quarries, who instantly collected his workmen, and furnished them with
ropes. Next to the two men who had escaped, and after an interval in
which many must have failed, a soldier and Mr. Meriton were trying to
make their way to the summit, as the quarrymen arrived. They perceived
the soldier, and dropped him a rope, of which he laid hold, but in the
effort loosened the stone on which he stood, which also supported Mr.
Meriton. The latter, however, seized another rope as he was in the very
act of falling. He had probably the narrowest escape of all.
The perils of the rest were by no means at an end. The most fortunate
crawled to the edge of the ledge and waited for the rope held by two
strong men at the very brink of the cliff. Other ropes were tied about
them and fastened to an iron bar fixed in the ground. Four other men,
standing behind these, also held the rope which was let down, and we may
be sure that they pulled with a will when the word was given.
Many of the poor shipwrecked souls, however, were too benumbed and weak
to help themselves even thus far; and for these the rope, with a strong
loop at the end of it, had to be let down. The force of the wind blew
the rope into the cavern, when whoever was so fortunate as to catch it
put the noose round his body and was drawn up. Many even of these
perished from nervousness or loss of presence of mind. One especially,
who lost his hold, fell into the sea, and being a strong swimmer, added
to the general distress by dying, as it were, by inches before the eyes
of the survivors.
It was evening before they found themselves in safety; indeed, one poor
fellow, a soldier, remained in this perilous position until the next
morning. On being mustered at the steward's house, they were found to
number seventy-four out of a crew of two hundred and fifty.
They were treated with the utmost hospitality, and word of their coming
was sent to the towns through which they would have to pass on their way
to London, that they might be helped along. "It is worthy of
commemoration," says the biographer, in which all my readers will agree,
"that the landlord of the Brown Inn at Blandford not only refreshed all
these distressed seamen at his house, but presented each with half a
crown."
As one lies on the cliff-top above Peverel Point in the summer sun, with
the blue sea below smiling so smoothly, it is difficult to imagine what
took place in that unseen cavern beneath, or even the tears of joy which
were shed by those who, after such a night of horror, set foot for the
first time upon that grassy slope.
THE SPECKLED PIG.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"I'm glad spring's come," remarked Grandmother Gates, as she looked out
through the kitchen window, "if it's only so that boy can spend his time
out-of-doors. There isn't any house can hold him."
"What, Bun?" said Aunt Dorcas, while the skimmer in her hand was
dripping over the soap-kettle. "He's all spring and India rubber. What's
he doing now?"
"Doing?" said grandmother. "I'd say so! If he hasn't rigged some
leathers and strings, and he's trying to harness that little speckled
pig into his wagon. Can't you hear the pig squeal?"
"He's always a-squealing," said Mrs. Gates, from the milk-room. She was
a large, motherly looking woman; but now she hurried to the door, and
shouted, "Audubon, my son, what are you doing to that poor critter?"
"Why, mother, spring's come, and it's time he did something. I can drive
him if I can once get him harnessed. He's half in now; but he does just
plunge around!"
The speckled pig was a small one, truly, and he was well acquainted with
Bun Gates; but his present occupation was new to him. The wagon matched
him fairly well as to size, and it was only a little too plain that he
had strength enough to haul it anywhere the moment he should have a fair
chance. The best he could do at that moment was to make music, and his
voice was uncommonly clear and shrill.
"Dorcas! mother!" exclaimed Mrs. Gates, "do come here and look at that
boy."
"I see him," said grandma, but Aunt Dorcas put down her skimmer, and
came to the door just as another boy, a head shorter than Bun, trotted
up the garden walk to see what was the matter with the pig.
"Harnessed! harnessed! Oh, what a horse! I'll get in for a ride."
"Jump in, Jeff," said Bun. "You take the reins that belong to his head,
and I'll hold on to the rein that goes to his hind-leg. We'll break him
in."
Jeff was hardly more than eight years old, while his stoutly built and
chubby elder brother was at least thirteen. There was "boy" enough in
either of them, but the "spring" was tremendously developed in Bun. He
was so full of it that he could hardly stand still. Neither could the
pig stand still, and while the women at the kitchen door and window were
laughing until the tears came into their eyes, the speckled unfortunate
was dodging in every direction in a desperate effort to regain his
freedom. Bun had deceived him when he enticed him from the barn-yard.
The gate through which he had consented to be driven was well known to
Speckle as leading into the garden, and all the free rooting to be
desired of any pig could be had there. He had marched through the gate
meekly enough, and he had looked over the "promised land," with its
neatly kept walks and beds, and with all its green things just coming
up, and yet here he was with a rope still restraining his hind-leg and a
queer net-work of pig harness all over him. No part of that harness
worked as a muzzle, and Speckle did what he could with his voice to
express his opinion of the matter.
"Don't you let him get away from you," said Aunt Dorcas. "There's no
telling what he'd do."
Jeff was in the wagon now, and grandmother was on the point of
remarking, "Do?--why, he might run away with that there child, and break
his precious neck," when the precise help Bun Gates was wishing for came
hurrying through the front gate.
"What you got there, Bun? I'm a-coming. Hold him."
"You hold the shaft on that side, Rube, till we get him aimed right. I
want to point him for the front gate, and drive him into the street.
We'll have more room there to train him."
"Biggest kind of an idea ever was," said Rube. "I saw a learned pig
once. He could play checkers, and count twenty. Smoke a pipe too. He was
bigger'n this one."
"This one knows more'n most people now."
"Can't he squeal, though!"
"Audubon," said Mrs. Gates, "I want you to go to the store for me pretty
soon. You'll have to take your wagon."
"All right," said Bun.
"Stand back, Rube. Hold on tight, Jeff. He'll make things rattle. Look,
mother!"
She looked, and so did Grandmother Gates and Aunt Dorcas, but it was
half a minute before there was anything to see, and Bun punched his
queer "horse" with a long stick to set him going. A short sharp grunt
replied to the punch, and suddenly the speckled pig made a plunging dart
forward, and the wagon went with him.
"See!" shouted Bun. "That harness is just beautiful. It pulls
first-rate. He'll go anywhere."
The pig felt about it in that way exactly, and the only drawback, so far
as he was concerned, was the strong cord that was so well knotted around
his left hind-leg. It had been a very strong cord in its day, and it was
so now in many places, but there was about an inch of it, not a foot
away from the pig's leg, that had seen its best and cordiest days. It
was frayed and worn out and weak, and it had been severely tested all
that morning. Fibre after fibre and strand after strand had given way,
until now it needed but one more long, strong, willful tug with a boy
pulling one way and an angry pig another, and the cord parted at its
weak spot.
His first rush was straight forward for several yards; but the wagon did
not seem to hinder him at all, even with Jeff pulling his best upon the
"reins." He would have had to pull that pig's head nearly off before he
could have stopped him in that manner, and it was fastened on too
strongly.
"Stop him!" shouted Jeff. "He's running away; he's dodging."
That meant that he was making a sudden wheel across the grass-plot,
under the big cherry-tree, and that brought him in full view of the
garden.
The pig knew where he wanted to go now, and he sprang away in that
direction with all his might and main. The boys were after him; but
Rube's first attempt at heading him off only made him give so sudden a
side rush that poor Jeff was pitched out, as the wagon keeled over,
right into the middle of the raspberry bushes. The kick he gave as he
landed set the wagon back on its wheels again, and it was easier running
for the pig after that.
[Illustration: "OH, THAT PIG!"]
"Oh, my son!" was all Mrs. Gates could say, and nobody could guess
whether she meant Bun or Jeff; but Jeff himself was remarking at that
very moment, "Oh, that pig!" and it was plain enough of whom he was
speaking. Aunt Dorcas and Grandmother Gates were at the same instant, as
with one united voice, saying the same words, and Aunt Dorcas added:
"The garden'll just be ruined. There he goes, right through the tomato
plants, and they ain't but just been sot out."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Bun. "He's stopped in the spinach bed, and he's
gone to rooting right away."
"Never mind," said Rube. "The wagon's all right. He might have broken
that."
"We must get him out somehow."
Yes, that was precisely the task they had before them; but the pig was
in the garden, and he knew it, and believed that he too had duties to
perform. He could run, and he could dodge, and he could change work from
one bed to another, but at any moment when he got at all away from those
boys, he found uses for his long, busy, root-hunting nose.
Jeff crept out from among the raspberry bushes right away, and when his
mother and the two other women reached that spot, he was able to answer
them: "No, I ain't hurt a bit, but I'm scratched the worst kind. Oh,
that pig!"
"Run, Jeff," said Aunt Dorcas, "and hold the barn-yard gate open. Don't
let any other pigs get in. There are three more out of the pen. Must be
Bun let 'em out when he went for that one."
The pig was now making a stand among the young beets; but suddenly an
idea came to Bun, and he sprang forward. In an instant he was seated in
the wagon, and was goading his victim with the sharp end of his long
stick.
"Got him, Rube! I've got him, mother! He'll have to go now."
"Oh, my son! Yes, Dorcas, he's starting off. Look, mother; if he isn't
pulling wagon and all!"
"He's going for the barn-yard gate, too," said Rube. "Punch him, Bun.
We'll train him in the barn-yard."
Jeff was holding the gate open, but he was also shouting loudly at the
other pigs, and it was an open question--as wide open as the gate
itself--whether or not all three of them would not soon be at work in
the garden. Very likely they would have been but for Bun's presence of
mind in getting into the wagon. That puzzled the speckled pig, and the
sharp stick made it worse for him. He saw the open gate, and he made a
desperate rush for it. There was a deep drain furrow just before he
reached it, and Bun was thinking, "He can't pull me over that," when the
fore-wheels went down into it. The pig uttered the loudest squeal he had
squealed all that morning as he struggled forward. The three women
shouted in one breath, "Oh, Bun!"
Rube Hollenhauser stooped down to pick up a stone, and Bun punched
harder than ever; but the pig had the best of it. That harness had not
been calculated for any such strain. There was a faint snap, then
another, and the pig was free.
He did not pause to look back at the garden he had lost, but he dashed
wildly through the open gate, and Jeff banged it shut after him.
"Mother," said Bun, "I believe I can train him to draw."
"Draw?" exclaimed Aunt Dorcas. "He draws well enough now. The trouble is
to steer him. What'll your father say to that garden?"
"I'll tell him my 'horse' ran away," said Bun.
"Well," said his mother, "don't you bring him into this yard again. Do
your pig-training on the pigs' side of the fence. Come, now; it's time
you went on your errand."
"Come on, Rube," remarked Bun. "We'll see about a better harness."
"May I go too?" asked Jeff. "I'm all scratched up."
"Come on, then. You may haul the wagon if you want to."
In a few minutes more they were all away up the street; but the speckled
pig over in the barn-yard seemed to be in a manner grunting his
morning's experiences for the information of his three relatives. Every
now and then, too, one of them answered him with a grunt that seemed to
have surprise in it, for neither of them had ever before heard of or
from a pig in harness.
[Illustration: "SAIL A BOAT."]
[Illustration: MOVING DAY.]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
How the Postmistress wishes, on these bright May mornings, that she
could turn herself into a fairy godmother!
"What would she do then," do you ask?
Why, print ever so many more of the dear little letters, bright stories,
and tangled puzzles which every day are dropped for her into Uncle Sam's
great mail-bags by the children's hands.
Her heart almost aches sometimes when she has to put aside so many
clever, amusing, and affectionate letters which can not possibly be
crowded into Our Post-office Box. Still, the dear little folks are too
sensible to be vexed at the Postmistress, when she can not possibly help
herself. You all know she must try to be fair in her treatment of each
of her host of correspondents.
When you have anything interesting to write, do not mind even though you
may have sent two or three letters already and they have not appeared.
Write again.
Now for a word to the Exchangers. I am sorry that several complaints
have come about careless little people who forget, when they send their
exchanges, to inclose plain directions as to where they live; and, worse
still, stories have been told about some who appear to be dishonorable.
I will _not_ believe that a single boy who reads YOUNG PEOPLE ever
willfully cheats another boy. I am sure this can not happen. But I fear
that some lads do not attend as they ought to the standing notice at the
head of our exchange list, and I think some may not be sufficiently
careful to fully prepay the postage on their budgets, and so the pretty
treasures and rare curiosities are sent away to the Dead-letter Office.
Please be very careful about this in future.
* * * * *
Charlie's letter has been waiting its turn a long time, but his pleasant
way of telling about what he saw on the other side of the Atlantic has
lost nothing of its freshness, while lying in the Postmistress's drawer:
NEW YORK CITY.
I went up to the top of Mount Vesuvius, and it burned my feet, and
almost suffocated me with smoke. We were about three hours going
up. First we rode in a carriage for two hours, and then we took a
car, something like the car at Mount Washington, except that the
engine did not go along with us, but was left at the station from
which we started, and we were pulled up by a wire rope. When we got
out of the car, mamma and papa were carried in chairs on men's
shoulders, but as I am only nine years old, a man took me on his
back and carried me up. I had been carried in Switzerland on a
man's back before this, when we crossed the Mer de Glace (that is
French for sea of ice). The man said I was a heavy boy, but I think
I am not so fat now as then.
I brought home a lot of foreign coin and stamps and curiosities. A
little girl gave me a bullet at Waterloo that she said she found in
the field. I drove over the road that Napoleon built across the
Alps, and saw at the house where the monks live the big dogs that
go out and find travellers when lost in the snow. I like to read
about Napoleon. I went to his tomb when we were in Paris; it is all
built of marble, and the church too.
We had awful bad weather coming home, and I had a big pitcher of
water thrown all over me when asleep in my berth.
CHARLIE P. R.
* * * * *
CARLINVILLE, ILLINOIS.
I would like to tell Wickie J. M., of Ann Arbor, about two little
brothers who are as fond of playing marbles as he is. Their names
are Harry and Louis W., of this place. I am Harry. Mamma does not
think marbles a very nice game, because we wear such big holes in
the knees of our pants and stockings. We don't intend to play it
very often any more, but are trying to get a collection of pretty
ones. I would like to take a peep into that bag of beautiful
marbles of yours, Wickie. We never play keeps.
Louis is six and I am eight years of age. We both go to school, and
take lessons on the piano. The only pets we have now are four
little kittens, whose eyes are just open. We once had two rabbits,
but they were killed by dogs. The mother of our little kittens is a
beautiful tortoise-shell and white cat. She does not like children
very much, but she catches rats and mice. She always wants mamma to
notice her when she has a mouse, and when she can will bring it to
her and purr and rub around her until she speaks to her.
There are apple-trees in our yard, and every spring a great many
robins and other birds come and build in them. Louis and I often
feed them. One day we put some bread in some empty cigar-boxes and
set them on the ground for the birds; but they did not eat out of
the boxes, so we emptied the bread off the ground, and very soon we
saw a number of birds eating it. I think they did not like the
smell of tobacco which was about the boxes. Last year two robins
had a nest of young ones in one of the trees. The old cat killed
the mother, and the father fed and took care of the little robins
until they were grown. The cat killed so many birds last year that
we had to keep her shut up in the chicken-coop a great deal of the
time.
I must tell you that we have a dear little blue-eyed brother nearly
three years old, named Willis, whom we all think lovelier and
sweeter than any other pet.
Mamma wishes me to tell you of a few funny things that Louis has
said. One day, when he was about five years old, mamma was teaching
him his Sunday-school lesson, and she asked the question, "How did
Adam and Eve feel when the angel drove them out of the garden?" He
answered, "Dus spendid." He had been told a story of a little boy
who was lost. After the parents and friends had searched the woods
and town in vain, he was found in the hay-loft fast asleep. Louis
said, "When a little boy is lost, you must always look in the
hay-loft, for that is a _specially_ place for boys." One very warm
and dusty day, while at play, Louis in some way got the top of his
head quite covered with dirt and ashes. When mamma saw it, she
said, "Why, Louis, I believe I could plant potatoes on the top of
your head." He said, "But you mustn't; for if you should, when I go
up town everybody would say, 'Hello, garden!'"
I have not learned to write with a pen, and I suppose you will
think my letter is not written very nicely. If it will do to put in
the Post-office Box, it will surprise and please my papa very much
to see it there.
HARRY W.
If the four new kittens should resemble their mother, I'm afraid the
robins will have to fly away from your apple-trees, Harry. Thank your
mamma for remembering those nice stories about Louis. Next time she must
tell us some of your droll little speeches.
* * * * *
LATE.
The minute-hand points to the quarter,
And Jennie is there at the gate;
The clock is too fast, I am certain--
It always is fast when I'm late.
There! Jennie has gone on without me.
Mean thing! pray why couldn't she wait?
Has any one seen my examples?
Please, mother, help look for my slate.
I wonder who last had the shoe-hook;
My pencil has dropped in the grate.
How everything hinders a person
So sure as a person is late!
* * * * *
GLENDALE, OHIO.
As I have never seen a letter from this place. I thought I would
write one to Our Post-office Box.
We are to have our school picnic next month, and we shall have a
Queen and King. We have not selected them yet, but intend doing so
in about two weeks. We will have a May-pole dance and a band of
music. All the scholars are looking forward to the day with great
pleasure. I will write again after the picnic, and tell you all
about it.
CARRIE C.
Are the King and Queen chosen to their positions for their beauty, their
scholarship, or their winning ways? I suppose the other pupils vote for
them. Do you remember the story of "Susie Kingman's Decision," and has
anything like it ever happened in your school? When I was a little girl
I used to look forward to our May party just as you do. We elected our
Queen and her Maids of Honor, but had no King, as our only boy
school-mates were little fellows just tall enough to make the sweetest
small pages you ever saw. The Queen's crown was a wreath of roses, and
two of the girls carried it between them to the woods on a board.
* * * * *
INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA.
I am a little boy eight years old. I have taken your paper almost
two years. I like every story in it, and think they are all good. I
like to read the letters. I go to school every day, and am in the
Third Reader, and like my teacher. Every time it rains very hard
here White River overflows. This is the capital of the State, and
they are building a new State-house of stone. They have been
working on it for the last three years, and it will take them three
more at least to finish it. I have but one pet, a bird, which we
call Trouble, because he was so hard to raise. He is a very pretty
singer. I would like to see this published, as it is the second
letter I have written to you. My ma is writing this for me, as I am
sick.
H. R. C.
It is a new idea to call a bird Trouble, after the trouble he gave,
isn't it? It would be fair to change his name to Pleasure, now that he
sings so well. I hope, dear, that you have by this time quite recovered
from your illness.
* * * * *
BIRDIE M.--Please pardon me for not having sooner thanked you for the
pretty daffodil which you sent in your letter all the way from Cherokee,
Kansas. Now, to pay you for it, let me give you a pretty poem from the
poet Wordsworth, to copy into your little book of extracts. In fact, I
would be glad to hear that a great many of my little friends had done
the same. It is a good plan to copy gems of thought from great authors
into little books of our own. Even though you may not quite understand
the poet's meaning in these verses, you will like their musical sound,
and, believe me, that when you are older the meaning will be plain to
you:
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company.
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
* * * * *
A LITTLE BOY'S COMPOSITION.--The subject assigned by mamma was
"Quadrupeds." Ernest retired to the attic, and wrote very patiently
until he had finished this, which is not so bad for a first attempt:
"Quadrupeds are animals. Animals live on grass, hay, oats, bran,
and water. A quadruped is anything that has four legs."
That was all Ernest could possibly think of. But mamma, who sends it,
wants the children to say whether everything with four legs is, of
course, a quadruped.
Here is another little composition, by a wee girlie, who writes about
kittens:
"I have a little kitty, jet-black, full of frisking and fun, and I
hope she will _never_ get to be a dreadful old cat, and run away.
She plays with my apron strings, and likes a red ball best of any.
My sister Lucy, when she went to the store, asked the shoe man for
a pair of shoes for a baby without any heels on. This is all I can
write about kittens.
"LOTTIE (aged 8)."
* * * * *
OSAKIS, MINNESOTA.
My aunt sends me YOUNG PEOPLE, and I read it as soon as it comes
from the Post-office. We live on the bank of the most beautiful
lake in the world. The lake is twelve miles long, and is full of
fish. Boat-riding and fishing are our chief amusements. I am the
only girl in the family, and my papa says that I am the prettiest
girl in the Northwest.
LUNETTA E. C.
Don't let papa make you vain, dear. That would be a great misfortune,
wouldn't it? Do you tell him that he is the best and handsomest papa in
the whole United States? I am sure you think so.
* * * * *
CLARKSTOWN, NEW YORK.