them flat on the snow, and was now shovelling
a heap of snow upon them from the spot he had chosen for the house.
"Boards?" he said. "Why, boys, that's our brick-yard."
"Brick-yard? Snow bricks? What's the saw for? You can't cut snow with a
saw."
"I'll show you. Just you fellows pile on snow, and bang it down hard
with a spade. We're going to do just what the Esquimaux do."
"I've brought my own shovel," said Bill Evans, "and so has Barney
Herriman."
"We want this foundation trodden hard and level first. It's pretty near
ready. Now I'll mark it out."
There were other boys in that crowd who could beat Fred at some things,
even at base-ball and swimming, and he had not taken a single prize at
the end of the school term; but when it came to "making" anything, he
could step right ahead, and they all knew it.
It was just as Barney Herriman said: "Come on, boys. Fred Park is boss
of this job."
He was bossing it, as a matter of course, and it looked as if he knew
pretty well what he was about.
He stuck a peg in the snow for a centre, and around that, with a string
five feet long and another peg, he marked a circle that was just ten
feet across.
"Now, boys, there's eight of us, and we can build the biggest snow house
you ever saw. The snow packs splendidly. We'll make our bricks a foot
wide and a foot high and a foot and a half long."
How they did pile the soft snow upon those boards, now they understood
what they were meant for!
Bang! stamp! bang! down went the sticky heap, until Fred said he guessed
it would cut.
"Keep on, boys; pile it up."
They couldn't help stopping to watch him, though, while he cut out his
first bricks with that saw. It went through the snow so nice and easy,
and Bill Evans remarked, "Can't he handle a saw!"
He worked away, till a dozen bricks were ready, and he made them a
little shorter on one side than on the other.
"What's that for?" asked Bob Sanders. But then Bob never opened his
mouth without asking something; and all Fred told him was,
"So they'll fit around in a circle. The short side goes in."
"It's the way the Esquimaux do," said Rory. "He read all about it in a
book last night."
"Go ahead, boys," said Fred. "It'll take just thirty of those bricks to
go around. It won't take so many after that."
They pounded and shovelled, while he cut and set the bricks, and then he
went all around that circle with the back of the saw, shaving it off so
it sloped inward a little.
"Won't it let 'em slip off?" asked Bob.
"Guess not. Don't you see how that one sticks? It only leans in a
little. You'll see. Let's pitch in. The snow's grand."
So it was--just as if it had been made for bricks; and before long
Barney Herriman found he could saw them out while Fred was putting them
on, so that the house went up faster.
The round wall curved in and in, but each successive tier of snow bricks
held itself up, just as Fred had seen in the picture of the Esquimaux at
work.
It was not long before he had to send Rory into the house for a chair to
stand on.
"I've got to stay inside."
"Well," said Bob Sanders, "don't you mean to have any door? How'll you
get out after your roof's on?"
"Give me the saw, and I'll fix that while Rory's gone for the chair."
It was easy enough to cut a hole two feet square down at the floor, and
Fred said, "We can make a long crawl-hole entry, such as the Esquimaux
use, when we've finished the house."
"The roof's the toughest part of the job," said Bill Evans.
He was mistaken in that, however, for the last rounds of bricks were
fitted in just as easily as any others, only Fred made them shorter and
shorter, till there was only a hole a foot square left at the middle of
the roof.
"Going to plug that up, are you?" asked Bob.
"Plug it up? Don't you suppose we want a chimney?"
"Well, but what'll you do for windows?"
"Tell you what, boys, if we had some slabs of ice that weren't too
thick, we just could have some windows."
"Guess we can fix that," said Bill Evans. "Squire Garrison's men sawed a
couple of loads of ice out of the pond yesterday, and it didn't freeze
more'n an inch last night."
He and Joe Herriman and Wash McGee set off almost on a run after some
of that ice, and they were back in less than twenty minutes with enough
of it to glaze one of the big windows at the Academy.
Fred shouted when he saw it: "That beats the Esquimaux! Why, it's as
clear as glass. The light'll come right through."
So it did, when the ice windows were finished, and you could see to read
inside the house, but you could not enjoy the scenery much through those
windows.
"Won't need any blinds," said Barney Herriman, "to keep folks from
looking in."
"Hullo! see what Rory's got."
"Buffalo-skins!"
"Two of 'em."
"Boys, we must put in some furniture. Snow benches--"
"And a snow stove."
"No, I guess the Esquimaux get along without a stove. But then they have
piles and piles of bear-skins, and seal-skins, and reindeer-skins, and
all sorts, and they eat whale blubber to keep 'em warm."
"Won't roast pork do just as well?" asked Bob Sanders.
"Well, it might, if it's the fattest kind of pork."
"'Cause that's what we're going to have for dinner at our house. I'll
eat enough to keep me warm, if I stay in there all the afternoon."
"Come in, boys," said Fred. "And bring in the buffalo-skins. Let's try
it."
They all crept in, one after the other, and sat down on the soft furs
like so many Turks.
"They'll want these in the sleigh by-and-by," said Rory.
"Isn't this jolly, though?"
"It's warm enough without any kind of fire."
"I don't want any blubber."
"Nor any pork, either."
"Tell you what, boys, if it freezes good and hard to-night, this
house'll be wonderfully strong. We'll make an entryway just such as I
saw in the picture, and we'll get some old carpet, and some stools--"
"Hullo, boys! Fred! Rory! What have you done with my buffalo-robes?"
It was the voice of Dr. Park himself, outside; and then they heard the
great, deep, gruff tones of Squire Garrison himself.
"I declare, Doctor, they've done it! Bricks! All of a size."
"Cost them a good deal of hard work, I should say."
"Don't tell 'em, Doctor. Don't let 'em know it was work. They'd never
build another. Couldn't hire 'em to."
Fred and Rory were crawling out with the buffalo-skins, and their father
said to them:
"It won't do, boys; the Esquimaux never kill any buffaloes."
"Bears, father--white bears--"
"And seals, and whales, and walruses, and--"
"Doctor," exclaimed Squire Garrison, "I'm for a look inside."
The other boys had been keeping as still as so many mice, except that
they had very promptly kicked the buffalo-skins out from under them, and
half of them had their hands before their mouths now to keep from
laughing, as Squire Garrison knocked his tall hat off against the snow
bricks, and his big gray head came poking in.
Chuckle, chuckle, from the boys, and the Squire looked up.
"I declare, Doctor! Such a lot of young bears!"
"Bears? Oh no, Squire, they're Esquimaux Indians. I heard them talking
it over this morning. Can you see inside?"
"See? Why, I can stand up! It's capital. Windows, too. Is that glass?"
"No, sir, it's ice."
"Tell you what, boys, this is nice."
"We're going to stick icicles all around, and make it real pretty,
by-and-by," said Fred.
"Then you come over and get my big square barn lantern, and see how
that'll make it look after dark."
The Squire was a good friend of boys and fun, after all, and both he and
the Doctor came out that evening to see the white walls of the Esquimaux
hut, and the liberal allowance of icicles the boys had stuck up, glitter
and shine and wink in the light of the great lantern.
[Illustration: THE NEW YEAR.]
CAPTAIN WEATHERBY'S FUR CAP.
BY DAVID KER.
"If you're going out again to-night, my friend, I'd advise you to leave
this new fur cap of yours at home, and take your sea cap instead."
So spoke a hospitable Russian merchant to his guest, Captain Cyrus
Weatherby, skipper and part owner of the good ship _Seabird_, of Boston.
The Captain had reached St. Petersburg late enough in the fall for it to
be already pretty cold at night, and his first exploit on landing was to
buy a magnificent fur cap, which, as he said, would "astonish his folks
at the Hub some" when he got back.
"What should I leave it at home for?" asked the skipper. "I s'pose I
ain't going to be arrested as a Nihilist 'cause I've got a new cap on?"
"No; but if you go out with it, you'll most likely come back without
it."
"Somebody going to steal it, eh?"
"Just so, and I'll tell you how. There's a fellow going around here just
now who makes a regular trade of snapping up all the good caps he can
lay his hands on. He hires a hack carriage, and drives about the streets
after dark at a rattling pace, the driver being, of course, a
confederate of his own. Then, whenever he passes a man with a
high-priced cap on--like yours, for instance--he leans forward and
snatches it off,[1] while the driver puts his horse to speed, and is out
of sight before there's time to cry, 'Help!'"
"Pretty smart that," growled the Massachusetts man. "I guess I must give
that land-shark a wide berth. Whereabouts does he cruise, so as I may
keep clear of him?"
"Well, you might meet him in any of the streets near the Isaac
Cathedral, but his general place is the Bolshaya Morskaya [Great Marine]
Street."
"All right."
Up to his room went Captain Weatherby, and taking out the precious cap,
began to stitch on to it, with sailor-like dexterity, two huge ear-laps,
each furnished with a stout ribbon. Then he tied it on, and tested the
strength of the fastenings by a vigorous tug.
"Won't do," he muttered; "they mightn't break, but again they might, and
then it would be all up. Guess a strap won't do any harm."
The strap being drawn round his head, and buckled firmly under his chin,
the worthy sailor seemed more at his ease, and grunted, defiantly, "Now,
then, let's see if a Boston boy ain't a match for any Russian that ever
ate tallow!"
Out went the Captain; but his friend's warning seemed to have made very
little impression upon him, for instead of avoiding the neighborhood of
the Isaac Cathedral, he went straight toward it. The vast golden dome,
towering over its massive pillars of polished granite, made a gallant
show in the brilliant Northern moonlight; but just then the Captain had
something else to think about. At the very corner of the great square he
suddenly caught sight of a bare-headed man shouting lustily for the
police, while a drosky (hack carriage) was just vanishing in the
distance.
"Well, if that pirate hain't scuttled one craft already!" muttered our
hero; "but he don't catch Cy Weatherby so easy, all the same."
Away tramped the valiant Captain along the sidewalk of the Morskaya,
turning up the cuffs of his pilot-coat with a business-like air as he
went. He had scarcely gone a hundred yards when his quick ear caught the
roll of wheels coming toward him from the other end of the short street,
which, for a wonder, was almost deserted.
"Stand to your guns, boys," chuckled the Captain; "here comes the
enemy."
A drosky came dashing by, and its occupant, just as he passed, bent
forward and made a snatch at the new cap. But the strap held firm; and
instantly the sailor's iron hand grasped the fellow's wrist, and jerked
him from his seat. The next moment he lay writhing on the sidewalk,
under a shower of battering blows dealt with all the power of a fist
that might have done duty for a sledge-hammer; while his worthy
confederate, so far from helping him, drove off as fast as he could go.
"What's all this?" asked a gruff voice in Russian, as a tall
frieze-coated figure, with the cap and badge of a city policeman,
appeared at Weatherby's elbow.
The Captain was not much of a Russian scholar, but his expressive signs,
and a glance at the robber's face, soon enlightened the policeman, who
rubbed his big hands gleefully.
"You've done us a good turn, father, whoever you are. This is the very
fellow we've been looking for, and there's a good big reward offered for
him. Here comes one of my mates, and we'll just bundle the scamp off to
the _tchast_ [police office] at once."
This was soon done, and Captain Weatherby got his fair share of the
reward, as well as the satisfaction of having been "too smart for a
thieving Russian," which, as he assured his Boston friends on his return
home, was well worth double the money.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] It should be explained that the Russian hack carriages have neither
roof nor cover, being merely a seat upon wheels.
THE DORMOUSE.
Sometimes when people are asked whether they ever kept tame dormice,
they answer, with a shudder, "Oh dear no!" It then turns out that they
have never seen one, but think, because they dislike common mice and
rats, that these must also be disagreeable animals, and are quite
surprised to hear that they are not really mice, but belong to the
squirrel tribe. They were always great favorites with us, and we have
had a long succession of them as pets ever since we were babies. What
can be prettier than the fat, round little things, with their soft
red-brown hair, long furry tails, white chests, and great black eyes?
Bertha tells me that the first thing she can remember doing in her whole
life is running about the room, tossing her pinafore up and down, to the
great delight, as she supposed, of a dormouse that was in it, and then
suddenly seeing him clambering up the table-cloth at the other side of
the room.
The first dormouse that I can remember was one called Mouffette. He also
belonged to Bertha. He was so tame that she used to put him in a doll's
cart, with a tiny whip in one hand and the reins in the other, and draw
it round the garden; and she often walked about out-of-doors with the
little thing on her shoulder. Another was very fond of cream, though it
was said to be bad for his health, and was sometimes allowed to drink it
out of a tiny ivory cup that he held in his hand.
At one time, when both my sisters had a dormouse, my father said that
whichever of them learned first to work a shirt front very nicely should
have a beautiful new cage for her pet. Unfortunately, Emily's "Bear"
had, two days before, got loose, and ran up the bedroom chimney, and
since then nothing had been seen or heard of him; so she was very
unhappy, thinking that if she did get a new cage, there would be no
dormouse to put in it. However, that evening, as they were going to bed,
they heard a little noise in the chimney, and presently down walked
Master Bear into his cage, which had been placed on the hob, and began
to eat nuts.
[Begun in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 58, December 7.]
MILDRED'S BARGAIN.
A Story for Girls.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
CHAPTER IV.