MISS CELIA'S MAN.
Ben was not too tired, and the clearing-up began that very night. None
too soon, for, in a day or two, things arrived, to the great delight of
the children, who considered moving a most interesting play. First came
the phaeton, which Ben spent all his leisure moments in admiring,
wondering with secret envy what happy boy would ride in the little seat
up behind, and beguiling his tasks by planning how, when he got rich,
he would pass his time driving about in just such an equipage, and
inviting all the boys he met to have a ride.
Then a load of furniture came creaking in at the lodge gate, and the
girls had raptures over a cottage piano, several small chairs, and a
little low table, which they pronounced just the thing for them to play
at. The live stock appeared next, creating a great stir in the
neighborhood, for peacocks were rare birds there; the donkey's bray
startled the cattle and convulsed the people with laughter; the rabbits
were continually getting out to burrow in the newly made garden; and
Chevalita scandalized old Duke by dancing about the stable which he had
inhabited for years in stately solitude.
Last, but by no means least, Miss Celia, her young brother and two
maids, arrived one evening so late that only Mrs. Moss went over to
help them settle. The children were much disappointed, but were
appeased by a promise that they should all go to pay their respects in
the morning.
They were up so early, and were so impatient to be off, that Mrs. Moss
let them go with the warning that they would find only the servants
astir. She was mistaken, however, for as the procession approached, a
voice from the porch called out: "Good morning, little neighbors!" so
unexpectedly, that Bab nearly spilt the new milk she carried, Betty
gave such a start that the fresh-laid eggs quite skipped in the dish,
and Ben's face broke into a broad grin over the armful of clover which
he brought for the bunnies, as he bobbed his head, saying, briskly:
"She's all right, miss; Lita is, and I can bring her over any minute
you say."
"I shall want her at four o'clock. Thorny will be too tired to drive,
but I must hear from the post-office, rain or shine;" and Miss Celia's
pretty color brightened as she spoke, either from some happy thought or
because she was bashful, for the honest young faces before her plainly
showed their admiration of the white-gowned lady under the
honeysuckles.
The appearance of Miranda, the maid, reminded the children of their
errand, and having delivered their offerings, they were about to retire
in some confusion, when Miss Celia said pleasantly:
"I want to thank you for helping put things in such nice order. I see
signs of busy hands and feet both inside the house and all about the
grounds, and I am very much obliged."
"I raked the beds," said Ben, proudly eying the neat ovals and circles.
"I swept all the paths," added Bab, with a reproachful glance at
several green sprigs fallen from the load of clover on the smooth walk.
"I cleared up the porch," and Betty's clean pinafore rose and fell with
a long sigh, as she surveyed the late summer residence of her exiled
family.
Miss Celia guessed the meaning of that sigh, and made haste to turn it
into a smile by asking, anxiously:
"What _has_ become of the playthings? I don't see them anywhere."
"Ma said you wouldn't want our duds round, so we took them all home,"
answered Betty, with a wistful face.
"But I do want them round. I like dolls and toys almost as much as
ever, and quite miss the little "duds" from porch and path. Suppose you
come to tea with me to-night and bring some of them back? I should be
very sorry to rob you of your pleasant play-place."
"Oh yes'm, we'd love to come! and we'll bring our best things."
"Ma always lets us have our shiny pitchers and the china poodle when we
go visiting or have company at home," said Bab and Betty, both speaking
at once.
"Bring what you like and I'll hunt up my toys too. Ben is to come also,
and _his_ poodle is especially invited," added Miss Celia as Sancho
came and begged before her, feeling that some agreeable project was
under discussion.
"Thank you, miss. I told them you'd be willing they should come
sometimes. They like this place ever so much, and so do I," said Ben,
feeling that few spots combined so many advantages in the way of
climbable trees, arched gates, half-a-dozen gables, and other charms
suited to the taste of an aspiring youth who had been a flying Cupid at
the age of seven.
"So do I," echoed Miss Celia, heartily. "Ten years ago I came here a
little girl, and made lilac chains under these very bushes, and picked
chick-weed over there for my bird, and rode Thorny in his baby-wagon up
and down these paths. Grandpa lived here then and we had fine times;
but now they are all gone except us two."
"We haven't got any father either," said Bab, for something in Miss
Celia's face made her feel as if a cloud had come over the sun.
[Illustration: MISS CELIA AND HER LITTLE FRIENDS.]
"_I_ have a first-rate father, if I only knew where he'd gone to," said
Ben, looking down the path as eagerly as if some one waited for him
behind the locked gate.
"You are a rich boy, and you are happy little girls to have so good a
mother; I've found that out already," and the sun shone again as the
young lady nodded to the neat, rosy children before her.
"You may have a piece of her if you want to, 'cause you haven't got any
of your own," said Betty, with a pitiful look which made her blue eyes
as sweet as two wet violets.
"So I will! and you shall be my little sisters. I never had any, and
I'd love to try how it seems," and Miss Celia took both the chubby
hands in hers, feeling ready to love every one this first bright
morning in the new home which she hoped to make a very happy one.
Bab gave a satisfied nod, and fell to examining the rings upon the
white hand that held her own. But Betty put her arms about the new
friend's neck, and kissed her so softly that the hungry feeling in Miss
Celia's heart felt better directly, for this was the food it wanted,
and Thorny had not learned yet to return one half of the affection he
received. Holding the child close, she played with the yellow braids
while she told them about the little German girls in their funny
black-silk caps, short-waisted gowns and wooden shoes, whom she used to
see watering long webs of linen bleaching on the grass, watching great
flocks of geese, or driving pigs to market, knitting or spinning as
they went.
Presently, "Randa," as she called her stout maid, came to tell her that
"Master Thorny couldn't wait another minute," and she went in to
breakfast with a good appetite, while the children raced home to bounce
in upon Mrs. Moss, talking all at once like little lunatics.
"The phaeton at four,--so sweet in a beautiful white gown,---going to
tea, and Sancho and all the baby things invited. Can't we wear our
Sunday frocks? A splendid new net for Lita. And she likes dolls. Goody,
goody, wont it be fun!"
With much difficulty their mother got a clear account of the
approaching festivity out of the eager mouths, and with still more
difficulty got breakfast into them, for the children had few pleasures,
and this brilliant prospect rather turned their heads.
Bab and Betty thought the day would never end, and cheered the long
hours by expatiating on the pleasures in store for them, till their
playmates were much afflicted because they were not going also. At
noon their mother kept them from running over to the old house lest
they should be in the way, so they consoled themselves by going to the
syringa bush at the corner and sniffing the savory odors which came
from the kitchen, where Katy, the cook, was evidently making nice
things for tea.
Ben worked as if for a wager till four, then stood over Pat while he
curried Lita till her coat shone like satin, then drove her gently down
to the coach-house, where he had the satisfaction of harnessing her
"all his own self."
"Shall I go round to the great gate and wait for you there, miss?" he
asked, when all was ready, looking up at the porch where the young lady
stood watching him as she put on her gloves.
"No, Ben, the great gate is not to be opened till next October. I shall
go in and out by the lodge, and leave the avenue to grass and
dandelions, meantime," answered Miss Celia, as she stepped in and took
the reins, with a sudden smile.
But she did not start even when Ben had shaken out the new duster and
laid it neatly over her knees.
"Isn't it all right now?" asked the boy, anxiously.
"Not quite; I need one thing more. Can't you guess what it is?"--and
Miss Celia watched his anxious face as his eyes wandered from the tips
of Lita's ears to the hind-wheel of the phaeton, trying to discover
what had been omitted.
"No, miss, I don't see--" he began, much mortified to think he had
forgotten anything.
"Wouldn't a little groom up behind improve the appearance of my
turnout?" she said, with a look which left no doubt in his mind that
_he_ was to be the happy boy to occupy that proud perch.
He grew red with pleasure, but stammered, as he hesitated, looking down
at his bare feet and blue shirt:
"I aint fit, miss, and I haven't got any other clothes."
Miss Celia only smiled again more kindly than before, and answered, in
a tone which he understood better than her words:
"A great man said his coat-of-arms was a pair of shirt sleeves, and a
sweet poet sung about a barefooted boy, so I need not be too proud to
ride with one. Up with you, Ben, my man, and let us be off, or we shall
be late for our party."
With one bound the new groom was in his place, sitting very erect, with
his legs stiff, arms folded, and nose in the air, as he had seen real
grooms sit behind their masters in fine dog-carts or carriages. Mrs.
Moss nodded as they drove past the lodge, and Ben touched his torn
hat-brim in the most dignified manner, though he could not suppress a
broad grin of delight, which deepened into a chuckle when Lita went
off at a brisk trot along the smooth road toward town.
It takes so little to make a child happy, it is a pity grown people do
not oftener remember it and scatter little bits of pleasure before the
small people, as they throw crumbs to the hungry sparrows. Miss Celia
knew the boy was pleased, but he had no words in which to express his
gratitude for the great contentment she had given him. He could only
beam at all he met, smile when the floating ends of the gray veil blew
against his face, and long in his heart to give the new friend a boyish
hug as he used to do his dear Melia when she was very good to him.
School was just out as they passed, and it was a spectacle, I assure
you, to see the boys and girls stare at Ben up aloft in such state;
also to see the superb indifference with which that young man regarded
the vulgar herd who went afoot. He could not resist an affable nod to
Bab and Betty, for they stood under the maple-tree, and the memory of
their circulating library made him forget his dignity in his gratitude.
"We will take them next time, but now I want to talk to you," began
Miss Celia, as Lita climbed the hill. "My brother has been ill, and I
have brought him here to get well. I want to do all sorts of things to
amuse him, and I think you can help me in many ways. Would you like to
work for me instead of the Squire?"
"I guess I would!" ejaculated Ben, so heartily that no further
assurances were needed, and Miss Celia went on, well pleased:
"You see, poor Thorny is weak and fretful, and does not like to exert
himself, though he ought to be out a great deal, and kept from thinking
of his little troubles. He cannot walk much yet, so I have a wheeled
chair to push him in, and the paths are so hard it will be easy to roll
him around. That will be one thing you can do. Another is to take care
of his pets till he is able to do it himself. Then you can tell him
your adventures, and talk to him as only a boy can talk to a boy. That
will amuse him when I want to write or go out; but I never leave him
long, and hope he will soon be running about as well as the rest of us.
How does that sort of work look to you?"
"First-rate! I'll take real good care of the little fellow, and do
everything I know to please him, and so will Sanch. He's fond of
children," answered Ben, heartily, for the new place looked very
inviting to him.
Miss Celia laughed, and rather damped his ardor by her next words:
"I don't know what Thorny _would_ say to hear you call him 'little.' He
is fourteen, and appears to get taller and taller every day. He seems
like a child to _me_, because I am nearly ten years older than he is;
but you needn't be afraid of his long legs and big eyes,--he is too
feeble to do any harm,--only you mustn't mind if he orders you about."
"I'm used to that. I don't mind it if he wont call me a 'spalpeen,' and
fire things at me," said Ben, thinking of his late trials with Pat.
"I can promise that, and I am sure Thorny will like you, for I told him
your story, and he is anxious to see 'the circus boy,' as he called
you. Squire Allen says I may trust you, and I am glad to do so, for it
saves me much trouble to find what I want all ready for me. You shall
be well fed and clothed, kindly treated and honestly paid, if you like
to stay with me."
"I _know_ I shall like it--till father comes, anyway. Squire wrote to
Smithers right off, but hasn't got any answer yet. I know they are on
the go now, so may be we wont hear for ever so long," answered Ben,
feeling less impatient to be off than before this fine proposal was
made to him.
"I dare say; meantime we will see how we get on together, and perhaps
your father will be willing to leave you for the summer if he is away.
Now show me the baker's, the candy-shop, and the post-office," said
Miss Celia, as they rattled down the main street of the village.
Ben made himself useful, and when all the other errands were done,
received his reward in the shape of a new pair of shoes and a straw hat
with a streaming blue ribbon, on the ends of which shone silvery
anchors. He was also allowed to drive home, while his new mistress read
her letters. One particularly long one, with a queer stamp on the
envelope, she read twice, never speaking a word till they got back.
Then Ben was sent off with Lita and the Squire's letters, promising to
get his chores done in time for tea.
_(To be continued.)_
CRUMBS FROM OLDER READING.
BY JULIA E. SARGENT.
EMERSON.
"Who ever heard of Emerson?" I asked a room of third-reader pupils.
Nearly every hand came up, and the bright faces were full of interest.
What a delightful surprise! I did not expect to see more than two
hands, and here all were as interested as if I had said, "Who ever
heard of Hayes or Tilden?" All at once I remembered that, for more than
a week, every fence about the school had been covered with
circus-bills, bearing the name "Billy Emerson."
Sure enough he was the only Emerson those pupils knew about; for when I
said Ralph Waldo Emerson, one by one the hands came down. No one had
heard of him. Now I know no more of "Billy Emerson" than the children
knew of Ralph Waldo Emerson, but I am not afraid to say that the one I
know is better worth knowing.
For in papa's library, or on mamma's center-table, I have no doubt you
can find more than one book which he has written. When in his sermon
the minister tells what Emerson has said, you may be very sure he does
not quote "Billy." Papers and magazines all have something to say
concerning this man, whose books grown people read and talk about.
Who is he, then? His name is Ralph Waldo Emerson, and he writes books.
Very good; and what are people who write books called? Then Mr. Ralph
Waldo Emerson is an author. He lives in a republican country which has
Washington for its capital. He was born in the Bay State, in the
largest city of New England. He dwells now in a little town where a
battle was fought a hundred years ago, and the name of this town means
"harmony." You know where that is, do you not? He was born in 1803,
and, as this is 1878, every one of you boys and girls who can subtract
can tell just his age. One of the books he has written tells about
England, another about such famous men as Shakspeare and Napoleon, and
others talk about wealth and friendship, prudence and power.
That does not sound as if he meant them for you? Well, one thing he did
mean for you, and that is a dear little poem--"The Squirrel and the
Mountain." Every one of you will want to read it, and when you have
read it you will want to learn it, and when you have learned you will
want to speak it. I need not have told you he meant that poem for you;
you would know that the minute you saw it. But you could not tell so
soon how many things he says for you in those famous essays so often
quoted. What do you think I can find for you in this dry-looking book,
"Conduct of Life," with "Emerson" printed just under the title?
Did you ever see an old hen with her little walking bundles of feathers
in the soft garden soil? How she does scratch and bustle for something
to eat! Why, she is eating every bit herself! Perhaps she thinks that
taking care of the chickens' mother is very important work for her; but
by-and-by she will call the little folks to share what she has found.
You may think of me as of an old hen who has long been scratching in
the soft garden soil of Ralph Waldo Emerson's writings. She has found
much for herself, with now and then a bit for the chickens.
Here, the very first thing, is something about eggs. "There is always a
best way of doing everything, if it be but to boil an egg." I hope my
little friends are never cross when Bridget has not boiled the nice
breakfast egg in the best way. More than that; I hope they themselves
know what is the best way of doing it; just how hot the water must be,
how long the egg should boil to make it hard or soft, and, what is well
worth knowing, how to get it in and out of the hot water without
breaking the shell.
Here is another bit. It is like an egg, for the meaning is wrapt in
words just as an egg hides in the shell. "The tell-tale body is all
tongues." What does the tongue help to do? Will no one know that you
are cross unless you say, "I am cross this morning?" Can I find it out
although you do not say a word? Yes, indeed; that puckered mouth and
ugly little scowl tell, all too quickly, and even if I could not see
your face, that little jerk and twist would tell the story. Do you not
know when the dog is sick or tired, or full of fun? yet, his bright
eyes, eager little nose, lively body and whisking tail, tell no more
surely than your own face and body.
"The tell-tale body is all tongues." Mr. Emerson, we think that is
true.
"How can I be beautiful?" Every boy and girl, man and woman, wants to
know that. Here is Mr. Emerson's beauty recipe: "There is no beautifier
of complexion, or form, or behavior, like the wish to scatter joy and
not pain around us." Do you suppose that recipe will work? Think of the
most beautiful people you know. Ah, I knew some one would say "mother."
Do you not think these people are those who try very hard to make
others happy? I know very many beautiful people who would have remained
very plain had they sought only to please themselves.
We want to try Emerson's rule for becoming beautiful, so it will not do
to forget that "There is no beautifier of complexion, or form, or
behavior, like the wish to scatter joy and not pain around us."
"Every man takes care that his neighbor shall not cheat him. But a day
comes when he begins to care that he does not cheat his neighbor. Then
all goes well." Yes, Mr. Emerson, that is the only way to have things
go well,--following the Golden Rule.
"You cannot hide any secret. 'Tis as hard to hide as fire." Perhaps you
think that it is not so; but you just try how long you can keep a
secret that even your dearest friend does not know. I should not wonder
if Emerson were right once more.
"There is much you may not do." True again. We do not need Emerson to
tell us that. "You must not do that, you must not do this," the little
folks hear so often, that sometimes they wonder what they may do.
But we would like to have him tell us what things last longest.
He is all ready to tell whoever wants to know, "Beauty is the quality
which makes to endure. In a house that I know, I have noticed a block
of spermaceti lying about closets and mantel-pieces for twenty years
together, simply because the tallow-man gave it the form of a rabbit;
and I suppose it may continue to be lugged about unchanged for a
century. Let an artist draw a few lines or figures on the back of a
letter, and that scrap of paper is rescued from danger, is put in a
portfolio, or framed and glazed, and, in proportion to the beauty of
the lines drawn, will be kept for centuries." And there are beauties of
heart, mind and character, that do not meet the eye, but are none the
less powerful in "making to endure."
THE OLD MAN AND THE NERVOUS COW.
BY R.E.
"There was an old man who said 'How
Shall I 'scape from this horrible cow?
I will sit on the stile,
And continue to smile,
Which may soften the heart of the cow.'"
The old man was walking thoughtfully through the field, with his hands
behind him, when the nervous cow saw him. She wasn't ordinarily a
bad-natured cow, but she was mad just then. An aggravating fly had been
biting her half the morning, and, just as she was drinking at the
brook, a frog had jumped up with a cry and bitten her nose. These
things had completely unsettled her nerves.
She was ready to run at anything, and the old man being the only living
thing in sight, she plunged toward him.
[Illustration: "I WILL SIT ON THE STILE, AND CONTINUE TO SMILE."]
What could he do? He was a short, stout old man, and could not run very
fast, and, though he tried his best, he only just managed to reach the
stile and plump down on it, all out of breath, as the cow neared him.
Then he suddenly remembered reading somewhere that if you looked right
into an animal's eyes, it would run away from you.
"Ah!" thought he, "I'll look straight at her, and if I smile at the
same time, she wont have the heart to hurt me."
So he put on a smile (of course it was not a very beautiful one, for he
was in a hurry, but it was the best he could do), and stared straight
into the cow's eyes. She saw that smile, and it so touched her that she
stopped short. Then she sauntered back a little way, but the thought of
that aggravating fly, and that awful frog, was too much for her poor
nerves, and turning around, she dashed madly on again.
In another minute, the poor old man--cane, little legs, smile and
all--was up in the air.
He alighted in the top of a hickory-tree. One branch grazed his eye,
two ran into his legs, while another held his smile stiff and straight.
Thus he stayed until an eagle caught sight of him, pounced right down,
and flew off with him to her nest, which was on a huge rock that rose
straight up into the cold air and made the summit of a mountain.
When the old eagle plumped the little old man down into the nest, just
imagine, if you can, how astonished the eaglets were! They opened their
beaks as well as their eyes, and cried out:
"What's this, mother? What _is_ this?"
"Oh! it's only a man," cried the old eagle. "I found him roosting in
the top of a tree. Don't know how he got there. Suppose he was trying
to fly, and couldn't. Tell us how it was, old man."
"Can he talk?"
"Talk!" said the eagle. "Of course he can talk. And he can tell
stories, too, I warrant you. So, if you like, you may keep him to tell
you stories."
"Oh, wont that be nice! Tell us a story, right off," they all screamed,
jerking the old man down into the nest.
"But it's so dirty here," said he, looking around, with his nose turned
up a little. "Let me sit on the edge of the nest, wont you?--and I'll
tell you all the stories you want."
"You'll fall over.".
"Oh no, I wont. I'll hold on with my cane and my legs. Now just shut
your beaks, so you wont look so savage, and listen."
So the old man perched himself on the edge of the nest. The eaglets
took hold of his coat with their beaks, to keep him from falling; and
he told them the story of "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves"; and when
that was ended, another, and then another.
He didn't eat much supper that night, for they hadn't any convenience
for cooking. And he didn't sleep well, either, for whenever one of the
eaglets woke up in the night, it always pinched him with its beak, to
make sure he was there. So he resolved to get away as soon as he could.
But he didn't seem to have any chance; so there he stayed and told
stories till he longed to wring the necks of the gaping birds that kept
asking him for more.
Now, all this time the cow had been getting more and more nervous.
Every day she thought of the poor old man and his meek little legs and
his sweet old smile, and just how his coat-tails looked as he went up;
till at last she laid her head down on a tuft of grass by the brook,
and cried--regularly boo-hooed.
Having thus relieved her feelings, she became calm, and, rising, said:
"I'll go to his house and find out how and where he is, if I can."
So off she started. But the house was shut up, and there was no one
there except the cat.
Very much frightened the cat was, too, when the cow pushed up the
pantry window with her horns, and bellowed:
"Where's your master?"
"I don't know," said the cat, retreating to a far corner, with his back
up. "I haven't set eyes on him since last Sunday."
"Oh dear!" sighed the cow, dropping the window with a crash that broke
out two of the panes of glass. "What shall I do?"
[Illustration: "THE POOR OLD MAN WAS UP IN THE AIR."]
"What's the matter with you?--and what do you want of the old man?"
asked Tabby, bounding out through one of the broken panes.
The cow told him.
"Well," said Tab, stroking his whiskers reflectively, "I guess I'll go
with you and help you look for the good-natured old creature."
So they journeyed on, asking everybody they met about the old man. But
nobody knew, until finally they came across an old crow who knew
everybody's business.
"An old man?" said he. "The eagle took an old man the other day. Did he
have very slender legs?"
"Yes, yes!" said the cat and the cow together.
"And a sweet smile on his face?"
"Yes, yes!" cried the cow. "He went up with that smile, and it has been
haunting me ever since," and she burst into a flood of tears.
"Well," said the crow, "he's in the eagle's nest telling stories to the
eaglets, and if he isn't tired of the business by this time, I'm
mistaken."
"Where is the nest?--and how can we get there?"
"Up at the very top of the mountain yonder. Go straight ahead, and you
can't miss it."
[Illustration: THE OLD MAN TELLING STORIES TO THE EAGLETS.]
So straight ahead they went till they came to the rock where the
eagle's nest was. Then what should they do? They could hear the old
man's little, thin voice telling stories to the birds, but they knew he
wouldn't dare come where the cow was, even if he could clamber down
that steep rock. At last, Tab suggested that the cow should hide
herself, while he climbed up into the nest and persuaded the old man.
So the cow hid, and puss scrambled up to the nest and carefully poked
his head in.
"Ah, master!" he whispered; "climb down the rock to-night, and I'll
show you the way home." And he disappeared.
This visit braced up the old man's courage, and when the mother-bird
came home he calmly told her he thought he'd sleep at the foot of the
rock that night; and she unsuspectingly took him in her talons and
dropped him gently on the ground.
As soon as she had gone, the old man looked all about him, and called
"Tabby, Tabby," very softly. Tabby came out from under the roots of a
tree and bounded on his shoulder, and told him how sorry the cow was,
and how she was waiting in a thicket ready to carry him home, if he
wanted to go.
Of course he wanted to go, and in less than a jiffy the cow had come
out from her hiding-place, had cried a little, and had taken the old
man on her back, and started full speed down the mountain, with the cat
tearing after her.
It was a long way to the old man's house, and they reached it just
tired out. Of course, they got something to eat, and then they went to
bed and slept right through two days; but on the morning of the third
day they got up as merry as crickets, and, after a hearty breakfast,
they agreed to live together for the rest of their lives. And they have
lived ever since in perfect harmony.
THE RAID OF THE CAMANCHES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "WE BOYS."
Fred Hart, who was the eldest son of a country clergyman, and preparing
for college at Whitford Boys' Academy, was known at that classical
institution as a "dig," because he "dug" into his books and studied
hard. His room-mate, Neal Howe, an orphan, dependent upon his own
exertions, was styled a "digger;" and as both lads were rather dark, it
was but a step for those wicked upper-story boys to stigmatize them,
"Digger Indians!"
This term was gradually extended to include all the boys in the second
story, for they were all hard students. The "Diggers" retaliated mildly
by styling their upper-story neighbors, "Camanches."
The Camanches perpetrated all sorts of schoolboy atrocities on the
Diggers, but, above all things else, they burned for a pillow-fight. In
vain they challenged the Diggers to combat. Those law-abiding savages
declined, though well aware of thereby falling into contempt on charge
of cowardice.
Unmistakable indications were soon apparent that the Camanches
meditated an attack.
The north wing was intended to be fire-proof, and each story was
separated from the main building by iron doors which usually were
fastened back by staples. The Camanches reasoned that these doors might
be as effectual in shutting off teachers as fire; and the staples in
both the second and third stories were one day withdrawn, so that these
doors could be easily closed.
Scouting parties reported that the Camanches were getting ready the
war-paint,--_i.e._, the burnt cork,--and one ferocious savage had
intimated that they should spare neither age nor sex.
A council was immediately held in Fred Hart's room, and Fred
unanimously chosen chief.
"If they're determined on a pillow-fight they shall have it,"
resolutely remarked that warrior.
The Diggers proposed using their own pillows as reserve arms only, and
the next day any number of this tribe might have been seen scouring the
village on mysterious errands, which the housewives would have
explained as an effort to buy up old pillows.
"All's fair on the defensive," said Chief Fred, and each Digger ripped
open one end of his pillow, poured in a little mucilage, and then
basted it up, in accordance with the liberal views boys always
entertain concerning "basting."
At a little after nine o'clock, when the lights had been extinguished,
and a teacher made the nightly rounds, a Camanche scout quietly closed
and bolted the iron doors and relighted the hall lamps. Then, with
hair-starting war-whoops, the savages began dropping down through the
trap-door, which opened from one hall to another in the capacity of
fire-escapes.
The Diggers, peacefully studying in their rooms, were summarily ordered
into the hall to battle. Every man protested, but the Camanches refused
to parley. Then, seizing their weapons, the assailed marched forth to
the field of carnage.
Thwack! went the blows of the Camanches.
Thwack! the Diggers.
Thwack! the Camanches.
Thwack! the Diggers.
A stir among the Camanches and then a wild affray.
Crack! crack! go the Diggers' bastings. Crack! feathers fly over the
heads and into the eyes of the Camanches, and there many of them stick.
The Camanches realize the disadvantages of unprovoked assault with no
rules of warfare agreed upon beforehand.
Here and there a Camanche drops his arms and flies to the farther end
of the hall, only to fumble unavailingly at the fastenings of the iron
door, while a victorious Digger belabors him with the weapon he has
just cast aside.
All at once there is descried in the dim light of the hall the boots
and never-to-be-mistaken striped pantaloons of Captain Hale swinging
through the trap-door!
Captain Hale is drill-sergeant and professor of gymnastics. He has seen
years of army service, and is thoroughly imbued with the military
spirit. The boys are more afraid of him than of the president and
entire board of trustees,--as afraid as they would be of old Nick,
himself, in boots and striped pantaloons.
In a flash every Digger had disappeared into his own room and locked
the door after him, and the Camanches are left alone, gasping among
their feathers, the captain in their midst.
There is a moment of bewilderment followed by a wild stampede toward
the iron door, but the Captain has cut off the retreat.
"Young gentlemen, you will remain and clear up the hall. Williams, go
to the coal-cellar and bring up the two-bushel basket."
Williams is "nobbiest" of third-story boys, bravest of Camanche
warriors, but Williams doesn't dare refuse to go for that basket.
During his absence his fellow-savages express strong doubts as to his
ever re-appearing upon the battle-field, but he does return, like
Regulus to his barrel of spikes.
The Captain has borrowed a number of brooms and dust-pans from the
Diggers who, to a man, had retired and been snoring sweetly.
"Now, gentlemen, clear up these feathers!" orders the Captain, as if he
was crying, "Forward, march!"
Clearing up those feathers was a tedious and trying process. Any one
who has ever chased a worn-out but still lively feather up and down a
long hall can imagine the scene with hundreds of them flying about.
"They're the meanest lot of feathers,--pretty much all fuzz," said one
exhausted brave.
When the last handful had been crowded into the basket, Williams
attempted opening the door.
"No; you're to make your exit the same way you made your ingress,"
announced the Captain.
Williams stared blankly at the trap-hole in the ceiling.
Dropping down through a trap-door and going up through the same, with
no visible means of support but the floor, are naturally different
exercises.
"You're fertile in expedients; can't you devise some good way of
getting out?" coolly asked the Captain.
"We might stand on each other's shoulders," suggested one small
savage, whom the blood-thirsty Williams afterward confessed he longed
to scalp at this juncture.
"Very well, do so," ordered the Captain.
Then one of the noble savages stood under the trap-door while one by
one the others sprang upon his shoulders, caught the edges of the
opening above, wriggled, writhed, contorted his limbs, and finally
succeeded in drawing himself up to his own story, while all down the
hall, on either side, there appeared at the open ventilators over the
doors the eyes of pairs of miserable Diggers, and for every Camanche
that wriggled up there resounded a succession of groans.
The Camanches thought, with a thrill of exultation, that the Captain
would be obliged to proffer his shoulders for the last man, and would
then be left pondering alone, like the goat in the well. That would be
something of a revenge, at any rate.
But when only one boy remained, who, to the exasperation of the entire
tribe, was the identical small savage who had proposed going up in that
ridiculous style, the Captain quietly opened the iron door, and he and
the small savage retired with dignity.
The Captain, who had his "good streaks," never reported the Camanches,
but they manifested a disposition thereafter to settle quietly upon
their own reservation and cultivate the peaceful arts, and they always
treated their neighbors, the Diggers, with respect, though unmingled
with affection.
[Illustration: "LITTLE BO-PEEP, SHE WENT TO SLEEP."]
SOLIMIN: A SHIP OF THE DESERT.
BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.
I asked a party of children once the meaning of the word "desert," and
all but one shouted out, "rice pudding and oranges!" having in their
minds the dinner which we had just eaten. That one, who was older than
the rest, said, rather shyly, "A big piece of land, aunty, isn't it?"
but even he didn't know how big,--or that there is a difference in
spelling between the _dessert_ which people eat and the _desert_ which
sometimes eats people, closing its jaws of sand, and swallowing them up
as easily as a boy swallows a cherry.
The biggest desert in the world is in Africa, and is called the Sahara.
It is almost as large as the Atlantic Ocean, but instead of water it is
all sands and rocks. Like the ocean, it is visited with storms;
dreadful gales, when the wind scoops up thousands of tons of sand and
drives them forward, burying and crushing all they meet. And it has
islands, too--small green patches, where springs bubble through the
ground, and ferns and acacias and palm-trees grow. When a traveler sees
one of these fertile spots afar off, he feels as a tempest-tossed
sailor does at sight of land. It is delightful to quit the hot, baking
sun, sit in shadow under the trees, and rest the eyes, long wearied
with dazzling sands, on the sweet green and the clear spring. Oases,
these islands are called. Long distances divide them. It is often a
race for life to get across from one to the other. Sometimes people do
not get across! In 1805, a caravan of 2,000 persons died miserably of
heat and thirst in the great desert, and the sand covered them up. Do
you wonder at my saying that the desert eats men?
Now, you will be puzzled to guess what sort of ship it is which swims
this dry ocean. It is the camel--an animal made by God to endure these
dreadful regions, in which no other beast of burden can live and
travel. I dare say many of you have seen camels in menageries. They are
ugly animals, but very strong, swift and untiring. With a load of 800
pounds on his back, a camel will travel for days at the rate of eight
miles an hour, which is as fast as an ordinary ship can sail. More
wonderful still, he will do this without stopping for food or water.
Nature has provided him with an extra stomach, in which he keeps a
store of drink, and with a hump on his back, made of jelly-like fat,
which, in time of need, is absorbed into the system and appropriated as
food. Is it not strange to think of a creature with a cistern and a
meat-safe inside him? A horse would be useless in the desert, where no
oats or grass can be had; but the brave, patient camel goes steadily on
without complaint till the oasis is reached: then he champs his thorn
bushes, fills himself from the spring, allows the heavy pack to be
fastened on his back again, and is ready for further travel.
Now you know what sort of a ship it is that I am going to tell you
about. It was a camel, named Solimin. He was of a rare and valuable
breed, known as "herie," or coursers, because they are so much swifter
than ordinary camels. Solimin's master, Ahmed, was a poor man. He never
could have afforded to buy a full-grown camel of this rare breed; and
Solimin had become his through a piece of good fortune. When a little
foal, Solimin was found in a lonely place in the desert, standing over
the dead body of his mother, who had fallen and perished by the way.
Led to the brown tent which was Ahmed's home, the orphan baby grew up
as a child of the family, lay among the little ones at night, and was
their pet and plaything all the day. The boys taught him to kneel, to
rise, to carry burdens, to turn this way and that at a signal. The
girls hung a necklace of blessed shells around his neck, saved for him
the best of the food, sang him songs (which he was supposed to enjoy),
and daily kissed and stroked his gentle nose and eyes. As he grew big
and strong, the pride of his owners grew with him. Not another family
of the tribe possessed a herie. Once and again, Ahmed was offered a
large price for him, but he rejected it with disdain.
"Would I sell my son--the son of my heart?" he said. "Neither will I
part with Solimin. By the Prophet, I swear it."
Of all the dwellers in the brown tent Solimin loved best Ahmed himself,
and his eldest son, Mustapha. With them he was docile as a lamb; but if
strangers drew near, or persons he did not like, he became restive and
fierce, screamed, laid back his ears, and kicked with his strong hind
legs. A kick from a camel is no joke, I can tell you. All the desert
guides knew Solimin, and, for his sake, Ahmed was often hired to
accompany caravans. Nay, once, at Cairo, Solimin was chosen to carry
the sacred person of the Khedive on a day's excursion up the Nile bank,
which event served the tribe as a boast for months afterward.
It was the year after this journey to Cairo that Ahmed met with a
terrible adventure. He and Mustapha, making their way home after a
long journey, had lain down to sleep away the noontide hours, according
to the custom of desert travelers. Their camels were tethered beside
them, all seemed secure and peaceful, when, sudden as the lowering of a
cloud, a party of Arabs, belonging to a wild tribe at enmity with all
men, pounced upon them. Ahmed and his son defended themselves manfully,
but what could two men, surprised in sleep, do against a dozen? In five
minutes all was over. The assailants vanished in a cloud of dust, and
Ahmed, who had been struck down in the rush, recovered his senses, to
find camels, baggage, belt, money, everything gone, and Mustapha
wounded and motionless on the earth beside him.
Ahmed thought him dead. They were alone in the desert, a hundred miles
from home, without food or water, and with a groan of despair he sat
down beside his son's body, bowed his head, and waited until death
should come to him also. An Arab believes in fate, and gives up once
for all when misfortune occurs.
But Mustapha stirred, and Ahmed at once sprang up. There was nothing he
could do for the poor boy, except to chafe and rub his hands; but this
was something, for presently Mustapha revived enough to speak.
"Are they gone?" he asked.
"Yes, the accursed ones, they are gone, with all our goods and with
Solimin! The Prophet's curse light upon them!" And passing from despair
to fury, Ahmed threw sand upon his head, and flung himself on the
ground in helpless rage. Mustapha joined in with groans and
lamentations.
When the father and son grew calmer, they began to discuss their
situation. Ahmed knew of a small unfrequented oasis, about twenty miles
away. It was their only chance of safety, but could they reach it?
"I _think_ I can walk," declared Mustapha, tying up his wounded leg in a
fold torn from his turban. But he limped sadly, and his tightly pressed
lips showed pain as he moved. He was faint with hunger beside. Neither
of the men had eaten since sunrise.
Suddenly Mustapha uttered a joyful cry, and lifted something from the
earth.
"The Prophet be praised!" he cried. "My father, here is food. The
robbers have dropped a bag of dates."
Sure enough, there it lay, a heavy bag of dates, shaken off from some
camel's pack during the struggle. Heavy as it was, and hard to carry,
Ahmed would fain have had it larger. It was their safety from
starvation. A handful of its contents satisfied hunger, and gave them
strength to begin their walk. What a walk it was! Poor Mustapha lay
down every half-hour from pain and weakness; the sand was heavy, the
darkness puzzled them. When morning broke, they had not accomplished
more than half the distance. All through the hot day-time they lay
panting on the ground, eating now and then a date, tormented with
thirst and heat; and when evening came, they dragged themselves to
their feet again, and recommenced their painful journey. Step by step,
hour by hour, each harder and longer than the last, moment by moment
they grew more feeble, less able to bear up, till it seemed as though
they could no longer struggle on. At last, the morning broke. Ahmed
raised his blood-shot eyes, seized Mustapha's arm, and pointed. There,
not a hundred yards away, was the oasis, its trees and bushes outlined
against the sky.
Poor Mustapha was so spent that his father had to drag him across the
short dividing space. It was a small oasis, and not very fertile; its
well was shallow and scanty, but no ice-cooled sherbet ever seemed more
delicious than did its brackish waters to the parched tongues of the
exhausted men.
All day and all night they lay under the shadow of the cactuses and the
acacia-trees, rousing only to drink, and falling asleep again
immediately. Shade, and sleep, and water seemed the only things in the
world worth having just then.
The second day they slept less, but it was nearly a week before they
could be said to be wide-awake again. Such a pair of scare-crows as
they looked! Ahmed was almost naked. The robbers had taken part of his
clothes, and the desert thorns the rest. Haggard, wild, blackened by
the sun, they gazed at each other with horror; each thought, "Do I look
like that?" and each tried to hide from the other his own dismay.
They could never tell afterward how long they remained at the oasis. It
seemed years, but I suppose it could not have been more than weeks. All
day long they looked wistfully toward the horizon, in hopes of a
caravan, but the caravan never came. Slowly the dates dwindled in the
bag; slowly the precious water diminished in the well; a little longer,
and starvation would be upon them. They scarcely spoke to each other
those last days, but sat each by himself in a sort of dull despair. At
night, when they fell asleep, they dreamed of food, and woke in the
morning to feel themselves still hungry. It was horrible!
Then came a morning when they rose to find the hard desert outline,
which they knew so well, vanished and gone, and in its stead a smooth,
shining lake, fringed with trees and dotted with feathery, fairy
islands. So near it seemed, and so real, that it was as though they
heard the ripple of the water and the rustling of the wind in the
tree-boughs. Mustapha stared as though his eyes would burst from his
head; then he gave a wild cry, and was rushing away; but his father
held him fast.
"Stay, my son! Stay, Mustapha! It is no lake,--it is a device of Satan.
What you behold is the mirage, spread by devils for men's destruction."
"Let me go!" shrieked Mustapha, writhing and struggling.
But even as he strove, the soft water-outlines shifted and trembled;
the lake rose in air, melted, and sailed off into curling mists; the
trees, the whole fair picture, dissolved, and the well-remembered sands
and black rocks took its place. With a cry of horror, Mustapha slid
through his father's arms to the earth, hid his face, and cried like a
child.
[Illustration: "THEY SAW THE FORM OF A GIGANTIC CAMEL."]
Next morning, only one date was left in the bag. Ahmed put it in his
son's hand with a mournful look.
"Eat, my son," he said; "eat, and then we will die. Allah il Allah!"
A long silence followed; there seemed nothing more to say. Suddenly,
from afar off, came to their ears the tinkle of a bell.
Mustapha raised his head.
"Is it the mirage again, my father?" he asked. "For it seems to me that
I hear the bell from the neck of Solimin, our camel."
Eagerly they listened. Again the bell tinkled, and, looking through the
bushes, they saw, floating toward them, as it seemed, the form of a
gigantic camel. Soundless and still, it moved rapidly along. Behind,
but much farther away, other forms could be seen, still dim and
indistinct, veiled by the mist of driving sand.
Suddenly Mustapha gave a start.
"My father," he cried, in an excited whisper, "it _is_ Solimin! I do
not mistake! What other camel ever resembled Solimin? Do you not see
his lofty hump,--his arched neck? Does not the bell tinkle as with the
voice of home?"
Then, half raising himself, he gave, with all the power of his voice,
the well-known call.
Solimin--for it was indeed he--paused as the sound caught his ears, and
snuffed the wind. Again came the call; he wheeled, plunged, threw his
rider, dashed forward, broke through the bushes, and in a second was on
his knees before his old master.
"Up, up, my father! there is no time to lose!" cried Mustapha, grown
stronger in a moment. "Up, up! for the robbers are close upon us!"
In fact, wild cries and clouds of dust showed that the foe had taken
the alarm, and were hurrying on. But already Ahmed and Mustapha were
mounted, and Solimin, like a ship at full sail, was speeding away with
them. And where was the camel could overtake him, even when he was
loaded double? Fast and swift his long, swinging trot bore them onward,
and before two hours were gone, all traces of the pursuers had
disappeared behind them, and they were free to turn their course toward
the brown tents where rest, and food, and welcome had waited so long
for their coming, and where, after a little time, their hardships and
sufferings seemed to them only like a bad dream.
As for Solimin, he hardly could be more tenderly treated or beloved
than before this adventure; but if the freshest water, the prickliest
furze,--if bowls of sour milk;--if a triple necklace of shells,--if
brushing and grooming,--if soft pats from childish fingers, and sweet
names murmured in his ears by girlish voices can make a camel happy,
then is Solimin the happiest of heries. Solimin no longer, however. His
name is changed to "The Blessed," in memory of the day when, like a
stately ship, he came over the desert sea, and bore his starving
masters to home, and life, and liberty.
BELINDA BLONDE
BY LAURA E. RICHARDS.
Belinda Blonde was a beautiful doll,
With rosy-red cheeks and a flaxen poll;
Her lips were red, and her eyes were blue,
But to say she was happy would not be true;
For she pined for love of the great big Jack
Who lived in the box so grim and black.
She never had looked on the Jack his face,
But she fancied him shining with beauty and grace;
And all the day long she would murmur and pout,
Because Jack-in-the-box would never come out.
"Oh, beautiful, beautiful Jack-in-the-box!
Undo your bolts and undo your locks!
The cupboard is shut, and there's no one about;
Oh, Jack-in-the-box! jump out, jump out!"
But alas, alas for Belinda Blonde!
And alas, alas for her dreamings fond!
There soon was an end to all her doubt,
For Jack-in-the-box really _did_ jump out!--
Out with a crash, and out with a spring,
Half black and half scarlet, a horrible thing;
Out with a yell and out with a shout,
His great goggle-eyes glaring wildly about.
"Alas! alas!" cried Belinda Blonde;
"Is this the end of my dreamings fond?
Is this my love, and is this my dear,
This hideous, glowering monster here?
Alas! alas!" cried Belinda fair.
She wrung her hands and she tore her hair,
Till at length, as the dolls who were witnesses say,
She fell on the ground and she fainted away.
MORAL.
Now all you dolls, both little and big,
With china crown and with curling wig,
Before you give way to affection fond,
Remember the fate of Belinda Blonde;
And unless you wish to get terrible knocks,
Don't set your heart on a Jack-in-the-box.
THE LONDON DUST-MAN
BY ALEXANDER WAINWRIGHT.
There he goes! A dusky gloom hangs over the roofs of great London City;
a similar gloom fills my room and seems to have touched all the furniture
with smoky age, and as I look down from the window into the gloomy street,
I see him coming along slowly, and crying in a voice like a plea for help
in affliction: "Dust-oh!--dust-oh!--dust-oh!--dust-oh!"
Not one of the many citizens who are passing notices him, or finds
anything strange in that plaintive cry. The people who live in the city
see him day after day, and remember how, in their childhood, they had
terrifying notions of his weakness for kidnapping and other mysterious
wickednesses. They know better now, and hurry past him with scarcely a
glance; but to the American visitor he is something of a curiosity.
[Illustration: "DUST-OH!"]
When the London fog is gray we cannot see him very far off, for he,
too, is gray from head to foot with ash-dust, and as he approaches us
he comes out of the mist like a phantom, though in reality he is a
substantial, square-built, deep-chested fellow, shod with enormous
Blücher shoes (the soles of which are bright with nails), and clad in a
loose blouse and trousers, that are tied up about the knees. The blouse
is open at the chest, and is lifted to the waist by his big, brown
hands, which are tucked in his trouser pockets, and his head is covered
by the kind of hat that sailors call a sou'wester. His only ornament is
a pair of ear-rings; and with his head thrown back he saunters along
the street by the side of his cart, repeating in measured tones his
cry, "Dust-oh-oh! dust-oh!"
Now and then he stops at a house, and his mate--he has a mate, who is
as much like him as pea is like pea--descends into the cellar, bringing
forth the ashes and refuse that have accumulated in twenty-four hours,
and when the cart, which is a square, box-like affair, is filled he
starts for home with his load.
What a queer home it is! It is on the outskirts of the city, far away
from the finer streets and buildings. A large space of ground is as
gray and dusty as an African or Western desert, and is broken by mounds
of ashes, some of which are only a few feet high, while others are
almost as high as houses,--quite as high, in fact, as the dismal little
shanties on the edge of the reservation in which the dust-man and his
fellows live. Other carts and other dust-men are constantly coming and
going, dumping one load and then returning to the city for another, and
as soon as a load is dumped it is attacked by a crowd of men, women and
children, who with shovels, rakes and hooks, turn it over and over, and
raise stifling clouds of dust.
The reader may think that the collections made by the dust-man are
valueless, but such is not the case.
There are more than 300,000 inhabited houses in London, consuming more
than 3,500,000 tons of coal a year, and besides the ashes from this
great quantity of fuel, the dust-man gathers the other refuse of the
houses. He is employed by a contractor, who agrees with the corporation
to remove the ashes, etc., out of the city, and the contractor divides
every load into six parts, as follows: Soil, or fine dust, which is
sold to brick-makers for making bricks and to farmers for manure;
brieze, or cinders, sold to brick-makers for burning brick; rags, bones
and old metals, sold to marine-store dealers; old tin and iron vessels,
sold to trunk-makers for clamps; bricks, oyster and other shells, sold
for foundations and road-building; and old boots and shoes, sold to the
manufacturers of Prussian blue.
Sometimes, much more valuable things than these are found, and the
reader may remember the romance that Charles Dickens made out of a
London dust-man--"Our Mutual Friend."
It is in sifting the different parts of a load that the men, women and
children, are employed; they are as busy as ants; mere babies and
wrinkled old dames take a part in the labor, and all of them are so
covered with dust and ashes that they are anything but pleasant to
contemplate, though, as a rule, they are useful, honest, and
industrious members of society.
"Dustie" is what the Londoners familiarly call the dust-man, and only a
few know in what ignorance and poverty he lives. One would think that
he would work himself into a better occupation, but his family have
been dust-men for generations, and the generations after him are not
likely to change.
HUCKLEBERRY.
BY FRANK R. STOCKTON.
More than a hundred and sixty-eight years ago, there lived a curious
personage called "Old Riddler." His real name was unknown to the people
in that part of the country where he dwelt; but this made no
difference, for the name given to him was probably just as good as his
own. Indeed, I am quite sure that it was better, for it meant
something, and very few people have names that mean anything.
He was called Old Riddler for two reasons. In the first place, he was
an elderly man; secondly, he was the greatest fellow to ask riddles
that you ever heard of. So, this name fitted him very well.
Old Riddler had some very peculiar characteristics,--among others, he
was a gnome. Living underground for the greater part of his time, he
had ample opportunities of working out curious and artful riddles,
which he used to try on his fellow-gnomes; and if they liked them, he
would go above-ground and propound his conundrums to the country
people, who sometimes guessed them, but not often.
The fact is, that those persons who wished to be on good terms with the
old gnome never guessed his riddles. They knew that they would please
him better by giving them up.
He took such a pleasure in telling the answers to his riddles, that no
truly kind-hearted person would deprive him of it, by trying to solve
them.
"You see," as Old Riddler used to say, when talked to on the subject,
"if I take all the trouble to make up these riddles, it's no more than
fair that I should be allowed to give the answers."
So, the old gnome, who was not much higher than a two-year-old child,
though he had quite a venerable head and face, was very much encouraged
by the way the people treated him, and when a person happened to be
very kind and appreciative, and gave a good deal of attention to one of
his conundrums, that person would be pretty sure, before long, to feel
glad that he had met Old Riddler.
[Illustration: "'DON'T YOU SEE?' ASKED THE OLD FELLOW."]
There were thousands of ways in which the gnomes could benefit the
country-folks, especially those who had little farms or gardens.
Sometimes Old Riddler, who was a person of great influence in his
tribe, would take a company of gnomes, under the garden of some one to
whom he wished to do a favor, and they would put their little hands up
through the earth and pull down all the weeds, root-foremost, so that
when the owner went out in the morning, he would find his garden as
clear of weeds as the bottom of a dinner-plate.
Of course, any one who has habits of this kind must eventually become a
general favorite, and this was the case with Old Riddler.
One day, he made up a splendid riddle, and, after he had told it to all
the gnomes, he hurried up to propound it to some human person.
He was in such haste that he actually forgot his hat, although it was
late in the fall, and he wore his cloak. He had not gone far through
the fields before he met a young goose-girl, named Lois. She was a poor
girl, and was barefooted; and as Old Riddler saw her in her scanty
dress, standing on the cold ground, watching her geese, he thought to
himself: "Now I do hope that girl has wit enough to understand my
riddle, for I feel that I would like to get interested in her."
So, approaching Lois, he made a bow and politely asked her: "Can you
tell me, my good little girl, why a ship full of sailors, at the bottom
of the sea, is like the price of beef?"
The goose-girl began to scratch her head, through the old handkerchief
she wore instead of a bonnet, and tried to think of the answer.
"Because it's 'low,'" said she, after a minute or two.
"Oh no!" said the gnome. "That's not it. You can give it up, you know,
if you can't think of the answer."
"I know!" said Lois. "Because it's sunk."
"Not at all," said Old Riddler, a little impatiently. "Now come, my
good girl, you'd much better give it up. You will just hack at the
answer until you make it good for nothing."
"Well, what is it?" said Lois.
"I will tell you," said the gnome. "Now, pay attention to the answer:
Because it has gone down. Don't you see?" asked the old fellow, with a
gracious smile.
"Yes, I see," said the goose-girl, scratching her head again; "but my
answer was nearly as good as yours."
"Oh, dear me!" said Old Riddler, "that wont do. It's of no use at all
to give an answer that is nearly good enough. It must be exactly right,
or it's worthless. I am afraid, young girl, that you don't care much
for riddles."
"Yes I do," said the goose-girl; "I make 'em."
"Make them?" exclaimed Old Riddler, in great surprise.
"Yes," replied Lois, "I'm out here all day with these geese, and I
haven't anything else to do, and so I make riddles. Do you want to hear
one of them?"
"Yes, I would like it very much indeed," said the gnome.
"Well, then, here's one: If the roofs of houses were flat instead of
slanting, why would the rain be like a chained dog?"
"Give it up," said Old Riddler.
"Because it couldn't run off," answered Lois.
"Very good, very good," said the gnome. "Why, that's nearly as good as
some of mine. And now, my young friend, didn't you feel pleased to have
me give up that riddle and let you tell me the answer, straight and
true, just as you knew it ought to be?"
"Oh yes!" said the goose-girl.
"Well, then," continued Old Riddler, "remember this: What pleases you
will often please other people. And never guess another riddle."
Lois, although a rough country girl, was touched by the old man's
earnestness and his gentle tones.
"I never will," said she.
"That's a very well-meaning girl," said Old Riddler to himself as he
walked away, "although she hasn't much polish. I'll come sometimes and
help her a little with her conundrums."
Old Riddler had a son named Huckleberry. He was a smart, bright young
fellow, and resembled his father in many respects. When he went home,
the old gnome told his son about Lois, and tried to impress on his mind
the same lesson he had taught the young girl. Huckleberry was a very
good little chap, but he was quick-witted and rather forward, and often
made his father very angry by guessing his riddles; and so he needed a
good deal of parental counsel.
Nearly all that night, Huckleberry thought about what his father had
told him. But not at all as Old Riddler intended he should.
"What a fine thing it must be," said Huckleberry to himself, "to go out
into the world and teach people things. I'm going to try it myself."
So, the next day, he started off on his mission. The first person he
saw was a very small girl playing under a big oak-tree.
When the small girl saw the young gnome, she was frightened and drew
back, standing up as close against the tree as she could get.
But up stepped Master Huckleberry, with all the airs and graces he
could command.
"Can you tell me, my little miss," said he, "why an elephant with a
glass globe of gold-fish tied to his tail is like a monkey with one
pink eye and one of a mazarine blue?"
"No," said the small girl, "I don't know. Go away!"
"Oh," said Huckleberry, "perhaps that's too hard for you. I know some
nice little ones, in words of one syllable. Why is a red man with a
green hat like a good boy who has a large duck in a small pond?"
"Go away!" said the small girl. "I came here to pick flowers. I don't
know riddles."
"Perhaps that one was too easy," said Huckleberry, kindly. "I have all
sorts. Here is one with longer words, divided into syllables. I'll say
it slowly for you: What is the dif-fer-ence between a mag-nan-i-mous
ship-mate and the top-most leaf-let on your grand-mo-ther's bar-ber-ry
bush?"
"I haven't got any grandmother," said she.
"Oh, well! Any grandmother will do," said Huckleberry.
"I can't guess it," said the small girl, who was now beginning to lose
her fear of the funny little fellow. "I never guessed any riddles. I'm
not old enough."
"Very well, then," said Huckleberry, "I'll tell you what I'll do. Let's
sit down here under the tree, and I'll tell you one of father's
riddles, and give you the answer. His riddles are better than mine,
because none of mine have any answers. I don't put answers to them, for
I can never think of any good ones. I met a boy once, and told him a
lot of my riddles; and he learned them, and went about asking people to
guess them, and when the people gave them up, he couldn't tell them the
answers, because there were none, and that made everybody mad. He told
one of the riddles to his grandmother,--I think it was the one about
the pink-eyed monkey and the wagon-load of beans--"
[Illustration: THE BOY AND HIS GRANDMOTHER.]
"No," said the small girl; "the elephant and the gold-fish was the
other part of the pink-eyed monkey one."
"Oh, it don't make any difference," said Huckleberry, "I don't join my
riddles together the same way every time. Sometimes I use the gold-fish
and elephant with the last part of one riddle, and sometimes with
another. As there's no answer, it don't matter. I begin a good many of
my best riddles with the elephant, for it makes a fine opening. But, as
I was going to tell you, this boy told one of my riddles to his
grandmother, and she liked it very much; but when she found out that
there was no answer to it, she gave him a good box on the ear, and that
boy has never liked me since. But now I'll tell you a story. That is,
it's like a story, but it's really a riddle. Father made it and
everybody thinks it's one of his best. There was once a fair lady of
renown who was engaged to be married to a prince. And when the
wedding-day came round--they were to be married in one of the prince's
palaces in the mountains--she was so long getting dressed--you see she
dressed in one of her father's palaces, down in the valley--that she
was afraid she would be late, so as soon as her veil was pinned on, she
ran down to the stables, threw a wolf-skin on the back of one of the
fieriest of the chargers, and springing on him, she dashed away. She
wasn't used to harnessing horses, and was in such a hurry that she
forgot all about the bridle, and so, as she was dashing away, she found
she couldn't steer the animal, and he didn't go anywhere near the
prince's palace, but galloped on, and on, and on, every minute taking
her farther and farther away from where she wanted to go. She couldn't
turn the charger, and she couldn't stop him, though she tore off pieces
of her veil, and tried to put them around his nose, but it was no good.
So when the wedding-party had waited and waited and waited, the prince
got angry and married another lady, and nobody knows where the fair
lady of renown went to, although there are some people who say that
she's a-galloping yet, and trying to get her veil around the charger's
nose. Now, why was it that that fair lady of renown never married?
Answer: Because she had no bridal. You can say either bri-d-a-l or
bri-d-l-e, because they both sound alike, and if she had had either one
of them, she would have been married. This is a pretty long riddle, but
it's easier than mine, because it's all fixed up right, with the answer
to it and everything. You like it better than mine, don't you?"
The small girl did not answer, and when Huckleberry looked around, he
saw that she was asleep.
"Poor little thing!" said Huckleberry, softly, to himself. "I guess I
gave her a little too much riddle to begin with. Her mind isn't formed
enough yet. But it's pretty hard on me. I wanted to teach somebody
something, and here she's gone to sleep. I wish I could find that
goose-girl. If father could teach her something, I'm sure I could."
[Illustration: THE FAIR LADY OF RENOWN.]
So he went walking through the fields, and pretty soon he saw Lois,
standing among her geese, who were feeding on the grass.
Huckleberry skipped up to her as lively as a cricket.
"Can you tell me," said he, "why an elephant with a glass globe of
gold-fish tied to his tail is like the Lord High Admiral of the British
Isles?"
"Was the globe of gold-fish all the elephant owned?" asked the
goose-girl, thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Huckleberry. "But I don't see what that's got to do with
it."
"Then the answer is," said Lois, without noticing this last remark,
"because all his property is entailed."
"Well, I de-clare!" cried Huckleberry, opening his eyes as wide as they
would go, "if you didn't guess it! Why, I didn't know it had an
answer."
"I wish it hadn't had an answer," said the goose-girl, suddenly
stamping her foot. "I wish there had never been any answer to it in the
whole world. It was only yesterday that I promised Old Riddler that I
would never guess another riddle, and here I've done it! It's too bad!"
"I don't think it is," cried Huckleberry, waving his little cap around
by the tassel. "It's all very well for father not to want people to
guess his riddles, because they've got answers and he knows what they
are. But I would never have known that any of mine had an answer if you
hadn't guessed this one. If you had had a riddle like this one,
wouldn't you have been glad to have some one tell you the answer?"
"Yes, I would," said Lois.
"Well, then, my good girl, remember this: If a thing gives you
pleasure, it's very likely that it will give somebody else pleasure. So
let somebody else have a chance, and the next time you hear a riddle
that you think the owner has no answer for, guess it for him, if you
can. Good-by!"
And away went Master Huckleberry, skipping and singing and snapping his
fingers and twirling his cap, until he came to a wide crack in the
ground, when he rolled himself up like a huckleberry dumpling, and went
tumbling and bouncing down into the underground home of the gnomes.
"Get out of the way!" said he to the gnomes he passed, as he proudly
strode to his father's apartments. "I'm going to make a report. For the
first time in my life I've taught somebody something."
When Huckleberry left her, the goose-girl stood silently in the midst
of her geese. Her brow was overcast.
"How's anybody to do two things that can't both be done?" she exclaimed
at last. "I'll have nothing more to do with riddles as long as I live."
HOW SIR WILLIAM PHIPS FOUND THE TREASURE IN THE SEA.
BY S.G.W. BENJAMIN.
There is scarcely anything more exciting to the imagination than tales
of hidden treasure, especially treasure lost at sea. The mystery, the
wonder, the adventure, the tragedy, the seemingly boundless
possibilities connected with riches lost by shipwreck or war, and yet
not gone beyond the hope of recovery, have given rise to a multitude of
romantic stories, some of them pure fictions, but many founded more or
less on fact.
I have known several cases in which treasure lost by piracy or
shipwreck has been recovered after a century or more. Some years ago a
company of men from Boston made two cruises to the shoals of the Silver
Key on the Bahama Banks, a spot noted for shipwrecks. They had some
clue to a treasure-laden ship which had foundered there long ago. The
first trip was unsuccessful, but on the second voyage the wreck was
found. Divers, armed with modern apparatus, spent several days in the
quest, but in vain, until, finally, just as the last diver was about to
give the signal to be drawn up, he leaned against what seemed only the
barnacle-encrusted end of a beam; but suddenly it gave way, and numbers
of golden doubloons rolled out at his feet. Considerable sums rewarded
further search in the sand-filled and decaying carcass of the old ship;
but exactly how much was realized is known only to the discoverers, who
kept the matter secret, and thus evaded paying a great part of the
share due to the British crown, in whose dominion the treasure was
found.
To Boston also belonged, some two centuries ago, the celebrated
treasure-hunter, William Phips. He was one of twenty-one sons, and was
born at Woolwich, Maine, in 1651. Of a bold, adventurous spirit, his
first and last passion was to follow the sea, although until he was
eighteen years of age he was forced to tend sheep. He then apprenticed
himself to a ship-carpenter for four years, taking a trip down the
coast now and then, and watching his chance for the next move. He is
said to have been inspired by an idea that celebrity and fortune were
to be his destiny; and when his apprenticeship was over, he went to
Boston and worked at ship-building for a year, until he had the good
luck to win the favor of a rich widow. Her he married, and, with the
increase of means thus obtained, Phips launched into various
enterprises, which did not always turn out well. But he never lost
faith in his guiding star, and often told his good wife that "he should
yet become commander of a king's ship, and owner of a fair brick house
in the Green Lane of Boston"--at that time the Beacon Street of the
plucky little town.
Ten years went by, and Phips seemed but little nearer the realization
of his dreams than while tending sheep on the hill-sides of Maine, when
the prospect suddenly brightened in an unexpected quarter. This was the
time when Spanish and Portuguese galleons were crossing the ocean laden
with silver from Potosi and diamonds from Brazil. Pirates and
privateers scoured the seas to rob the treasure-ships, and great
expeditions were sent out by England in war times for the same purpose.
The imaginations of men ran riot during this feverish state of things,
and people were ready to believe almost any yarn "spun" in the
forecastle.
Phips was just the man to be moved by such tales, and, when he learned
of a certain rich wreck on the Bahamas, he at once fitted out a small
vessel and went in search of it. He found and recovered the treasure,
but the amount was small, being only large enough to whet his appetite
for more.
While at the Bahamas, he was told of another Spanish vessel, wrecked
off Puerto Plata more than fifty years before, with a much larger
treasure. His means not being sufficient for this expedition, Phips
sailed for England and made direct application to the Admiralty to aid
him in his search. So ably did this true son of the sea represent his
cause, that he was given command of the "Rose Algier," a ship mounting
eighteen guns and carrying a hundred men. Thus Phips's first dream came
to pass; he was now captain of a king's ship, with a roving commission.
The exact position of the wreck was unknown, and the untrustworthy
character of the crew added great difficulties to the undertaking. It
should be remembered, also, that diving-bells, diving-armor, and the
like, were then unknown. But the courage and indomitable perseverance
of Phips now came into play, and he had a capital chance to show the
stuff of which he was made.
Soon after they had sailed, the crew came aft, armed, and determined to
force Phips to yield to their wishes, which probably were that they
should all turn pirates. Without giving them time to deliberate, Phips
flew at their leader, hurled him to the deck and dispatched him on the
spot--a deed so prompt and daring that it awed the mutineers into
submission for the time. One who has never seen a mutiny at sea can
form but little idea of its desperate character, and the rapidity of
action and unflinching nerve required where men are shut up alone on
the wide ocean with a quarrel so deadly in its nature that no
compromise can be thought of for a moment, and no quarter can be
allowed with safety to him who gives it.
But the next plot to seize the ship was even more dangerous. The "Rose
Algier," being in need of repairs, was taken to a cove in a small
uninhabited island, and careened on one side in order to reach the
damaged place. Most of the stores were moved on shore, the ship was
hove down, and a bridge was laid between the deck and the land. Under
the pretense of pastime, most of the crew now betook themselves to the
woods, and there plotted to return at seven in the evening, seize the
ship, force Phips and eight faithful men on shore, leave them there to
perish, and themselves sail away on a piratical cruise. But the
carpenter was one of the few who stood by the captain, and yet they
could not risk putting to sea without him. They sent for him,
therefore, on some pretext, and, having him in their power, offered him
the choice of instant death or of joining his fortunes with theirs. He
begged for half an hour to think about it, and said that at any rate he
should have to return on board for his tool-chest. They granted his
request, and sent two men with him to watch his movements. Soon
afterward, he was suddenly taken with a pretended cramp or colic, and
in great seeming agony rushed into the cabin for medicine; there he
found Phips, and in a few rapid words revealed the plot. In less than
two hours the mutineers would be marching on the ship. Not an instant
was to be lost. Immediately the guns were loaded and trained to command
the shore and all the approaches to the stores; the bridge was taken
in, and when the mutineers appeared they found themselves caught. In
tones of thunder, Phips bade them not to stir or he would mow them down
with his batteries; nor did they dare to disobey. The bridge was again
laid down, and the eight loyal men brought back the stores to the ship.
When all was safely on board again, the mutineers were told that they
were to be left to the fate they had intended for their commander. In
despair at so terrible a prospect, the miserable men threw down their
arms, and protested their willingness to submit if Phips would but
relent and not sail away without them. After a long parley, he agreed
to let them come on board, they having first given up their arms. But,
with such a crew, further search after the treasure was useless. Phips,
therefore, sailed for Jamaica, changed the crew, and again weighed
anchor for Hispaniola. There he was lucky enough to find an old
Spaniard who told him that the wreck was somewhere about a reef a few
leagues north of Puerto de la Plata. Phips immediately went to the
spot. But his search for the wreck was long and unavailing, the season
was changing, and the "Rose Algier," now but half manned and in
unseaworthy condition, was unfit to prowl around a dangerous reef in
the hurricane season. So, without having accomplished the object of so
much exertion and anxiety, Phips was obliged to return to England, a
baffled but not a discouraged man.
Very naturally, it was impossible for our adventurer to obtain another
English ship-of-war, although he received much credit for the courage
and skill shown in controlling the mutineers, and one would conclude
that the treasure of the old Spanish galleon would after this have
remained at the bottom of the sea, the exclusive possession of the
sharks, the turtles and the barracudas. But with rare pertinacity Phips
returned to the charge, and at last persuaded the Duke of Albemarle
and several other wealthy noblemen to his views. They formed a company
and obtained a patent from King James II., giving them the sole right
to all wrecked treasure they might find during a certain number of
years. Then they fitted out a ship and tender, the latter to cruise in
coves and shoal water, and Phips invented several rude contrivances,
for dragging and diving, far inferior to the means now used for such
purposes. Thus prepared, he sailed once more for Hispaniola. There a
small, stout boat was built, and with it and a crew of Indian divers
the tender was despatched to the reef where the wreck was said to be.
The tender was anchored in good holding-ground at a safe distance from
the reef, and the men then rowed slowly in the boat around it,
carefully examining the depths below for signs of the wrecked galleon.
The waters in the West Indies are very clear, and during a calm objects
can be seen at a considerable depth. The rocks were of singular form,
rising nearly to the surface, but with sides so steep that any vessel
striking them would be liable to go down many fathoms below the reach
of the most expert diver. The only hope was that the wreck might have
lodged on some projecting ledge. But the closest observation, long
continued, failed to reveal any sign of the object so eagerly sought,
although the water was perfectly calm.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN PHIPS THREATENS TO SAIL AWAY FROM THE MUTINEERS.]
At length; a curious sea-plant cropping out of a crevice in the sides
of the reef caught the eye of one of the crew, and he sent down an
Indian to bring it up. When the diver returned to the surface he
reported that he had seen a number of brass cannon lying tangled among
the sea-weed on a ledge. That was enough. Inspired with the greatest
enthusiasm, diver after diver plunged below to be the first to discover
the treasure, and ere long one of them brought up an ingot of silver
worth several hundred pounds. Transported with success they left a buoy
to mark the spot, and made all sail to carry the glad tidings to Phips.
He would not credit the tale until he had seen the ingot, when he
exclaimed, "Thanks be to God, we are all made!"
Every man was at once enlisted in the service of fishing for the
treasure. The bullion was discovered first; after that, in the bottom
of the hold, the sea-miners found the coin in bags, which had been so
long under water that they were encrusted with a stony shell, hard as
rock. This was broken with crowbars, revealing gold, jewels, and
"pieces of eight," in glittering abundance. The last day's work brought
to light twenty massive silver ingots, and the whole amount recovered
was somewhat over three hundred thousand pounds, a sum equal in the
values of our time to five millions of dollars. Nor was this all the
riches concealed in the wreck; but Phips was obliged to return to
England before completing the business. Provisions had run low, and the
presence of so vast a treasure on board had stimulated the cupidity of
the crew to a dangerous degree, so that each day of delay in reaching
port was full of hazard. Every precaution was taken to guard the
treasure, but what probably prevented the crew from rising was the
promise Phips gave them, when matters had become most suspicious, that
they should each receive a share of the profits in addition to his
wages, even if his own portion were thus swallowed up. Phips reached
England without mishap, thus bringing to a successful termination one
of the most daring exploits of its sort that were ever attempted.
When the profits were divided, Phips received as his share a sum that
would now be equal to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The Duke
of Albemarle presented Mrs. Phips with a magnificent gold cup worth
fifteen thousand dollars, and King James expressed great pleasure at
the honesty and ability of Phips in the conduct of such a difficult
undertaking, and as a reward for bringing such a treasure into England
granted him the honor of knighthood, and offered him important
employment in the royal service. Fortune had indeed smiled on the
shepherd-boy of Maine.
But Phips was never ashamed of his humble origin, nor in all his
wanderings did he forget his native land. And now, instead of remaining
to enjoy further honors near the throne, he returned to his family,
bearing the important commission of High Sheriff of New England. He now
built the brick house on Green Lane which he had promised his wife
fifteen years before. The name of this Street was eventually changed to
Charter Street, in memory of his efforts to have the charter of the
Massachusetts colony restored.
Sir William Phips afterward engaged in the wars between the American
colonies of France and England, and at the head of an expedition of
eight ships captured Port Royal. A subsequent enterprise against Quebec
failed from a combination of causes, some of them beyond the control of
Phips. After this Sir William went again to England, where he was
appointed Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the New England
colonies; and his return home with these new honors and titles was made
the occasion of a day of solemn thanksgiving.
His governorship having ceased, Sir William Phips sailed for England,
and was meditating a fresh expedition in search of shipwrecked treasure
when he was taken suddenly ill, and died at the age of forty-five.
While his adventurous career affords us little hope that any of us will
ever, like him, discover shipwrecked wealth, it gives us a fine example
of what perseverance combined with intelligence, courage and honesty
can accomplish in the face of great difficulties; for it was a union of
all these qualities which enabled Sir William Phips to wrest fortune
and honors from the ocean depths.
[Illustration]
SOME FISHING-BIRDS OF FLORIDA.
BY MRS. MARY TREAT.
All along the St. John's River, during the winter, may be seen birds
catching fish for a living. They are more numerous here in winter than
in summer, because, upon the freezing of the waters at the North, they
flock to Florida to carry on their fishing in the St. John's, which,
never freezing, contains an abundance of fish.
The belted kingfisher comes close to the house, where I can watch him
fishing as I sit at the window. The river is five miles across here,
and for several yards from the shore it is quite shallow, so that a
wharf two hundred and fifty feet long was necessary to make it easy to
launch our small rowboats. A railing extends along the side of the
wharf, and upon this railing the kingfisher perches, watching for his
prey.
[Illustration: THE BELTED KINGFISHER.]
He understands fishing much better than most boys, for he seldom misses
his game. He takes his position on the railing, and fixes his eyes upon
the finny tribes below, and when a fish that suits him comes within his
range, he dives into the water and brings it up with his stout beak,
and then beats it upon the railing to make it limp and tender before
swallowing.
It is not so very surprising that he is such an expert fisher, for
during the winter it is his only occupation; he has no family to look
after now, and he is so very selfish and quarrelsome that he will not
allow any of his brothers to fish near him. He considers the whole
length of the wharf his fishing-post, and his brothers must not
trespass upon his grounds; if they do, he chases them away with a
rattling, clanging noise, enough to frighten any fisher not stronger
than himself.
In the spring he takes a partner in his business, for now it is time to
raise a family, and he knows he can never do this alone. He is very
good and kind to this partner, and helps her dig a hole in a clayey
bank for the nest, and then takes his turn in sitting upon the eggs.
After the eggs are hatched, they both catch fish to feed the young
until they are old enough to feed themselves.
The American flamingo, with his gorgeous scarlet feathers, is a superb
fellow. He is very shy, and peculiarly afraid of man. On account of its
fine apparel, it has been more closely pursued than almost any other
bird. It does not go north like some of the herons, but Audubon says it
has occasionally been seen in South Carolina. Its constant home,
however, is in the southern part of Florida and along the Gulf coast.
Like the herons, of which I told you in ST. NICHOLAS for May, 1877, the
flamingoes are sociable, and live in flocks. They have webbed feet,
which give them an advantage over the herons in enabling them to swim
as well as to wade. I have never been able to get near enough to these
birds to gain any personal knowledge of their habits.
The nest of the flamingo is a curious affair; usually built in a
marshy, muddy place, in the form of a mound. It is made of sticks and
grass and mud to the height of two or three feet, with a hollow in the
middle to hold the eggs. The male is said to assist in the construction
of the nest, but this is probably mere conjecture, for I think no one
living at the present time has been able to get near enough to these
birds to watch their habits, and their nests can be reached only with
great difficulty.
The female lays two white eggs about the size of those of a goose. It
is said that she sits astride the nest in an ungainly fashion, and that
the young, as soon as they are hatched, take to the water like young
ducks.
If a law only could be passed to protect these birds, what a grand
sight the waters of Florida would soon present! These great, brilliant,
scarlet birds, dallying and playing in the water, or wading near the
shore in quest of game, would be a sight never to be forgotten. Can it
be possible that Florida does not care for such glorious creatures, and
will allow, year after year, these marauders from the North to kill
them without a single protest? Unless something is done for the
protection of these splendid creatures, they must soon become extinct;
for their range is quite limited, and I fear the boy and girl readers
of ST. NICHOLAS, by the time they grow to men and women, can only read
of these as "gorgeous birds of the past."
Almost every morning, the osprey, or fish-hawk, comes in front of the
window and fishes in the shallow water near the house. He does not seem
to be as expert as the kingfisher. I have seen him dive a dozen times
or more into the water before bringing up his prey. He sails around and
around in the air; at last fixing his eyes upon a fish, he swoops down,
making the water splash around him. His feet are large and powerful,
and he arranges his long toes in the form of a scoop as he plunges into
the river; this scoop is his fishing-tackle with which he brings up his
finny food.
I think I should not like to be an osprey, for he seems to have such a
hard time to get a living, and yet he is an honest, well-disposed
laborer. After he has succeeded in catching a fish, a bald eagle often
swoops down from some tall tree, where he has been watching him, and by
main force compels this honest fisher to give up his hard-won prey. The
eagle is considerably larger than his victim, being about three feet in
length, while the osprey is only about two feet.
It is quite a grand sight to see these two large birds wheeling through
the air--the osprey trying to elude the eagle, diving first one way and
then another, until at last, when he sees the unencumbered eagle must
overpower him, in a fit of desperation he lets the fish drop, and the
eagle catches it before it reaches the water, and carries it to some
retired spot where he devours it.
And now the poor defrauded osprey must go to work and catch another
fish before he can have his dinner. Here you see the bald eagle with
his ill-gotten prey.
[Illustration: THE BALD EAGLE.]
Great flocks of ducks often come to fish in the shallow water close to
the shore. I suppose the reason that they come so near is that they
find smaller fish here than in the deep water; and another reason, they
are never shot at near the shore, for no fire-arms are allowed to be
discharged within the town limits, except under the penalty of five
dollars for each discharge.
This place, in winter, corresponds to a northern watering-place in
summer. There is a warm sulphur-spring here, and people come from all
quarters for health and for amusement. At first the great numbers of
birds all about attracted many sportsmen, but I am very glad to tell
you that the Florida people did not like this reckless shooting of
birds in their midst, so they made this beautiful little place--Green
Cove Spring--a city, and elected a mayor and a marshal, and other
officers, to keep the men straight, and to protect the birds.
So this is why the birds that live about this little city are so tame,
and why the ducks come so close to us; they have learned that they are
quite safe from guns here.
Several species of ducks may sometimes be seen in one flock, fishing
together in perfect harmony. It is quite astonishing how long they can
stay under water, and when they come up their feathers are not wet at
all.
The most beautiful of these fishing-ducks is the hooded merganser. Its
plumage is most elegant, and it has a large thick tuft or crest of
feathers covering the whole head, which gives it a sort of military
look; and, indeed, it seems to be a commander, for it leads all of its
relatives. It sometimes stays so long under the water that I begin to
fear something has happened,--that an alligator, or some other huge
beast, has got hold of it; but it always makes its appearance after a
while, often at quite a long distance from where it went under.
NAN'S PEACE-OFFERING.
BY KATE W. HAMILTON.
"Just wish I was properer, and everything--so there!" said Nannie,
sitting discontentedly down upon the green grass by the road-side, and
surveying herself with a pair of very serious brown eyes.
It was a forlorn little self, surely, with wet dress, muddy shoes, inky
apron, and crumpled sun-bonnet.
"Aunt S'mantha'll think I'm dreadful. She says I never have any
forethought; but I have lots of after-thoughts, and I s'pose folks
can't have both kinds. It don't do any good, either. Oh dear!"
There was a whistled tune coming up the road. Tommy Grey was attached
to it, but the whistle seemed much the older and more important of the
two, and was first to reach the tree where Nannie was sitting. When
Tommy caught up with it, he stopped in surprise.
"Hello, Nan Verling! Is that you?"
"I suppose so, but I wish it wasn't," answered Nannie, dolefully.
"What for?" questioned Tommy, in still further astonishment.
"'Cause I wish I was somebody else that wasn't all wrinkled and mussed
up. I don't see how folks can keep nice and have good times, anyway,"
declared Nan, in a burst of confidence. "You see, I just helped sail
boats in the brook, and I didn't know my dress was wet a bit till I
came away; and then Lizzie Sykes tagged me, and course I had to tag her
back again. I don't know what made her run right through the mud, where
I couldn't catch her without getting my shoes all muddy. Should think
she might have known better! My old ink-stand at school is always
upsetting itself, and it had to spill on my clean white apron this
afternoon. Then my sun-bonnet--"
"Looks as if you'd hung it up in your pocket," suggested Tommy.
"Well, I didn't; I only rolled it up for a rag-baby when we played keep
house at recess. I s'pose it's bad for bonnets, but it made the
beautifulest kind of a baby," said Nannie, a little ray of enthusiasm
gleaming through her despondency. "But Aunt S'mantha doesn't 'preciate
such things," she added, mournfully.
"No," answered Tommy, sympathetically. "She'll scold, may be?"
"P'r'aps so. May be she'll send me to bed without any supper."
"Whew! That a'nt any fun, I tell you!" declared Tommy. "Why, a fellow
just tumbles and tumbles, and gets hungrier and hungrier, and wonders
what the folks have got for supper, and looks at the stars, and tries
to say 'Hickory-dickory-dock' backward, and wishes it was morning. It
just feels awful!"
"I didn't ever try it, and I don't s'pose I could stand it," said
Nannie, shaking dejectedly the curly head in the flopping sun-bonnet.
"I've a good mind not to go home at all, but just run away off
somewhere, and be a foundling. Foundlings have pretty good times,
'cause I've read about 'em in books. They get adopted by some great
lady in a big house, and grow up rich, and get to be real handsome."
"I don't believe you would," declared Tommy, more honestly than
politely.
Nan meditated a minute, and then said, with a sigh:
"Well, I guess I'll have to go home, then."
"Scoldings don't last very long, anyway," urged Tommy, consolingly.
"But if you sort o' think you oughtn't to have done things, and did
ought to be more careful--and everything--it makes it seem more worse,
you know," remarked Nannie, in a hesitating, half-penitent way. "'Cause
I _do_ like Aunt S'mantha."
"Yes," admitted Tommy, knitting his brow over the complications of the
case, and searching his own experience for a suggestion of relief. "If
you only had something nice to carry home to her--something she wants.
Once I got wet as a rat playing round the pond, but I'd caught two
fish--reg'lar tip-top trout--and I took 'em home to mother; held 'em up
where they'd be seen first thing, you know. And she said, 'What nice
fish!' and didn't scold a wink."
"I couldn't catch anything if I tried a week, and Aunt S'mantha
wouldn't care, anyway. Why, she's a real grown-up woman, and could have
tea-parties and make molasses candy every day if she wanted to! I don't
believe she wants anything, unless it's ban--bananas--whatever that is.
I heard her say she'd like some, this morning."
"Bandanas?" questioned Tommy, with brightening eyes.
"Y-e-s, I guess so," answered Nannie, rather doubtfully.
"Ho! I know what they are as well as anything. Why, they're silk
handkerchiefs--red and yellow, with spots on 'em."
Nannie's hand dived into her small pocket, and re-appeared with two
nickels and a copper.
"Do you guess I could buy one at Carney's store for 'leven cents?
'Cause I haven't got any more."
"I s'pose so. Why, yes; handkerchiefs a'nt much 'count, you know. I
always lose mine--only they a'nt bandanas. I guess women-folks think
more about 'em, though," said Tommy, with the air of one superior to
such trifles.
Nannie was convinced, and started from her seat with a little sigh of
relief.
"I'll go and buy her one, then. And I think you're a pretty good boy,
Tommy Grey," she added, gratefully, as she trudged down the road,
leaving Tommy to take up his whistling and his homeward route again.
It was quite a long walk to the store--_the_ store, because the village
only boasted one. That did not matter much to the inhabitants
generally, as the town was so near. Bentleyville and Bentley were
connected by a straggling line of houses that made it hard to tell
where the village ended and the town began. Ambitious young villagers
took advantage of this to talk about "we city people," while the older
ones contentedly spoke of themselves as "plain country-folks."
Nannie did not care in the least which she was, neither did she greatly
mind the walk, though the feet that had done so much running began to
grow tired. If only she could carry a peace-offering to Aunt Samantha!
That would make all right, and her small world bright again, she was
sure.
"I can't have any candy or slate-pencils for ever so long; but I don't
care, 'cause I do like her, and she'll know it--course she will if I
buy her a handkerchief; and she wont think I got all mussed up on
purpose," she soliloquized.
It required some heroism to pass by the fresh pop-corn balls at the
store door, and to turn away from the boxes of figs without a second
glance; but Nannie did both, and, walking straight to the counter, made
known her errand.
"Bandanas? Yes, a prime lot of 'em," said bustling little Mr. Carney,
bringing out his whole stock.
His small customer, standing on tiptoe to reach the counter, gravely
examined them. Would Aunt Samantha like a red one or a yellow one best,
she wondered. It was a perplexing question to decide. If only she could
take her one of each! And that reminded her to ask the price.
"Seventy-five cents apiece," said the old gentleman briskly.
"Seventy--five--cents!" repeated Nan, faintly.
"Yes, sissy; cheap at that, too."
"I--thought--I didn't know," stammered Nannie, in a sore
disappointment. Then rallying her faltering courage, she asked: "Don't
you ever sell any for 'leven cents?"
"Eleven cents? Bless me, child! Why, they cost--Oh! may be you mean
cotton ones? Look a little like these."
Nan nodded, glad to think it even probable that she had meant anything.
"Well, I don't keep that kind, you see," explained Mr. Carney,
condescendingly.