Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 50. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, October 12, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BESSIE RECOVERS THE REMAINS.]
COACHY.
BY ELINOR VEY.
The first time I ever saw Coachy she was scratching about on the garden
walk, kicking the dirt out in two ways behind her, and then nimbly
hitching back a step or two and staring and pecking at the hole that she
had made. Every little while she said something to herself in a comical
drawling tone, standing on one foot, and looking up at me with curious
eye, as if wondering who I was, and what in the world I was there for.
But who was Coachy?--an old yellowish-brown _hen_, all tousled and sort
of round-shouldered. As I was laughing quietly at this old hen
scratching, and kicking, and pecking, and crooning about on the garden
walk, it occurred to me to toss the least bit of a stone at her. So
picking one up, I took aim, when, click! click! upon the porch I heard a
pair of slippers. They were down the steps in no time, with their
cunning toes pointing straight toward mine. I put that stone into my
pocket, and took off my hat to "little slippers." They were blue as the
softest blue sky--little slippers--and ever and ever so small. Mine had
purple worsted flowers all over them, big flat heels, and were ever and
ever so large. Inside those little slippers stood the sweetest mite of a
lady the world ever saw; while inside old "flat heels" was the fattest
and fondest Uncle John.
Bessie Rathbun's cheeks were about the color of an oleander blossom, her
small red mouth was about the color of a cranberry, and her two
wide-open eyes about the color of her slippers. Her hair hung in yellow
fuzzy curls away down to the strings of her apron; and it always seemed
to me there must be a gold dollar rolling off the end of each curl, each
end was so round and gold yellow. Dainty Bessie!--and what do you
suppose? Why, she was deep in love with that old brown hen. Many and
many a time she had sent me scraps of news about her wonderful Coachy,
and had wished and wished that I would come and see her for myself. So
when, one day, a letter came from Bessie's father, asking me if I would
please hurry over to Featherdale to take charge of his house, and his
silver spoons, and his little daughter, while he took a journey with his
wife to visit a sick friend, I just threw my papers and pens into my
valise (I was writing a lecture then), jumped aboard the first train,
and went. So here we were together, on a breezy bright June
morning--Bessie and Coachy and I.
"There she is, uncle--there's my Coachy!" cried Bessie, as she slipped
from my arms. "Come, darling, come;" and Coachy spread out her wings,
and rushed toward her little mistress, who eagerly bent down and took
her. She kissed her brown back, and from a snowy apron pocket gave her
corn, and even while eating, this funny old hen brokenly hummed a tune.
"Let's go on the porch with her," said Bessie at last. So we settled on
the porch, with Coachy nestling between us.
"She isn't what you may call a very handsome hen--now is she, Bessie?"
laughed I.
But Bessie scarcely smiled. "If you knew something that I know," said
she, "you wouldn't make fun of her."
"Why--what?"
"Why, she was a poor orphan chicken--an' a dog killed her mother--an'
she had a _dreadful_ hard time getting grown up as big as she is now.
She's fallen into the well, an' had two of her toes froze off--"
"What! in the well?"
"No; in the winter," said Bessie, gravely. "And she's been so lonesome
down here, without any other hens to talk to, that papa says she'll have
to go out to the farm, where the other hens are, real soon, or she'll
die."
"Is that so?" said I, feeling sorry and a trifle awkward.
The little maid smoothed the rumpled feathers this way and that. "Yes,
that's so," she sighed. "Our farm is more'n a mile from here, but I'm
going to let her go."
"You can see her very often, can't you?" I asked.
"Yes; but, oh dear!" and there was another kiss put upon the brown back.
Perhaps that is what made Coachy look round-shouldered--carrying such a
load of sweet kisses on her back.
Just at this moment Bridget came out, and picked up the door-mat. I have
never known for certain what Bridget did to the door-mat. Maybe it was
taken off somewhere, like a bad child, for a shaking. Anyway, she picked
it up quickly, and went back to the kitchen. And right where the mat had
lain--so near that we could reach out and take it--was a letter; and the
letter was addressed, in big scrawling characters that looked very much
indeed like "hen tracks," to
_Miss Bessie Rathbun_,
_Featherdale._
The little lady's eyes and mouth grew perfectly round; she gave a little
scream, and Coachy, half scared, went hopping down the steps. I opened
the letter, and this is what we found:
"MY DEAR MISTRESS,--You can't guess how sad I am at the thought of
leaving you, even for a few short months; but I do believe my
general health and spirits would be much improved if you would
kindly take me out to the farm to spend the balance of the summer.
I miss the Brahmas, and the Shanghais, and the Plymouth Rocks, and
even the pert little Bantams, more than I can tell. I get very
downhearted somehow, thinking of the merry times they must be
having all together in the fields or on the old barn floor. You
are very, very good to me, and I love you dearly; but oh! _please_
take me back to the farm. I shall be so happy whenever you come
out there to see me, and will thank you as long as I live. Answer
soon.
"With one peck at your sweet lips,
"COACHY.
"P. S.--Please don't ever hug me again as you did on the lawn last
Sunday. I thought I should choke."
Bessie was smiling; still in the same moment she had to put up her hand
and whisk something away from her cheek. I knew what it was--a tear.
"Uncle," she said, putting both hands into her apron pockets, "let's
take Coachy to the farm to-morrow;" and we did.
Early next morning we drove out of town, the dear old hen in Bessie's
arms, and Bessie and I in the phaeton. Bessie talked softly to her
favorite all the way; and when we reached the farm, I have an idea that,
in spite of the request in the postscript, Coachy was hugged as hard as
she ever was hugged in her life. Down the lane we went toward a group of
noisy fowls. The nearer we came to them, the harder was Coachy hugged. I
began to be anxious. Her mouth was open, and each particular toe was
standing out stiff and straight. Bessie's nose and lips were out of
sight in the ruffled back, and Coachy had closed her eyes.
"Darling," said the little girl, steadily, "good-by," and she bravely
dropped her pet beside the old companions.
We saw her shake herself, eye the others a moment, and walk quietly into
the crowd.
The man who lived on Bessie's papa's farm was named Beck. We hunted all
over for Mr. Beck to tell him there was a guest among the poultry; but
he was not to be found. So we got into the carriage and started for
home.
My little niece was silent during nearly all of our drive back to
Featherdale. Her mind was still filled full of Coachy.
By-and-by, though, the cherry lips opened.
"Uncle John," she said, "do you s'pose there'll be room?"
"On the roost?"
"Yes."
"Why, plenty of it--plenty!" said the reckless Uncle John.
I was out of bed an hour before Bessie next morning to take a horseback
ride. "Guess I'll go over to the farm," said I to myself, "and see how
Coachy is doing." So off to the farm I cantered.
I hitched my horse to a post by the farm-house door, and walked out
where the chickens were picking up a breakfast. I looked them all over,
and--and--well, Coachy was not there.
Seeing a man coming down the path, and feeling quite sure it was Mr.
Beck, I waited. A narrow-faced, fair-haired, frail-looking man--not at
all like a farmer, I thought.
"Good-morning, Mr. Beck," said I.
"Morning," said Mr. Beck, looking puzzled.
"My name is Rathbun. I was just looking around for a hen I brought up
from my brother's house yesterday. I don't seem to find her," I said,
still peering about.
"Did you bring that hen?" asked the man.
I turned and looked at him then.
"That old yellowish-brown hen?" he went on.
"Yes," said I, sharply. "Why?"
"Why, _I_ didn't know where she come from," he drawled. "She was
cluckin' round the cows' heels while I was milkin', an' I took 'er an'
chopped 'er head off."
It seems to me that for one whole minute I never drew a breath. I just
stood there, dumb and glaring, till I was conscious the man was
shrinking away from my eyes and clinched hands.
"What's the fuss?" said he.
"What's the fuss?" I roared. "Why, you confounded idiot, do you know
what you've done? Do you know that you've killed Bessie Rathbun's pet
hen?"
"Wa'al," he growled, with his hands in his pockets, "_I_ didn't know
whose hen it was."
"Well, that's a fine excuse, isn't it?--a fine excuse, Mr. Beck," I went
on, hotly.
"Why, I wouldn't have touched 'er 'f I'd known 'er," argued Mr. Beck.
"_I_ didn't know where she come from."
"And that's your way, I take it--to lay hold and kill a thing when you
don't know where it comes from. I wonder if you killed a horse as you
came along. I tied one at your door ten minutes ago."
I walked off a few steps to calm myself a little. I thought of poor
Bessie. Mr. Beck mumbled something, and started for the barn.
"Mr. Beck," I called after him, "what have you done with her?"
"How say!"
"Where is she--Coachy--the hen?"
He pointed with his thumb toward the barn, and went in.
I thought he would be out in a minute. As he did not appear, I followed
to the door, and looked in. I could neither see nor hear the man: he had
vanished.
It was a hint for me to go, certainly. With a troubled heart I rode
slowly back to town, and as I rode I pondered, asking myself what I
should say to Bessie. Should I tell her Coachy was lost? "Get on, pony,"
I said at length; "we must tell her the truth."
Upon entering the driveway I noticed Bessie in the garden picking
flowers. She saw me, and beckoned; but I could not go to her then. I
unsaddled the horse, led him into his stall, and fed him, and then I
stole into the house. A box was standing at one corner of the porch,
with a perch, and a nest, and a little trough for corn, and a little cup
for water. It was waiting to go to the farm.
I was drinking a cup of coffee when Bessie came skipping into the
breakfast-room. When she saw trouble in my face she put away her smile,
and crept softly up to me. She told me she had been hunting and hunting
for me. She rubbed her pink cheek against my whiskers, declaring that
she couldn't make me out at all. She said it was time now to go to the
farm.
"Bessie dear," I said, as I took her hand, "I wouldn't go up to the farm
to-day."
Surprise came over her face; then trouble with surprise. "Why, uncle?"
she said, softly.
"It isn't nice at the farm," I went on, vaguely; "don't go. I just came
from there. Don't go, Bessie."
"Why, uncle?" she said again, softly--"why, uncle?" Then all in a breath
her fingers bound themselves tight about mine. "Did you see my
Coachy?--did you see her?" she hurriedly asked.
I stooped and held the little form just one moment, then said, "No," and
then, somehow, I told her.
I did not have a great deal to tell; she guessed over half; and then
what a shivering, sobbing little burden it was that I held in my arms!
I don't believe I will try to tell you how she cried, or all she said,
as we sat in the parlor that forenoon; it might make _me_ cry to talk it
over. Her tiny pocket-handkerchief soon got wet through, and she had to
have my great big purple silk one; and more than once did I hear her
moan, "Oh, Coachy is dead! my Coachy is dead!" When at last she strove
to dry her eyes--poor, swollen eyes--it was truly a difficult matter. At
first it seemed of no use to try, for again and again they would fill
up, and spill the tears over her cheeks. We had to go and bathe them
finally, and then Bessie walked into the kitchen and brokenly told
Bridget the news.
A moment later I found her in the hall, tying on her hat. "I must go and
bring her home," she said, hurriedly.
She was out of the house, and had called on Dennis to harness the horse,
before I had time to consider.
"Dear Bessie, won't you stay here, and let me bring her home alone?" I
coaxed.
"No! no! no!" she cried; and so we started together.
"Don't cry, dear," I was saying, as we drove into the farm-yard--her
cheeks were all wet again--"don't cry, dear."
When I knocked at Mr. Beck's door, a voice called out, "Come in."
I opened the door, and found Mrs. Beck. I told her we had come to take
Coachy home.
Mrs. Beck walked a little toward her hot cook-stove before she spoke:
"Well, we'll give her a live one to take home. I'm certain she can't
take the dead one."
"Can't take her!--why?"
"I've got her a-boiling," answered Mrs. Beck.
Boiling!-- Coachy boiling! I had been there all this while and hadn't
smelled chicken. I felt like talking to Mrs. Beck; but I didn't. I shut
my teeth, made her a slight bow, and went out to Bessie.
"I haven't got her, darling."
She was back among the cushions, with her hands over her eyes.
"Haven't got her?"
"No, and I can't get her."
"Why, we _must_ get her!" she cried, straightening up. "_Why_ can't we
get her?"
"Why," said I, gently as I could--"why, they are--cooking her."
Bessie's cheeks flamed. In less time than it takes to tell it she sprang
from the carriage, burst open the kitchen door, ran against a toddling
boy, blindly knocked him over, and faced Mrs. Beck.
"How did you _dare_ do such a thing!" she almost screamed, seizing the
astonished woman by her dress skirt. "She's mine! my own Coachy! and
I'll carry her home in a pail!"
Jumping on a stool, she reached up to a shelf of tin-ware. Grasping a
good-sized pail, she pulled it from its place in such a hurry that half
a dozen milk-pans were dragged off with it. Clattering like crazy things
they whirled to the floor.
"Put my Coachy in there!--put her in!" she commanded, setting the pail
down hard on the stove, and twisting the cover off.
Such a din I never heard. Those tin pans banged and rattled, Bessie's
voice piped high, the boy on the floor broke into a hoarse scream, and
our horse shied and started for home.
"Whoa! whoa!" I shouted, leaping off the steps, and bringing him round
into place again.
Turning to go back to the tragedy in the house, I nearly collided with
Bessie. She was running out with the pail in her hand, and with all the
Beck children following. Thrusting it upon me, she hurried into the
carriage; then reaching after it, she wrapped it in the lap-robe, and
leaned back with a sigh of relief.
During the few minutes that it took us to rattle home I wondered what
was to be done with poor Coachy. I didn't have long to wait. I led the
horse into the stable, and as I was returning I discovered my little
girl sitting on the grass by a rose-bush, with what we had brought at
her feet.
In a trembling voice she asked me if I would please find a shovel. I
found one, and soon stood obedient beside Bessie and the pail.
"Right here, Uncle John," she whispered, flattening the tender grass
beneath the rose-bush with her two dimpled hands--"right here where the
sun shines."
So we dug a grave, and poured in that hot dinner. In it went, gravy and
all--white meat, dark meat, legs, wings, and wish-bone!
* * * * *
Some months went by, and Uncle John came to Featherdale again. As he
strolled through the garden in his purple-flowered flat-heeled slippers
the morning after his arrival, he came to a little lonely mound. A small
white board with scraggly letters on it stood there now. Uncle John
stooped down, held aside the grass, and read, "Coachy," and "Forgive us
our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us."
BAPTIZING COPTIC BABIES.
BY SARA KEABLES HUNT.
You have often witnessed the ceremony of infant baptism, when some sweet
baby friend of yours has been brought forward to be christened, and have
thought it a beautiful sight, as it indeed is; but the babies that I am
going to tell you about now were less fortunate in their birth, for they
were born of Egyptian parents--children of the Nile.
Would you like to hear of the strange ceremony?
We had been sailing all day, and at twilight had moored our diahbieh to
the bank near a Coptic village. The Copts are said to be the native
Egyptians, and pride themselves very much on their antiquity. As we
looked out through the brilliant sunset tints that were flushing all the
Nile Valley, the walls of an ancient convent rose before us, sharp and
well defined in the clear atmosphere, its usual gloom banished by the
bright and gorgeous coloring of the Egyptian sunset.
Somebody said, "There is to be a service in the old convent to-night;
shall we go?"
It had been a monotonous day, and the walk and change looked attractive;
so we were soon scrambling up the steep bank, and walking swiftly toward
the old convent walls. The town consisted of a collection of square
brown huts, their flat roofs covered with the nests of countless pigeons
that are always swarming and cooing around every Egyptian
dwelling-place. Quantities of water-jugs lay piled together by the side
of the road, waiting to be sent down the river. As we came out into the
open field, and on to the narrow beaten path which is raised slightly
above the level to keep in the water of the inundation, we threw back
our hats, and turned our faces to the glory of the sky and the cool
refreshing breeze. All the air was sweet with growing grain. Away in the
west the Libyan hills seemed quivering with the flush of the sunset, and
the whole plain was wrapped in a glow of light. A short walk brought us
to the church, and following the crowd which was rapidly assembling, we
mingled with them and obtained seats.
The convent is a lofty inclosure, the roof formed by numerous small
domes numbering nearly two hundred. Within is a small open court, an
ordinary-sized church surrounded with many small chapels, and the
apartments of the monks. Cleanliness is not one of the virtues of the
Copts, so we may expect to find everything dirty and in need of repair.
I shall not tire you with a long account of the general services, of the
clashing of cymbals and the loud voices of the priests, of the Coptic
prayers and long masses, of the blessing of the water when the priest
stirred it with a long stick as he prayed, then, dipping a cloth into
it, applying it to the wrists, insteps, and foreheads of all the men who
came forward to receive it. Time would not permit me to describe this in
detail; but the baptism of the children, which immediately followed in
another part of the church, was a novel though pitiful sight, and one
that will make you realize what a blessing it is to be born in an
enlightened land.
The women's department is separated from that of the men; they are never
allowed to enter the upper places, and in the ceremony of baptism of
children the fathers do not appear.
[Illustration]
When all was ready, three little creatures were brought in, their dark
eyes looking wonderingly around. Turning to the west, and holding her
child, the mother promised to renounce the devil and all his works;
then, facing the east, she held it forth to signify her acceptance of
Christ for the child, after which it was sprinkled by the priest. But
the ceremony did not end here, for the poor babes were taken to a font,
and in the midst of long Coptic prayers they were disrobed and immersed
three times. Then came the anointing with holy oil, the priest roughly
and awkwardly--for he was very old--rubbing it over all the members and
joints of the child from its wrist.
It was a cruel sight, for the church was quite cold, and as at last the
poor little victims were dressed and handed back to their mothers, we
hurried away. I lay for some time in my narrow berth that night unable
to sleep and thinking of the ceremony I had just witnessed. At last I
fell asleep, but only to see the faces of countless babies calling to me
in vain for help, and when I awoke from my troubled dreams it was with a
firm determination never again to see a Coptic baptism.
[Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.]
WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON?
BY JOHN HABBERTON,
AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES."
CHAPTER V.
THOSE JAIL-BIRDS.
Although the people of Laketon could not forgive Mr. Morton and Paul
Grayson for not talking more about themselves and their past lives, they
could not deny that both the teacher and his pupil were of decided value
to the town. All the boys, whether in Mr. Morton's school or the public
school, seemed to like Paul Grayson when they became acquainted with
him, and the parents of the boys sensibly argued that there could not be
anything very bad about a boy who was so popular. Besides, the other
boys in talking about Paul declared that he never swore and never lied;
and as lying and swearing were the two vices most common among the
Laketon boys, and therefore most hated by the parents, they felt that
there was, at least, no occasion to regard the new-comer with suspicion.
As for Mr. Morton, he rapidly made his way among the more solid
citizens. He was willing to work, whether his services were required by
church, Sunday-school, or society, and he did not care to hold office of
any sort, so his sincerity was cheerfully admitted by all. When,
however, he had one day, soon after his arrival, asked several prominent
men why the town had no society or even person to visit the very poor
and the persons who might be in prison, he ran some risk of being
considered meddlesome.
"We know our own people best," said Sam Wardwell's father. "The only
people here who suffer from poverty are those who won't work, while the
few people who get into our jail are hard cases; half of them wouldn't
listen to you if you talked to them, and the others would listen only to
have an excuse to beg tobacco or something. There's a man in the jail
now for passing counterfeit money; he's committed for trial when the
County Court sits in September; that man is just as smart as you or I.
He is as fine a looking fellow as you would wish to see, talks like a
straightforward business man, and yet he passed counterfeit bills at
four different places in this town. What would talk do for such a
fellow?"
"No one knows, until some one tries it," replied the teacher, quietly.
"Well, all I have to say is," remarked Mr. Wardwell, in a tone that was
intended to be very sarcastic, "those who have plenty of time to waste
must do the trying. If you want such work done, why don't you do it
yourself?"
"I would cheerfully do it if it did not seem to be presumptuous on the
part of a stranger."
"Don't trouble your mind about that," said the store keeper, with a
laugh; "the counterfeiter is a stranger too, so matters will be even.
There's the sheriff, in front of the post-office; do you know him? No?
Let us step over, and I'll introduce you. And I'll wish you more luck
than you'll have in the jail, if that will be of any consolation."
Mr. Morton found Sheriff Towler quite a pleasant man to talk to, and
perfectly willing to have his prisoners improve in body and mind by any
method except that of getting out of jail before their respective terms
of imprisonment had expired, or before they were by superior authority
ordered to some other place of confinement, as he, the sheriff, wished
might at once be the case with John Doe, the man who was awaiting trial
for passing bad bank-notes. All this the sheriff said as he walked with
Mr. Morton from the post-office to the jail. Arrived at the last-named
building, the sheriff instructed his deputy, who had charge of the
place, to admit Mr. Morton at any time that gentleman might care to
converse with any of the prisoners.
The teacher walked first through the upper rooms, where a small but
choice assortment of habitual drunkards and petty thieves were confined;
these, as Sam Wardwell's father had predicted, either declined to
converse or talked stupidly for a moment or two, and then begged either
tobacco or money to buy it with. Still, Mr. Morton thought he saw in
these wretched fellows some material to work upon, when time allowed.
Then he went below, and the deputy took him to the small grated window
in the door of the strong cell for desperate offenders, and said to John
Doe that a gentleman who was visiting the prisoners would like to speak
with him. The deputy went away immediately after saying this, and Mr.
Morton quickly put his face to the grated window, a face appeared on the
other side of the grating, and then, as Mr. Morton placed his hand
between the bars, which were barely wide enough apart to admit it, he
felt his fingers grasped most earnestly by the hand of the prisoner. If
Mr. Wardwell could have felt that grasp and seen the prisoner's face, he
might have greatly changed his opinion of smart prisoners in general.
Somehow John Doe preferred to restrict his remarks to whispers, and for
some reason Mr. Morton humored him. The interview lasted but a few
moments, and ended with a plea and a promise that another call should be
made. Meanwhile, Mr. Wardwell had stood on a corner that commanded the
jail, and when the teacher re-appeared the merchant asked, "Well?"
"They are a sad set," Mr. Morton admitted.
"I told you so," said Wardwell, rubbing his hands as if he were glad
rather than sorry that the prisoners were as bad as he had thought them.
"And how did you find that rascally counterfeiter? I'll warrant he
didn't care to see you?"
"On the contrary," replied the teacher, gravely, "he was very glad to
see me. He begged me to come again. He was so glad to see some one not a
jailer that he cried."
"Well, I never!" exclaimed the merchant. And he told the truth.
It was soon after this first visit of a series that lasted as long as
Mr. Morton remained in the village that the boys changed their base-ball
ground. They had generally played in some open ground on the edge of the
town, but the teacher one day asked why they should go so far, when the
entire square on which the court-house and jail stood was vacant, except
for those two buildings. The boys spent a whole recess in considering
this suggestion; then they reported it favorably to the other boys of
the town, and it was adopted almost unanimously that very week; and
Canning Forbes could always remember even the day of the month on which
the first game was played, for he as a "fielder" caught the ball exactly
on the tip of the longest finger of his left hand, and he staid home
with that finger, and woke up nights with it, for a full week afterward.
Paul Grayson had not attended Mr. Morton's school a fortnight before
every one knew that ball was his favorite game. This preference on the
part of the new boy did not entirely please Benny Mallow, who preferred
to have his new friend play marbles, and with him alone, because then he
could talk to him a great deal, whereas at ball, even "town-ball," which
needed but four boys to a game, there was not much opportunity for
talking, while at base-ball the chances were less, even were Benny not
so generally out of breath when he met Grayson on a "base" that
conversation was impossible.
But Grayson clung to ball; he did not seem to care much for it in the
school-yard, which, indeed, was rather small for such games, but after
school was dismissed in the afternoons he always tried to get up a game
on the new grounds, and he generally succeeded. Even boys who did not
care particularly for the sport had been told by Mr. Morton that about
the only diversion of the wretched men in the jail was to look out the
window while ball-playing was going on; and as Mr. Morton had begun to
attain special popularity through his work among the prisoners, the boys
who liked him, as most of them did, were glad to help him to the small
extent they were able.
"I really can't see why Grayson should be so fond of ball," said Canning
Forbes one afternoon, as he and several other boys lay under the big
elm-tree behind the court-house and criticised the boys who were
playing. "He isn't much of a pitcher, he doesn't bat very well, and he
often loses splendid chances, while he's catcher, by not seeming to see
the ball when it's coming. I wonder if his eyes can be bad?"
"I don't believe they are," said Will Palmer; "he is keen-sighted enough
about everything else. Absent-mindedness is his great trouble; every
once in a while he gets his eyes fixed on something as if he couldn't
move them."
"He gets into a brown-study, you mean," suggested Forbes.
"That's it," assented Will.
"He's thinking about the splendors of the royal home that he is being
kept away from," said Napoleon Nott. "You just ought to read what sort
of place a royal home is," continued Notty. "I'll bring up the book some
day and read it aloud to all of you fellows."
"No you won't, Notty," said Canning Forbes; "not if we have any legs
left to run away with."
Some internal hints that supper-time was approaching broke up the game,
and the boys moved off the ground, by twos and threes, until only Paul
and Benny remained. Paul seemed in no particular hurry to start, and as
Benny never seemed to imagine that Paul could see himself safely home
from any place, he remained too.
"Benny," said Paul, suddenly, "did you ever see any one in jail?"
"No," said Benny, "I never did."
"Neither did I," said Paul, "but I'm curious to do so now. You needn't
go with me; the sight might pain you too much."
"What? Just to go to the jail, and look up at the windows? Oh no; _that_
won't hurt me. I've done that lots of times."
[Illustration: THE WINDOW OF THE COUNTERFEITER'S CELL.]
"Very well," said Paul, moving toward the jail. He looked up at the
windows as he walked; finally he stopped where he could look fairly at
the small window of the cell where the counterfeiter was. The sun was
not shining upon that side of the jail, so Benny could barely see there
was a face behind the window. Evidently the prisoner was standing on a
chair, for the little window was quite high. Paul's eyes seemed better
than Benny's, however, for he continued looking at that window for some
moments. When he finally turned away, it was because he could not see
any longer, for his eyes were full of tears.
"Why, you're crying!" exclaimed Benny, in some astonishment. "What is
the matter?"
"I'm so sorry for the poor fellow," replied Paul.
"I am too," said Benny, "awfully sorry. I wish I could cry about it, but
somehow my eyes don't work right to-day. Some days I can cry real
easily. Next time one of those days comes, I'll come over here with you,
and let you see what I can do."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SANDY HOOK--ITS STORY.
Sandy Hook is one of the striking features in the scenery of New York.
It is a low point of sand projecting from below the Highlands into the
sea. Before its extreme end runs the channel of deep water through which
passes all the commerce of the port--the most important of all the
world's seats of trade. Beyond the deep channel the bar rises, covered
with white breakers, and extends to the distant Rockaway shore. Around
Sandy Hook all the interest of the scene centres, and its bare point,
now marked by the new fortifications, has witnessed some of the most
wonderful voyages of the past. It saw Verazzani in his antique
craft--the most awkward and dangerous of vessels--make his way slowly,
with lead and line, into the wide-spreading harbor, and trace for the
first time the unknown shore. What a wild and lonely scene it was!--the
home of a few savages and of wild beasts and birds. But Verazzani never
came back, and the next ship that sailed by Sandy Hook into the tranquil
bay was that of Hendrick Hudson.
His vessel, the _Half-Moon_, was a Dutch galliot, strongly built, as
were all the Dutch ships of the time, but so small, heavy, and slow that
it seems almost incredible that it should ever outlive a storm or make
any headway on the sea. The stern and prow were high and broad, the bow
round, the hull unwieldy, the masts and sails too small for such a
vessel, and the rudder almost unmanageable. Compared with the modern
sailing ship, nothing could seem more inconvenient or unfit for
navigating stormy seas than these vessels of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. Yet with them Barentz broke into the icy ocean of
the North, and defied the arctic cold. Great fleets of them, sometimes
numbering several hundred, sailed from Amsterdam around the Cape of Good
Hope to the East Indies, drove off the Portuguese, and came back laden
with the precious products of the East--gems, gold, and spices. The
immense quantity of cloves and cinnamon used by our ancestors is
startling. But the slow ships sailed safely along the African shore on
both sides, and in the midst of pirates, privateers, storms, and
cyclones made profitable voyages that gave Holland a wonderful
prosperity.
The _Half-Moon_ crossed the bar, anchored in the lower bay, and the
Dutch navigators proceeded cautiously to survey the hostile shore of
Coney Island, where now the countless visitors of Manhattan or Brighton
Beach gather on summer evenings, and at length ventured to sail up
through the Narrows, drew near to Manhattan Island, and saw some of its
early inhabitants. The first New-Yorkers were very indifferently clad;
but the young ladies--squaws, as they were called--were well acquainted
with paint and powder, and had an inexhaustible appetite for feathers,
beads, and other finery. Shells were the money of the country; and fur
robes, rich with embroidery, were worn by the chiefs.
After a pleasant voyage in September, 1609, up the Hudson River to
Albany, the famous navigator passed through the harbor out to sea, and
then sailed away, never to return--unless we accept Irving's legend, and
hear with Rip Van Winkle the roar of the balls of the Dutch sailors as
they play their weird games amongst the Catskills, while the lightning
flashes and the thunder peals in the dismal night. But Sandy Hook now
became a well-known scene to the Dutch sailors. Immigrants came over; a
few houses were built at first on New York Island; Albany was settled in
1614, and the same year Adrian Block, when his own ship was burned,
built a new one on the Manhattan shore. It was the first vessel produced
in this centre of the world's trade. It was not quite as broad as it was
long; but its length of keel was thirty-eight feet, on deck it was
nearly forty-five feet, and its breadth about eleven and a half. On this
peculiar craft the gallant explorer set out to survey the great East
River. He passed safely the perils of both Hell Gates, coasted the
unknown shores to Block Island, and left an imperishable name on that
pleasant summer resort. New Amsterdam became a famous seat of trade. Fur
and tobacco were its chief commodities. A fine tobacco plantation
stretched along the East River at Corlaer's Hook, and at Albany the Van
Rensselaers and Schuylers contended for the fur trade of the savages,
sometimes coming to blows. Many Dutch galliots now sailed leisurely over
from old Amsterdam to the new. New York Island was covered with rich
farms. In 1679 peaches were so plenty that they were fed to the swine;
strawberries covered the ground in rare profusion. Sheltered within the
protecting arm of Sandy Hook, the little city nourished and grew great.
It had no idle hands. Its burgomasters all either kept shops, taverns,
or worked on farms, and scorned sloth. All was prosperous growth, under
the famous Governor Stuyvesant, when suddenly, in August, 1664, for the
first time, a hostile English fleet sailed up the great harbor, and
anchored in Gravesend Bay. It was composed of two fifty-gun ships and
one of forty, with six hundred soldiers. The consternation in the city
was great; but Governor Stuyvesant ordered the guns to be run out on the
fort at the end of Broadway, called out the militia, and prepared for a
desperate contest.
MASTER NOBLE'S LESSON.
BY MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON.
When Master Noble was appointed to take charge of the Oak Bridge
schools, he found, much to his surprise, that in every grade, from the
Primary to the High Schools, there were many pupils who had frequently
been promoted to higher classes, but, failing to get their lessons
during the first term, had, at examination, been sent back to a lower
grade again.
This had become such a common occurrence in the schools in Oak Bridge
that the spirit of honest and praiseworthy emulation was lost, and the
pupils felt it to be no humiliation or disgrace to be dropped from a
higher class to a lower one.
"Something must be done to impress upon them the disgrace of such
indifference, and to arouse their ambition," thought the new master, and
he forthwith invited all the young folks in the community to meet him
the next Saturday afternoon at the Town-hall to listen to a story that
he would tell.
Of course the promise of a story from the popular new master, and the
fact that he had recently returned from extensive travels, called the
children and young people all out, and this is what they heard:
"It is said that years ago a beautiful little brown sparrow made her
home in the garden of a certain great and renowned magician. She built
her nest in the grass, and was content to hop and chirp about in the
rose thicket, and to keep very near the ground indeed.
"She might have been happy enough had she not allowed herself to be
afraid of the robin-redbreast that had a nest in the golden sweet
apple-tree, and was always fluttering down and hop-hop-hopping across
the grass-plot, and pecking this way and that at the smaller birds.
"The wise and tender-hearted magician, who had been closely watching
proceedings, had so much sympathy for the timid, trembling little
sparrow that he said, 'She shall have a chance in the world,' and he
forthwith changed her into a robin.
"No sooner had she got over the novelty of her new situation than she
began to be afraid of the pigeon-hawk that came sailing down from the
wood near by in search of prey. So the magician, still thinking to make
something of the timorsome little bird which was his pet, now changed
her into a pigeon-hawk.
"Immediately she cast affrighted glances at the big gray owl that lived
in a hollow tree farther back toward the edge of the forest, and who
came out on a dead branch at night-fall, and hooted until the hill-side
rang again with the unearthly screeches, and all the smaller birds
tucked their heads under their wings, and put their claws over their
ears to shut out the sound.
"'I will persevere,' said the tender-hearted magician; 'I may make
something of her yet;' and straightway the pigeon-hawk became an owl,
with a voice equal to any of the owls' in all that forest.
"But now, instead of making the most of her opportunity, and _being_ a
real, vigorous owl, she backed into the old hollow tree, her great
staring eyes round with terror, as she tremblingly listened to the
terrific screams of a monstrous eagle whose eyrie was on the
mountain-side facing the sunrise.
"'You shall be a sparrow again!' angrily cried the magician. 'You have
only the life and heart and spirit of a sparrow after all. What is the
use of my trying to make anything else of you? Had you asserted and kept
your position as an owl, I would soon have made you an eagle, and you
could have proudly soared above all the birds of the air. I have done my
best to help you along, but you have not made one effort in your own
behalf.'
"It is the same with a boy or a girl," continued Master Noble. "If
pupils have only the heart and the will and the intellect of a sparrow,
they will remain sparrows in spite of all their teachers may do to help
them on and to encourage them. _Study_ and _will_ are the magicians that
help them to maintain their promotion, and the public examination is the
great magician that assigns them their advanced positions.
"The world over, sparrow-hearted people are getting into eagles' nests,
but keen-eyed public opinion is the great magician who says, 'Go back to
the thicket and to the grass-plot again! You have only the heart and the
brain of a sparrow; there is no use in trying to make eagles of you.'"
That is why to this day the names of those birds are the symbols of the
different grades in the Oak Bridge schools, and Master Noble has never
once been obliged to say, "_Go back and be a sparrow again._"
[Illustration: THE STORM-PETREL.]
THE STORM-PETREL.
Ages ago this little web-footed fellow was named Petrel, after the
Apostle Peter, because he is most often seen walking on the waves--never
in them, but just daintily skimming their surface.
To sailors they are "Mother Carey's chickens," and their presence is
dreaded, because with them generally come storms and bad weather. They
revel in storms, and the fiercer the gale and the higher the waves, the
more merry are they. This preference of the petrel is explained by the
fact that he is more than half nocturnal in his habits, and greatly
dislikes the glare of sunshine. But when black clouds and gloomy mists
hang low over the ocean, the semi-darkness just suits him, and through
it may he be seen skimming the angry billows many leagues from the
nearest land.
The inhabitants of some of the outlying Scotch islands make a peculiar
use of the young petrels, which are always as fat as butter, and much
more easy to catch than the old birds. The young bird is caught, killed,
and a wick is passed through his body until it projects from the bill.
When this wick is lighted it gradually draws every drop of oil out of
the well-supplied little reservoir, and thus a lamp is formed, very
cheaply and easily, that lasts and gives a good light for the whole of a
long winter's evening.
[Illustration: WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.]
SHAKESPEARE.
William Shakespeare was born at Stratford, on the Avon, April 23, 1564,
and was baptized on the 26th. Two months after his birth the plague
swept over the pleasant village, carrying off a large part of the
inhabitants. The danger that hung over the marvellous infant passed
away, and he grew up healthy and strong. His mother, Mary Arden,
inherited a large farm at Wilmecote, a mile from Stratford; and his
father, John Shakespeare, who held several other pieces of land, was
probably an active farmer, raising sheep, and perhaps cattle. The house
in which it is said Shakespeare was born is still shown in Henley
Street, Stratford--a plain building of timber and plaster, covered with
the names of those who have come from every part of the world to visit
the dark, narrow room made memorable by the poet's birth.
He had several younger brothers--Gilbert, Richard, Edmund, and a sister
Joan--all of whom he aided in his prosperity. The family in Henley
Street was a happy one; and the young Shakespeares and their sister
probably wandered in the flowery fields around the Avon, or lived on the
farm at Wilmecote, saw the cows milked, and the cattle pastured, and all
the changes of rural life. Shakespeare lived among the flowers he
describes so well; and in the fine park of Fulbroke, not far off, saw
the magnificent oaks, the herds of deer, and the gay troops of huntsmen
chasing the poor stag along the forest glade. He must have been a
precocious boy, seeing everything around him even in childhood. He is
described or painted in later life as having a fair, melancholy,
sensitive face, his eyes apparently dark, his hair brown and flowing.
His disposition was gentle and benevolent; he won the love even of his
foes.
As the son of a farmer he probably had little education. He went for
several years to the grammar school at Stratford, and was then perhaps
employed on his father's farm. Like Virgil, Horace, Burns, and many
other poets, he grew up in the country. Nothing is certainly known of
his youth. He was fond of rural sports, and amidst his early labors went
no doubt to the country fairs, joined in the Christmas games and May-day
dances, and probably when the Earl of Leicester gave the magnificent
reception to Queen Elizabeth at Kenilworth, described in Scott's novel,
Shakespeare was there among the spectators. He was then a boy of twelve.
He could enjoy the plays, games, the pomp and glitter, of that famous
festival.
He must have read romances and tales early, like Dickens; he may have
amused his little brothers and his sister Joan by repeating to them on
winter evenings in the low room in Henley Street the story of the wild
castle of Elsinore, or of the venerable Lear and the gentle Cordelia. He
was all imagination, and precocious in knowledge; he must have studied
when his companions played, and read everything that came in his way. At
eighteen he fell in love and married Anne Hathaway, a young lady eight
years older than himself. Before he was twenty-one he had three children
to maintain, and went up to London to find employment. He remained in
obscurity for some years; but at last appears, about 1590, the finest
poet and dramatist of all ages.
Shakespeare pursued his career in London as author and theatrical
manager for nearly twenty-five years. He was very industrious; he was
prudent, but generous; he saved money, and grew wealthy. About 1612 or
1613 he returned to Stratford, where he lived in the best house of the
little village, called "New Place." Here he gave a home to his father
and mother, and provided liberally for his younger brothers. To his
sister Joan he gave the house in Henley Street, which remained in the
possession of her descendants until 1820. He may have looked forward to
a long and honorable old age, but died in 1616, it is said, on the same
day of the year on which he was born. His son Hamnet died long before
him. He left two daughters.
His writings teach men to be kind and gentle.
MR. MARTIN'S LEG.
BY JIMMY BROWN.
I had a dreadful time after that accident with Mr. Martin's eye. He
wrote a letter to father and said that "the conduct of that atrocious
young ruffian was such," and that he hoped he would never have a son
like me. As soon as father said "My son I want to see you up stairs
bring me my new rattan cane," I knew what was going to happen. I will
draw some veils over the terrible scene, and will only say that for the
next week I did not feel able to hold a pen unless I stood up all the
time.
Last week I got a beautiful dog. Father had gone away for a few days and
I heard mother say that she wished she had a nice little dog to stay in
the house and drive robbers away. The very next day a lovely dog that
didn't belong to anybody came into our yard and I made a dog-house for
him out of a barrel, and got some beefsteak out of the closet for him,
and got a cat for him to chase, and made him comfortable. He is part
bull-dog, and his ears and tail are gone and he hasn't but one eye and
he's lame in one of his hind-legs and the hair has been scalded off part
of him, and he's just lovely. If you saw him after a cat you'd say he
was a perfect beauty. Mother won't let me bring him into the house, and
says she never saw such a horrid brute, but some women haven't any taste
about dogs anyway.
His name is Sitting Bull, though most of the time when he isn't chasing
cats he's lying down. He knows pretty near everything. Some dogs know
more than folks. Mr. Travers had a dog once that knew Chinese. Every
time that dog heard a man speak Chinese he would lie down and howl and
then he would get up and bite the man. You might talk English or French
or Latin or German to him and he wouldn't pay any attention to it, but
just say three words in Chinese and he'd take a piece out of you. Mr.
Travers says that once when he was a puppy a Chinaman tried to catch him
for a stew; so whenever he heard anybody speak Chinese he remembered
that time and went and bit the man to let him know that he didn't
approve of the way Chinamen treated puppies. The dog never made a
mistake but once. A man came to the house who had lost his pilate and
couldn't speak plain, and the dog thought he was speaking Chinese and so
he had his regular fit and bit the man worse than he had ever bit
anybody before.
Sitting Bull don't know Chinese but Mr. Travers says he's a "specialist
in cats," which means that he knows the whole science of cats. The very
first night I let him loose he chased a cat up the pear-tree and he sat
under that tree and danced around it and howled all night. The neighbors
next door threw most all their things at him but they couldn't
discourage him. I had to tie him up after breakfast and let the cat get
down and run away before I let him loose again, or he'd have barked all
summer.