Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 132. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, May 9, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," ETC.
CHAPTER VI.
OLD BEN.
Toby watched anxiously as each wagon came up, but he failed to recognize
any of the drivers. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps
those whom he knew were no longer with this particular company, and his
delight gave way to sadness.
Fully twenty wagons had come, and he had just begun to think his fears
had good foundation, when in the distance he saw the well-remembered
monkey wagon, with the burly form of old Ben on the box.
Toby could not wait for that particular team to come up, even though it
was driven at a reasonably rapid speed; but he started toward it as fast
as he could run. After him, something like the tail of a comet, followed
all his friends, who, having come so far, were determined not to lose
sight of him for a single instant, if it could be prevented by any
exertion on their part. Old Ben was driving in a sleepy sort of way, and
paid no attention to the little fellow who was running toward him, until
Toby shouted. Then the horses were stopped with a jerk that nearly threw
them back on their haunches.
"Well, Toby my son, I declare I am glad to see you;" and old Ben reached
down for the double purpose of shaking hands and helping the boy up to
the seat beside him. "Well, well, well, it's been some time since you've
been on this 'ere box, ain't it? I'd kinder forgotten what town it was
we took you from; I knew it was somewhere hereabouts, though, an' I've
kept my eye peeled for you ever since we've been in this part of the
country. So you found your uncle Dan'l all right, did you?"
"Yes, Ben, an' he was awful good to me when I got home; but Mr. Stubbs
got shot."
"No? you don't tell me! How did that happen?"
Then Toby told the story of his pet's death, and although it had
occurred a year before, he could not keep the tears from his eyes as he
spoke of it.
"You mustn't feel bad 'bout it, Toby," said Ben, consolingly, "for, you
see, monkeys has got to die jest like folks, an' your Stubbs was sich a
old feller that I reckon he'd have died anyhow before long. But I've got
one in the wagon here that looks a good deal like yours, an' I'll show
him to you."
As Ben spoke, he drew his wagon, now completely surrounded by boys, up
by the side of the road near the others, and opened the panel in the top
so that Toby could have a view of his passengers.
Curled up in the corner nearest the roof, where Mr. Stubbs had been in
the habit of sitting, Toby saw, as Ben had said, a monkey that looked
remarkably like Mr. Stubbs, save that he was younger and not so sedate.
Toby uttered an exclamation of surprise and joy as he pushed his hand
through the bars of the cage, and the monkey shook hands with him as Mr.
Stubbs used to do when greeted in the morning.
"Why, I never knew before that Mr. Stubbs had any relations!" said Toby,
looking around with joy imprinted on every feature. "Do you know where
the rest of the family is, Ben?"
There was no reply from the driver for some time; but instead, Toby
heard certain familiar sounds as if the old man were choking, while his
face took on the purplish tinge which had so alarmed the boy when he saw
it for the first time.
"No, I don't know where his family is," said Ben, after he had recovered
from his spasm of silent laughter, "an' I reckon he don't know nor care.
Say, Toby, you don't really think this one is any relation to your
monkey, do you?"
"Why, it must be his brother," said Toby, earnestly, "'cause they look
so much alike; but perhaps Mr. Stubbs was only his cousin."
Old Ben relapsed into another spasm, and Toby talked to the monkey, who
chattered back at him, until the boys on the ground were in a perfect
ferment of anxiety to know what was going on.
It was some time before Toby could be persuaded to pay attention to
anything else, so engrossed was he with Mr. Stubbs's brother, as he
persisted in calling the monkey, and the only way Ben could engage him
in conversation was by saying:
"You don't seem to be very much afraid of Job Lord now."
"You won't let him take me away if he should try, will you?" Toby asked,
quickly, alarmed at the very mention of his former employer's name, even
though he had thought he would not be afraid of him, protected as he now
was by Uncle Daniel.
"No, Toby, I wouldn't let him if he was to try it on, for you are just
where every boy ought to be, an' that's at home; but Job's where he
can't whip any more boys for some time to come."
"Where's that?"
"He's in jail. About a month after you left he licked his new boy so bad
that they arrested him, an' he got two years for it, 'cause it pretty
nigh made a cripple out of the youngster."
Toby was about to make some reply; but Ben continued unfolding his
budget of news.
"Castle staid with us till the season was over, an' then he went out
West. I don't know whether he got his hair cut trying to show the Injuns
how to ride, or not; but he never come back, an' nobody I ever saw has
heard anything about him."
"Are Mr. and Mrs. Treat with the show?"
"Yes, they're still here; he's a leetle thinner, I believe, an' she's
twenty pound heavier. She says she weighs fifty pounds more'n she did;
but I don't believe that, even if she did strike for five dollars more a
week this season on the strength of it, an' get it. They keep right on
cookin' up dinners, an' invitin' of folks in, an' the skeleton gets
choked about the same as when you was with the show. I don't know how it
is that a feller so thin as Treat is can eat so much."
"Uncle Dan'l says it's 'cause he works so hard to get full," said Toby,
quietly; "an' I shouldn't wonder if I grew as thin as the skeleton one
of these days, for I eat jest as awful much as I used to."
"Well, you look as if you got about all you needed, at any rate," said
Ben, as he mentally compared the plump boy at his side with the thin,
frightened-looking one who had run away from the circus with his monkey
on his shoulder and his bundle under his arm.
"Is Ella here?" asked Toby, after a pause, during which it seemed as if
he were thinking of much the same thing that Ben was.
"Yes, an' she 'keeps talkin' about what big cards you an' her would have
been if you had only staid with the show. But I'm glad you had pluck
enough to run away, Toby, for a life like this ain't no fit one for
boys."
"And I was glad to get back to Uncle Dan'l," said Toby, with a great
deal of emphasis. "I wouldn't go away, without he wanted me to, if I
could go with a circus seven times as large as this. Do you suppose
young Stubbs would act bad if I was to take him for a walk?"
"Who?" asked Ben, looking down at the crowd of boys with no slight show
of perplexity.
"Mr. Stubbs's brother," and Toby motioned to the door of the cage. "I'd
like to take him up in my arms, cause it would seem so much like it used
to before his brother died."
Ben was seized with one of the very worst laughing spasms Toby had ever
seen, and there was every danger that he would roll off the seat before
he could control himself; but he did recover after a time, and as the
purple hue slowly receded from his face, he said:
"I'll tell you what we'll do, Toby. You come to the tent when the
afternoon performance is over, an' I'll fix it so's you shall see Mr.
Stubbs's brother as much as you want to."
Just then Toby remembered that Ben was to be his guest for a while that
day, and after explaining all Aunt Olive had done in the way of
preparing dainties, invited him to dinner.
"I'll come, Toby, because it's to see you an' them that has been good to
you," said Ben, slowly, and after quite a long pause: "but there ain't
anybody else I know of who could coax me out to dinner, for, you see,
rough fellows like me ain't fit to go around much, except among our own
kind. But say, Toby, your uncle Dan'l ain't right on his speech, is he?"
Toby looked so puzzled that Ben saw he had not been understood, and he
explained:
"I mean, he don't get up a dinner for the sake of havin' a chance to
make a speech, like the skeleton, does he, eh?"
"Oh no, Uncle Dan'l don't do that. I know you'll like him when you see
him."
"And I believe I shall, Toby," said Ben, speaking very seriously. "I'd
be sure to, because he's such a good uncle to you."
Just then the conversation was interrupted by the orders to prepare for
the parade; and as the manager drove up to see that everything was done
properly, he stopped to speak with and congratulate Toby on being at
home again, a condescension on his part that caused a lively feeling of
envy in the breasts of the other boys because they had not been so
honored.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
"WHAT DO THE PANSIES THINK?"
BY MARY A. BARR.
What do the pansies think, mamma,
When they first come in the spring?
Do they remember the robins,
And the songs they used to sing?
When the butterflies come again,
I wonder if they will say,
"We are ever so glad to see you,
And won't you sit down and stay?"
Will the pansies tell the butterflies
How the snow lay white and deep,
And how beneath it, safe and warm,
They had such a pleasant sleep?
Will the butterflies tell the pansies
How they hid in their cradle bed,
And dreamed away the winter-time,
When people thought they were dead?
And will they talk of the weather,
Just as grown-up people do?
And wish the sun would always shine,
And the skies be always blue?
Speak of the lilies dressed in white,
And the daffodils dressed in gold,
And say that they think the tulips
Are exceedingly gay and bold?
I fancy the purple pansies are proud;
I fancy the yellow are gay.
Oh! I wish I could know just what they think;
I wish I could hear them say,
"Here comes our dear little Lucy,
The kind little girl in pink,
Who used to visit us every day--
_And that's what we pansies think_."
HOW JELLY-FISH LIVE AND MOVE.
BY SARAH COOPER.
When jelly-fish are seen lying in shapeless masses upon the beach, where
they have been washed by the tide, their appearance is not attractive.
If, however, we can watch them from the side of a boat, or from a long
pier, as they dart through the water with their tentacles trailing after
them, we shall soon learn to admire their graceful movements and their
elegant colors. There is something very interesting too in these little
inhabitants of the great deep. They are such soft and helpless little
things, and yet they live and have their own good times if only the
boisterous waves do not catch them and fling them too harshly against
the rough shore.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.--SECTION OF JELLY-FISH SHOWING TUBES AND MOUTH.]
Jelly-fish consist of a single bell-shaped mass of jelly, from the inner
surface of which hangs the body of the animal, with the mouth in the
centre. The mouth opens directly into the stomach, from which several
hollow tubes (usually four) extend to a circular tube around the edge of
the bell. In the jelly-fish, Fig. 1, _a_, the side next to us has been
removed that we may see the tubes and the mouth hanging in the centre;
_b_ shows us the same viewed from below.
The eggs of jelly-fish are formed in large quantities in the tubes
leading from the centre. In Fig. 1 you will see the enlarged cavities
containing eggs. At certain seasons of the year great clusters of
bright-colored eggs may be seen through the transparent flesh. A few
jelly-fish are thought to produce young ones resembling themselves,
without passing through the strange forms we noticed in studying
hydroids.
Hydroids, about which I told you in YOUNG PEOPLE March 14, No. 124, you
will remember, are abundant in all oceans. So are jelly-fish, and they
are often found floating in large companies. Jelly-fish are propelled by
alternately taking in and throwing out water under the bell. This gives
them a jerking movement, which looks as if it were caused by breathing.
They come to the surface chiefly when the water is quiet, and, as they
like the warm sun, you will not see many of them at an early hour in the
day. They are easily alarmed. If they meet with an obstacle in their
course, or if they are touched by an enemy, the bell contracts, the
tentacles are instantly drawn up, and the creature sinks in the water.
Upon the outer edge of the bell there are bright-colored specks and
solid spots, which are thought to be the beginnings of eyes and ears.
Although they never grow to be perfect eyes and ears in the jelly-fish,
they promise that Nature has in store for her children the precious
gifts of sight and hearing. Such imperfect organs are called by the wise
men rudimentary organs. This is the lowest animal in which anything
corresponding to our nerves is found.
Delicate fringes and tentacles hang from the lower edge of the bell,
adding greatly to its beauty. The tentacles are often many feet long,
yet the animal has the power of drawing them up so that they are not
visible. This curious power of contracting and expanding the tentacles
belongs to many humble sea creatures, and you will be greatly interested
in watching their movements. Sometimes, while we are still wondering at
their disappearance, they lengthen again as if by magic.
The tentacles of jelly-fish are covered with a great many lasso cells.
These lasso cells are too small to be seen without a microscope; still,
they are powerful weapons in their way, and are quite sufficient to
enable the jelly-fish to catch its food. Many of you know how the
skillful hunter uses a lasso for catching wild cattle. The jelly-fish
uses its lasso in quite a different manner, but it may be equally
unfailing.
When examined, each lasso cell, or little sac, is found to contain a
long slender thread, coiled within it, somewhat like a lasso, and
floating in a fluid. The cell is filled so full of the fluid that it
bursts with the slightest touch, and as the fluid squirts out, it
carries with it the slender lasso armed with sharp stings. In this way
lassoes are darted out to capture many little crabs or fish that brush
too near in passing.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.--LASSO CELLS FROM A FRESH-WATER HYDROID
(MAGNIFIED).]
The sting of the lasso seems to paralyze the unfortunate creatures, and
they make no effort to escape as the tentacles coil round them and carry
them to the mouth of the greedy jelly-fish. In Fig. 2 you will see a
group of lasso cells highly magnified. The cell at _a_ has not yet
burst, and through its thin walls we see the barbed dart at the end of
the lasso. At _b_ the lasso has been thrown out only a short distance,
while at _c_ the long slender lasso still carries the dart at the end,
and the curious little bladder is much larger than it was inside the
cell. The lasso cells of this specimen are exceedingly delicate and
simple, but in some animals the lasso may be seen coiled within the
cell; and when thrust out it bristles with sharp stings. Is it not a
dainty weapon to be used in the continual warfare carried on by these
innocent-looking creatures? Small as the lasso cells are, they serve to
protect the soft-bodied animals from their numerous enemies.
Jelly-fish would hot hesitate in the least to use these tiny weapons
upon us if we should touch their soft, pretty tentacles with too much
familiarity. The irritation produced in the flesh by the numerous sharp
points on the lassoes is similar to the stinging of nettles. For this
reason jelly-fish are often called sea-nettles. The correct name,
however, which you will find in scientific books, is "Medusæ."
[Illustration: FIG. 3.--JELLY-FISH, SHOWING TENTACLES.]
Jelly-fish vary greatly in size. Some are mere dots, so extremely small
that we should not notice them in the water, while one species is said
to be seven feet in diameter, with tentacles measuring fifty feet (Fig.
3). The parent of this huge jelly-fish was a hydroid only half an inch
high. Its children will be the same. What do you think its grandchildren
will be?
[Illustration: FIG. 4.--MUSHROOMS OF THE SEA.]
The size of jelly-fish is greatly enlarged by the water they absorb;
indeed, the substance of which they are composed consists largely of
water. A specimen weighing several pounds when alive will shrink away to
almost nothing if exposed to the sun and the wind. As the body contains
no bones or other solid matter, it all perishes together, and no trace
is left of its former beautiful shape. You will see that jelly-fish are
in no way like real fish. One writer found them so much like a familiar
vegetable that he called them "Mushrooms of the Sea."
It would be impossible to describe to you the varied colors of
jelly-fish, as they include almost every hue, the beautiful tints being
probably due to their transparency. Some are purely white and as clear
as glass, while all shades are to be found, from pale blue and pink, to
bright red and yellow. Those found in tropical seas are of a deeper
color than ours.
In striking contrast with these brilliant jelly-fish is one species
which is so delicate and transparent that as it floats upon the water we
can scarcely see the substance of which it is composed. The only parts
that strike the eye are the circular tube around the edge and the four
radiating tubes with their large clusters of eggs. The tubes look as if
they were held together by some slight web. The movements of this
jelly-fish are languid, and it sometimes remains perfectly quiet in the
bright sunshine for hours, not even moving its tentacles.
[Illustration: FIG. 5.--FIXED JELLY-FISH.]
You have probably noticed a great difference in the movements of people.
So with jelly-fish: some are much more active and energetic than others.
While some kinds appear to delight in darting through the water, until
one might suppose from their frisky motions that they are having a great
deal of fun and frolic, others prefer to make no exertion, and to drift
idly with the waves. There have even been found "fixed jelly-fish" (Fig.
5)--those so fond of a settled resting-place that they have put out
suckers by which they attach themselves permanently to some rock or
stone.
Although jelly-fish are so brilliant in the daytime, they have a
different beauty at night, when they throw out a golden light slightly
tinged with green, resembling the light of a glow-worm. Vast numbers of
small animals in the sea have this power of throwing out light from
their bodies. The light is called phosphorescence. As it may be seen at
anytime of the year illuminating air oceans, it is an unfailing source
of delight to voyagers. It is most conspicuous on a dark night, when the
water is agitated by the motion of a boat, or by the breaking-waves,
because the disturbance of the water excites the little animals.
A pail of sea-water carried into a dark room often affords a good
opportunity for studying this interesting phenomenon. Although we may
not have detected the presence of any animals before, as soon as the
water is stirred or jostled we will see the beautiful sparkles of light.
The phosphorescence of some animals is of a bluish tint; in others it is
red, like flame.
A person will rarely tire of watching a boat as its prow turns up a
furrow of liquid fire, and each dip of the oar sends a miniature flash
of lightning through the otherwise dark water. It fills us with wonder
to think of the countless millions of little creatures required to
produce these marvellous effects all over the ocean, and wherever the
restless waves break in lines of light, either upon tropical shores or
ice-bound rocks.
Crabbe, the English poet, has given us the description of a
phosphorescent sea:
"And now your view upon the ocean turn,
And there the splendor of the waves discern;
Cast but a stone, or strike them with an oar,
And you shall flames within the deep explore;
Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand,
And the cold flumes shall flash along your hand;
When, lost in wonder, you shall walk and gaze
On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze."
FALSE COLORS.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
"It's to be what I call _fun_."
This from Mattie Blake, the eldest of the party, sitting on the bed, and
dangling her feet idly.
"Rather risky," said little Joan in her shy voice.
"Risky! how absurd!" Bella Jones exclaimed. And finally I broke in with:
"What will Philip Sydney think of us?"
Mattie, with the superiority of her years, looked very scornfully upon
my small figure.
"Philip Sydney will be there, himself, and you may be sure he will be
delighted. Now come, Cecilia, don't make any new objections. Remember
you promised me last night;" and Mattie's black eyes flashed angrily.
We all remained silent for two or three moments, while the dusk of the
spring afternoon gathered in the room. It was a big bare-looking room,
with our four beds and four dressing-tables and four chairs, but to my
mind the scene of much that was fascinating in our school life at
Hillbrow, for there Mattie Blake entertained us on every occasion with
thrilling experiences, in which she was usually the successful and
admired heroine. Nothing could have been more monotonous than our daily
school life, and these hours and Mattie's recitals were looked forward
to with romantic interest.
Looking back, I remember Mattie as a tall, thin, black-eyed girl of
about fourteen, with saucy, independent ways, and a touch of what I now
know was a vulgar love of show about her. In her dress, her profuse
jewelry, her crimped hair, and her voice and laugh, she was not really
the fine young person we girls thought her. From her own accounts, she
led the most bewitching life at home. Her father was a rich railroad
man--a widower, who left Mattie to her own devices; and when she
descended one winter's morning into our midst she seemed to bring
splendor and riches and excitement with her.
How she had happened to select me as a desirable acquaintance I can not
say, but the fact was soon known to the school. Mattie's favor was
bestowed upon my insignificant self, and I was delighted to be her
humble servitor. My own little past seemed very tame in comparison with
Mattie's: she had "fun" of the most daring, brilliant kind whenever she
was at home; I had led a thoroughly childish life, yet there had been
much pleasure in it too; but who could compare it with Mattie's?
My father was a country clergyman, and on my mother's death, dear, dear
Aunt Anna had come to live with us, and to make our home very sweet and
happy. But for Mattie's influence not a shadow would have fallen on my
enjoyment of home pleasures and home duties; but during this one season
she had sowed seeds of discontent. Already I was beginning to dread a
return to Bridgeley, even though I knew the pleasures that were waiting
for me: the rides on my pony, with Philip and Laura Sydney, the Squire's
son and daughter; the long days out fishing and sailing; the picnics and
the girls' sewing circle; the evenings at home, with papa to read aloud
to us; and the quiet sunny Sunday mornings, when I liked to stand beside
Miss Sydney at the organ, and hear my voice mingling with the rest in
sweet, simple songs of praise to God.
No, Mattie Blake had cast her spell: I wanted to go home with her to
North Erie to see "Bob" and "Jim," of whom she talked so much and so
foolishly; to ride out to the "Lake"; to dance at the "Bell House," and
to stay up until daybreak whenever I chose. And what would papa and Aunt
Anna and Philip and Laura think of my latest ambition--the scheme which
had brought us together on this afternoon, a thrilled little circle
about Mattie, who had been the originator of it?
It was as follows:
The boys--or should I say "young gentlemen"?--of Barnabas Academy, some
six miles distant, had sent us invitations to their "Prize Day":
invitations promptly declined by our principal, Miss Harding; for
although the day was to be a holiday with us, Miss Harding did not
approve of its being spent in the Academy among a party of boys unknown
to our friends, and who were always trying to make us break some of our
rules. Two or three girls were going with their parents, but our party
in "No. 6" had no such opportunity. Vainly had Mattie rebelled. Miss
Harding was firm. Then there had entered into the girl's wild head a
plan, which she unfolded to us with all her usual eloquence and dramatic
energy. We were to get off early in the day on some pretext, and, once
out of sight, make our own way to the Academy. Then, as we were invited
guests, no one would be the wiser, and as our school was to break up the
next day, the chances were that no one would ever betray us to Miss
Harding.
"By the time we are back next fall," said Mattie, "it will all be
forgotten; and I'll tell you what, girls, Bob and Jim will give us a
splendid time. Just you leave it to me."
We trembled, half with fear, half with admiration of Mattie's daring.
What were we three mites against her? And then to see the Bob and Jim of
her fascinating romances! Bob was described as "perfectly elegant," and
Jim was always depicted as "simply superb--one of the most splendid
fellows you ever saw." While we talked it over for the last time, I
happened to see my own figure and little brown face in the glass, while
near it was reflected Mattie's fine brown silk gown, her frizzles and
bracelets and rings.
"But, Mattie," I said, suddenly, "how can I go? I've nothing to wear."
"Humph! Let me think," she said, slowly, and added, with her usual
impressive air, "Just wait until to-night."
When that decisive period came, it appeared that Mattie had decided to
lend me one of her own costumes. It was a last year's white muslin,
trimmed with Valenciennes lace, and so much finer than anything I had
ever owned that I was completely carried away by the prospect of wearing
it. It is true that for a few minutes my sense of refinement was
disturbed. In our simple home we would never have dreamed of borrowing
any finery.
"Oh, Mattie!" I said, timidly, "I never wore any one else's things. What
would papa say?"
Mattie laughed shrilly. "Don't be a goose!" she exclaimed. "Think of
_my_ wondering what my father would say to anything _I_ did!"
And so the matter was settled, and by the time I had tried on the muslin
dress and a Roman sash, and tied some of Mattie's beads around my neck,
I felt no misgivings, and went to bed in high spirits.
* * * * *
And so the 18th of June dawned, and found Mattie waking me up to see
what a fine day it was.
"Bella and Joan have backed out," she said, disdainfully. "But I've made
them promise not to tell of us. Now, Cecy, you leave the getting away to
me. When eleven o'clock strikes, you leave the school-room, slip up here
and dress, and put your duster over your dress, while I'm with Miss
Harding. Then just march down coolly to the front hall, and _you'll
see_."
[Illustration: "I SEE MYSELF HURRYING INTO MATTIE'S DRESS."]
How perfectly I can recall that morning! I see myself now hurrying into
Mattie's dress, tying on the sash and beads, and then slipping guiltily
down to the front hall, which was quite deserted, and where I stood for
a moment trembling, yet excited and happy. And then Mattie appeared from
a side door, caught my hand, and putting her finger on her lips, hurried
me out, down the garden, and into the road.
Just below the school garden we came upon a rockaway, in which a young
girl, very like Mattie in general style, and a tall boy of sixteen were
seated.
"Hello!" the boy called out, and Mattie, looking very delighted, said:
"Here's Cecilia Martin, I told you I'd bring. This is Mr. Bob Rivers,
Cecilia, and Miss Rivers."
Then this was Bob! I looked, trying to admire; but Bob was not like
Philip Sydney in any way. He was stout and red-faced, and decorated like
a young man of fashion; and Kate Rivers was a pert miss of fourteen,
quite unlike my dear Laura.
These two, it appeared, had arranged with Mattie, and we were to drive
with them to the Academy.
After all it seemed like "fun." Anyway, it was one of Mattie's dazzling
experiences; so we got in, I feeling quite finely, and prepared to enter
into the spirit of everything. Bob drove, and we girls sat inside.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
MR. THOMPSON AND THE SWALLOWS.
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
Mr. Thompson was sitting in the barn belonging to the farm where he had
been spending the summer. He looked very disconsolate, and from time to
time heaved such deep sighs as to greatly disturb the family of swallows
who had their nest against the beam just above his head.
Poor Mr. Thompson had had a hard time all summer. First of all, he had
met Miss Angelina, who had captured his heart; and everybody knows that
the most miserable object on earth is an old bachelor in love.
"Oh, had I wings of a bird, I would fly--" murmured Mr. Thompson to
himself.
"Course you would," interrupted a saucy voice.
Mr. Thompson looked up. On the edge of the mud nest just above his head
sat a bright-looking barn-swallow, eying him curiously.
"Where would you fly to?" inquired the swallow.
"Away from this world of care," murmured Mr. Thompson.
The swallow laughed heartily.
"Well, I guess not; but you can try, if you want to."
Mr. Thompson felt himself begin to shrink, and saw his clothes slowly
disappear and become changed into feathers. But he was getting so used
to these metamorphoses that he didn't mind it, and really gazed upon
himself with satisfaction as finally he felt that he was a perfect
swallow.
"Come up here," said the swallow.
Mr. Thompson stretched his wings, and fluttered up to the nest beside
his friend.
"How do you like it?" inquired the swallow.
"It is glorious," replied Mr. Thompson. "Oh, that I could always be a
bird!"
"Humph!" replied the bird. "How would you like to have to build your
house every spring, going and coming a hundred times a day with your
mouth full of mud?"
"But the glorious feeling of freedom!" said Mr. Thompson.
"Oh yes," answered the swallow, sarcastically. "Come with me; I'll show
you."
The two flew out of the barn, and after wheeling around for a few
minutes, flew up to a large vane on top of the carriage-house. Mr.
Thompson had often seen the swallows perched on this vane, twittering
and fighting among themselves. This morning he had a feeling of elation
at being there himself, and shook his wings proudly. Bang! whiz! the
shot flew around him, and two of his companions fell fluttering to the
ground. Just then he heard two boyish voices exclaim,
"It's awful hard to hit a swaller on the wing, but you can shoot 'em
sittin' like pie."
Mr. Thompson and his friend were uninjured; and as they flew away in
alarm, the bird said, in an ironical tone, "Such a feeling of freedom!"
Mr. Thompson said nothing, but flew back to the barn. After resting for
a moment, the swallow said, "Let's go up to the Sound and visit my
cousins, the bank-swallows."
Mr. Thompson followed the bird, and skimmed over the fields, snapping up
a fly or two by the way, until they reached the high sand-cliffs which
border Long Island Sound. Here, high up on the cliffs, were a number of
small round holes; flying about them, and darting out and in were a
number of small gray birds; sitting on a fence rail not far off were
nearly a hundred more solemnly sunning themselves.
"I'll introduce you to one of them, and he will show you around," said
Mr. Thompson's friend.
After the introduction had been effected, the bank-swallow said, in an
inquiring tone, "You are interested in birds?"
"Yes," said Mr. Thompson; "theirs is so glorious and free a life."
The swallow smiled pityingly; then, as if to change the subject, invited
Mr. Thompson to visit his house. It was high up under the overhanging
edge of the cliff.
The swallow led the way, and Mr. Thompson followed through a corridor
about a foot long, and slanting slightly upward in order that the rain
would not drive into the nest. At the end of the corridor was a circular
apartment, lined with feathers and sea-weed, and here sat Mrs.
Bank-Swallow upon four speckled eggs. Mr. Thompson did not wish to
disturb her, so he retreated soon after having been introduced. His
companion led the way back to the rail upon which the barn-swallow was
seated, waiting. After a slight pause, Mr. Thompson inquired, "May I ask
what you find to eat up here?"
"Certainly," replied the bank-swallow, good-naturedly. "During the
summer we eat grubs, flies, mosquitoes, and the like; in the fall, when
the bayberries are ripe, we eat them. You know each berry is covered
with a coating of vegetable wax, and we get very fat; then people shoot
us, for they say the berries give us a delicious flavor," added he,
bitterly.
Mr. Thompson sighed, and was lost for a moment in reverie, when he was
suddenly aroused by his companions suddenly screaming, "A hawk!"
Mr. Thompson followed the barn-swallow, too frightened to know where,
for as he turned back he saw the hawk pounce upon an unfortunate bird,
and bear it off in his claws.
When they reached the house again, the swallow said, "Well, do you think
that the life of a bird is unalloyed pleasure?" Mr. Thompson paused for
a moment, and the swallow continued: "First, there are the boys who
steal the eggs, then they shoot at you; then there are the hawks, and
the snakes, and the cats."
"Cats?" inquired Mr. Thompson.
"Yes, cats!" screamed the swallow in alarm, fluttering away. Mr.
Thompson was too late. He felt the sharp claws in his leg, and with a
jump and a scream he awoke, to find himself sitting in the barn, with
the big house cat standing beside him, and looking somewhat surprised at
his sudden movement. Slowly Tabby lifted her paw, and putting it on Mr.
Thompson's knee, stretched herself lazily. 'Lisha, who was feeding the
horses, remarked: "Reckon it's goin' to rain; the swallers fly low, and
it's a great sign of rain when a cat stretches like that."
Mr. Thompson walked slowly to the house, thinking that, after all, the
bird's life was not all happiness.
A PRINCELY ART.
BY SHERWOOD RYSE.
It is not much more than a hundred years since gentlemen gave up wearing
rapiers at their sides--a practice which was once as common as is that
of carrying a cane among us. And with a weapon so handy, it can easily
be believed that it was drawn on very slight provocation. Hence every
gentleman who valued a whole skin was diligent to make himself a master
of the small-sword, as it was generally called. Small it was originally,
however, only by comparison with more formidable weapons. Richard
Coeur de Lion's sword, you will remember, was so large and heavy that
none other than himself could wield it.
In the reign of the haughty Queen Elizabeth, the rapier, only lately
introduced into England, was so much in fashion that he was the greatest
dandy who wore the longest rapier and the widest "ruff." Queen Bess
herself set the fashion in ruffs, but the flattery of imitation was not
dear to her. She loved flattery; but to have every one copying her large
ruffs--and who ever saw a picture of Elizabeth without one?--was more
than her quick temper could put up with. And so she issued one of those
orders which seem so strange to us now: she stationed "grave persons" at
the gate of every town to break the points of all rapiers exceeding one
yard in length, and to cut all ruffs measuring more than the "nayle of a
yard."
Skill with the small-sword was a necessary part of the education of a
gentleman. At the age when the boy of our day is just about opening his
Latin grammar for the first time, the young prince or noble of two
hundred years ago was being taught the art of _longe_ and _parry_, of
_tierce_ and _carte_. And besides the usefulness of being skillful with
a weapon which every gentleman carried and was ready to use at short
notice, the practice of fencing gave an easy carriage to the body,
making the joints supple, and strengthening every muscle.
The art of fencing, says an old French comedy, consists of two simple
things--to hit, and not to be hit; but like a great many other simple
things, its simplicity takes a vast deal of finding out. Each position,
whether for thrust or parry, is easy by itself, but when your thrust is
quickly parried, and the point of your opponent's foil is reaching for
your breast quick as thought, then the cool head, the quick eye, the
ready hand, are brought into play. The first thing for the beginner to
do after equipping himself for the contest--and about this we shall have
a few words to say later on--is to master the proper position. In no
exercise is position of greater importance. Let the right side of your
body be half turned toward your adversary; feet at right angles, with
the left foot pointing to the left, and placed behind the right. The
foil is held in the left hand, down by your side. Grasping it by the
hilt with the right hand, you draw it through the left hand, at the same
time raising both hands so that by the time the point of your foil comes
into your left hand both hands are above your head, the one holding the
hilt and the other the point of the foil.
From this position you will easily and gracefully fall into the third
position, "on guard," by bringing your sword-hand down in front of you,
and bending your elbow until the fore-arm and the sword make one
straight line. The left arm will remain where it was. While you are
doing this, bend the knees, and advance the right foot about twelve
inches, sinking down only just so far as that the shin-bone of the right
leg shall be perpendicular to the floor. This position is the position
of defense, and is always returned to after a thrust.
Thus far you have maintained an attitude of defense only, and if you
have mastered that, you have laid the foundation of your future skill.
Watch your adversary's eye, and decide instantly when you will thrust,
or longe, as it is called. Straightening the right arm, you advance the
right foot about eighteen inches, taking care not to lean forward so far
that the shin-bone makes anything less than a right angle with the
floor. If you get up from the seat where you are sitting to read this,
and try the movement, you will see why this right angle formed by leg
and floor is important. Lean too far forward, and you can not spring
back instantly and without effort to the position of defense, and thus
you are at the mercy of your opponent, who will quickly parry your blow,
and be able to reach you almost without advancing his right foot.
Instantly after longeing you must spring back, in order to be able to
parry the longe of your adversary.
In longeing, as in the "on-guard" position, the nails of the sword-hand
must be turned up. This may seem a trifle, but in reality it is of the
greatest importance, since the force and directness of the blow depend
upon it. Try it with a cane, and you will at once feel how much firmer
your wrist is than when you thrust with your nails turned down. To prove
it another way: do the stroke with a long poker, and see how much easier
it is to extend the poker and hold it extended with your nails turned up
than when they are turned down.
There are four thrusts in fencing, and twice as many parries; that is,
there are two parries for each thrust. The object of this is that having
parried a thrust, you may at once return the blow; and were you always
to parry the same kind of thrust in the same manner, you would always be
obliged to attack in the same manner. The difference between the two
kinds of parries for each thrust is that one is done with the nails
turned up, the other with them turned down. Thus, having parried a
thrust, the hand is in one of two positions for making a return thrust.
The various thrusts and parries are too large a subject to be gone into
here. The thrust, however, it may be remarked, is always some kind of a
longe, and in parrying the one sword does not beat the other aside, but
simply turns it by a turn of the wrist. The idea of the parry may be
gathered from the fact that the point of the foil always describes a
circle of not more than three feet in diameter in the air. Thus the
adversary's point is turned aside from its object.
The art of fencing is so difficult to learn without a master that it is
useless for any one to attempt by himself to do more than acquire skill
in the simpler movements; and it is so graceful an accomplishment that
if it is worth doing, it is worth doing well.
[Illustration: A YOUNG PRINCE PRACTICING THE ART OF FENCING.]
Without attempting, therefore, to go into all the mysteries of _tierce_
and _carte_, of _ripost_ and _reprise_, we will add a few words which an
instructor might omit. In the first place, never cross your blade with
any one who is not dressed for the exercise. He may say he will take his
chances of getting hurt, but you can not afford to take the chance of
putting out his eye. The proper armor to wear is a padded leather
jacket, a gauntlet on the right hand, a piece of padded leather on the
right thigh, and a wire mask over the head. Secondly, never use any but
a good and sound foil, and see that the button is firm: many accidents
have been caused by a broken foil or an unsafe button. Lastly--and
though this applies to all games, it is perhaps more necessary in
small-sword exercise than in anything else--remember that the coolest
head always goes with the quickest eye and the surest hand.
[Illustration: "THEY PULLED WITH A WILL WHEN THE WORD WAS GIVEN."]
PERIL AND PRIVATION.
BY JAMES PAYN.
THE LOSS OF THE "HALSEWELL."
On Sunday, the 1st of January, 1786, the _Halsewell_, a vessel of 758
tons burden, bound for the East Indies, sailed through the Downs with a
fair wind and under exceptionally favorable circumstances. She had a
well-tried commander, Captain Pierce, good officers, and a numerous
crew. To these were added a considerable number of soldiers of "John
Company," as the East India Company was called, so that security seemed
assured both by sea and land.
There were, moreover, several lady passengers aboard, most of whom were
known to one another, including the daughters of the Captain, two of his
cousins, and one still younger lady, Miss Mansell, returning from a
school in England to her parents in Madras. The chief mate too was
related to Captain Pierce, so that the company in the chief cabin was
almost a family party.
On Monday very thick weather came on, so that the ship was compelled to
anchor, and on Tuesday a gale arose that obliged her to cut her cables
and run out to sea. The gale grew to a tempest, which continued for
three days, and on Friday night the ship ended her voyage.
At two in the morning of that day she was driving to her doom on the
sharp rocks between Peverel Point and St. Alban's Head, in Dorsetshire.
These rocks run sheer down to the sea, so that to approach them even in
fine weather is fraught with danger.
There is a story told by the great humorist Thomas Hood of a terrible
scene on board ship, when every one was running about distracted with
fear, save one cheerful old lady. "There is nothing whatever to be
alarmed at," she said, when some one asked her how it was she showed
such courage, "for the Captain has just told me we are 'running on
shore.'" To her the land seemed like safety. And so it doubtless was
with some of the poor ladies on board the _Halsewell_.
The Captain, as they drove nearer the rocky shore on that awful night,
consulted with his second mate, Mr. Meriton, as to their chances of
escape, and especially with reference to his daughters.
"We can do nothing, sir, but wait for the morning," was the sad reply;
and even while he spoke the ship struck with a violence that dashed the
heads of those standing in the cuddy, as the saloon in an Indiaman was
called, against the deck above them.
A frightful scene followed. The sailors had acted ill throughout the
storm, and, skulking in their hammocks, had compelled their officers and
the soldiers, who behaved admirably, to man the pumps; but now that the
catastrophe, which they might have helped to avert, was upon them, they
exhibited a frantic fear.
The ship lay beating against the rocks, with her broadside toward them,
and the Captain's advice was that each man should take what opportunity
should offer itself to reach the land. The ensign staff was accordingly
unshipped, and laid between the ship's side and a rock; but it snapped
asunder with the weight of the first man who attempted to cross, so that
there was nothing for the rest to do but to drop into the raging sea,
and trust to the waves to carry them to the unknown shore.
This desperate attempt, made by a number of the men, was of course
impossible for the ladies, who with the passengers, three black women,
and two soldiers' wives, had collected in the roundhouse upon deck to
the number of no less than fifty. The Captain, whose use was gone in
these dreadful straits, sat on a cot with a daughter upon each side,
whom he alternately pressed to his breast. The scene was indescribably
mournful. Mr. Meriton procured a quantity of wax candles, and stuck them
about the place in which it was their hope to wait for dawn; then
perceiving that the poor women were parched with thirst, he brought a
basket of oranges, with which they refreshed themselves. This was the
last meal they were ever to take on earth.
At this time they were all tolerably composed, except Miss Mansell, who
lay sobbing upon the floor. Mr. Meriton thought he perceived that the
sides of the ship were visibly giving way; that her deck was lifting,
and that consequently she could not much longer hold together.
On leaving the roundhouse to see whether his suspicions were correct,
they received a terrible confirmation. The ship had separated in the
middle, and not a moment was to be lost in seizing the slender chance of
saving his life. As a great sea struck the ship the poor ladies cried
out: "Oh, poor Meriton, he is drowned! Had he staid with us he would
have been safe." Whereupon Mr. Rogers, another officer, offered to go
and look for him. This they opposed, lest he should share the same fate.
Rogers and the Captain, however, went out with a lantern, but being able
to see nothing but the black face of the perpendicular rock, the Captain
returned to his daughters, and was no more seen. A very heavy sea struck
the ship, and burst into the roundhouse, and Mr. Rogers heard the ladies
shriek at intervals until the water drowned their voices.
He seized a hen-coop, and was carried by a wave on to a rock, where it
left him, miserably bruised, in the company of no less than one hundred
and twenty-four persons, among whom he found Mr. Meriton. The meeting
between these two was very touching, for they were old friends, and had
just survived a calamity, little less terrible, in another Indiaman,
between which event and their present peril an interval of only
twenty-five days had elapsed. They were prevented, however, from the
interchange of mutual congratulations by at least twenty men between
them, none of whom could move without imperilling his life.
They were, in fact, on the ledge of a cavern overhung by the precipice,
as closely packed and with as little room to move in as those sea-birds
which we often see clustered on some ridge of rock. The full horror of
their situation was, however, hid from them. They could not even see the
ship they had just quitted, though in a few minutes a universal shriek,
which long vibrated in their ears, and in which the voice of female
agony was plainly distinguishable, informed them that she had gone to
pieces. Not one atom of the wreck of the _Halsewell_ was ever afterward
beheld.
This terrible incident gave such a shock to the poor trembling wretches
on the ledge that many of them, being already unnerved and weak from
bruises, lost their feeble hold, and fell upon the rocks below. Their
groans and cries for succor increased the misery of the survivors. After
three hours, which seemed as many ages, the daylight broke, and revealed
the fact that unless aid was given from the cliff above them, escape was
impossible, while the total disappearance of the ship left no evidence
of their position, their guns and signals of distress through the night
having been unheard by reason of the roaring of the gale.
The only hope of escape was to creep along the ledge to its extremity,
and then, on a ridge nearly as broad as a man's hand, to turn a corner,
and then scale a precipice almost perpendicular and two hundred feet in
height! Such was the courage of their despair that even this was
essayed. What with fear and fatigue, many lost their footing, and
perished in the attempt. The cook and quarter-master alone succeeded in
reaching the cliff top, and at once hastened to the nearest house.