Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 35. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, June 29, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A SOUP EXPLOSION.]
[Begun in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 31, June 1.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY W. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER V.
It was a terrific storm. The wind swept down the river, raising a ridge
of white water in its path. The rain came down harder, so the boys
thought, than they had ever seen it come down before, and the glare of
the lightning and the crash of the thunder were frightful.
"What luck it is that we got the tent pitched in time!" exclaimed Joe.
"We're as dry and comfortable here as if we were in a house."
"Pick your blankets up quick, boys," cried Harry. "Here's the water
coming in under the tent."
Joe had boasted a little too soon. The water running down the side of
the hill was making its way in large quantities into the tent. To save
their clothes and blankets the boys had to stand up and hold them in
their arms, which was by no means a pleasant occupation, especially as
the cold rain-water was bathing their feet.
"It can't last long," remarked Tom. "We're all right if the lightning
doesn't strike us."
"Where's the powder?" asked Harry.
"Oh, it's in the flask," replied Joe, "and I've got the flask in my
pocket."
"So, if the lightning strikes the tent, we'll all be blown up!"
exclaimed Harry. "This is getting more and more pleasant."
The boys were not yet at the end of their troubles. The rain had
loosened the earth, and the tent-pins, of which only four had been used,
could no longer hold the tent. So, while they were talking about the
powder, the tent suddenly blew down, upsetting the boys as it fell, and
burying them under the wet canvas.
"Lie still, fellows," said Tom, as the other boys tried to wriggle out
from under the tent. "We've got to get wet now, anyway; but perhaps, if
we stay as we are, we can manage to keep the blankets dry."
The wet tent felt miserably cold as it clung to their heads and
shoulders, but the boys kept under it, and held their blankets and spare
shirts wrapped tightly in their arms. Luckily the storm was nearly at an
end when the tent blew down, and a few moments later the rain ceased,
and the crew of the _Whitewing_, in a very damp condition, crept out and
congratulated themselves that they had escaped with no worse injury than
a wet skin.
"Where are the rubber blankets?" asked Harry.
"Rolled up with the other blankets," answered everybody.
"It won't do to tell when we get home," remarked Harry, "that instead of
using the water-proof blankets to keep ourselves dry, we used ourselves
to keep the water-proofs dry. It's the most stupid thing we've done yet;
and I'm as bad as anybody else."
"It was a good deal worse to pitch a tent without digging a trench
around it," said Tom. "If I'd dug a trench two inches deep just back of
that tent, not a drop of water would have run into it."
"And I don't think much of the plan of using only four pins to hold a
tent down when a hurricane is coming on," said Joe.
"And I think the least said by a fellow who carries two pounds of powder
in his pocket in a thunder-storm, the better," added Jim.
It took some time to bail the water out of the boat, for the rain and
the spray from the river had half filled it. But the shower had cooled
the air, and the boys were glad to be at work again after their
confinement in the tent. They were soon ready to start; and rowing
easily and steadily, they passed through the Highlands, and reached a
nice camping spot, on the east bank of the river below Poughkeepsie,
before half past five.
This time they selected a place to pitch the tent with great care. It
was easy to find the high-water mark on the shore, and the tent was
pitched a little above it, so as to be safe from a disaster like that of
the previous night. Harry wanted it pitched on the top of a high bank;
but the others insisted that, as long as they were safe from the tide,
there was no need of putting the tent a long distance from the water,
and that they had selected the only spot where they could have a bed of
sand to sleep on.
This important business being settled, supper was the next subject of
attention.
"We haven't been as regular about our meals as we ought to be," said
Harry, "but it hasn't been our fault. We'll have a good supper to-night,
at any rate. How would you like some hot turtle soup?"
"Just the thing," said Joe. "The bread is beginning to get a little dry;
but we can soak it in the soup."
"About going for milk," continued Harry; "we ought to arrange that and
the other regular duties. Suppose after this we take turns. One fellow
can pitch the tent, another can go for milk, another can get the
fire-wood, and the other can cook. We can arrange it according to
alphabetical order. For instance, Tom Schuyler pitches the tent
to-night, Jim Sharpe goes for milk, Joe gets the fire-wood, and I cook.
The next time we camp, Jim will pitch the tent, Joe will get the milk, I
will get the wood, and Tom will cook. Is that fair?"
The boys said it was, and they agreed to adopt Harry's proposal. Jim
went off with the milk pail, and when the fire was ready, Harry took a
can of soup and put it on the coals to be heated.
Jim found a house quite near at hand, where he bought two quarts of milk
and a loaf of bread, and was back again at the camp before the soup was
ready. He found the boys lying near the fire, waiting for the soup to
heat and the coffee to boil.
"That soup takes a long time to heat through," said Tom. "There isn't a
bit of steam coming out of it yet."
"How can any steam come out of it when it's soldered up tight?" replied
Harry.
"You don't mean to tell me that you've put the can on the fire without
punching a hole in the top?"
"Of course I have. What on earth should I punch a hole in it for?"
"Because--" cried Tom, hastily springing up.
But he was interrupted by a report like that of a small cannon: a cloud
of ashes rose over the fire, and a shower of soup fell just where Tom
had been lying.
"That's the reason why," resumed Tom. "The steam has burst the can, and
the soup has gone up."
"We've got another can," said Harry, "and we'll punch a hole in that
one. What an idiot I was not to think of its bursting! It's a good thing
that it didn't hurt us. I should hate to have the newspapers say that we
had been blown up and awfully mangled by soup."
The other can of soup was safely heated, and the boys made a comfortable
supper. They drove a stake in the sand, and fastened the boat's painter
securely to it, and then "turned in."
"No tide to rouse us up to-night, boys," said Harry, as he rolled
himself in his blanket. "I sha'n't wake up till daylight."
"We'd better take an early start," remarked Tom. "We haven't got on very
far, because we started so late this morning. If we get off by six every
morning, we can lie off in the middle of the day, and start again about
three o'clock. It's no fun rowing with the sun right overhead."
"Well, it isn't more than eight o'clock now; and if we take eight hours'
sleep, we can turn out at four o'clock," said Harry. "But who is going
to wake us up? Joe and Jim are sound asleep already, and I'm awful
sleepy myself. I don't believe one of us will wake up before seven
o'clock anyway."
Tom made no answer, for he had dropped asleep while Harry was talking.
The latter thought he must be pretending to sleep, and was just
resolving to tell Tom that it wasn't very polite to refuse to answer a
civil question, when he found himself muttering something about a game
of base-ball, and awoke, with a start, to discover that he could not
possibly keep awake another moment.
The boys slept on. The moon came out, and shone in at the open tent
flap, and the tide rose to high-water mark, but not quite high enough to
reach the tent. By-and-by the wheezing of a tow-boat broke the
stillness, and occasionally a hoarse steam-whistle echoed among the
hills; but the boys slept so soundly that they would not have heard a
locomotive had it whistled its worst within a rod of the tent.
The river had been like a mill-pond since the thunder-storm, but about
midnight a heavy swell rolled in toward the shore. It came on, growing
larger and larger, and rushing up the little beach with a fierce roar,
dashed into the tent and overwhelmed the sleeping boys without the
slightest warning.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE OLD, OLD TOAD.
BY MRS. E. W. LATIMER.
"Mamma," said one of my boys to me (they are "grown-up boys," but they
take great pleasure in the weekly arrival of the YOUNG PEOPLE), "why
don't you write a communication to the editor, and tell him how papa
once saw a live toad in a slab of rock that had just been blasted?"
"Perhaps the editor would not believe me," I replied. "It seems a
doubtful point among geologists and naturalists, and he says the fact
has never been certified to by any scientific man."
"Well, wasn't papa a man of science?"
"No; he was a young civil engineer, with only science enough to be
employed on the first surveys and construction of the Baltimore and Ohio
Railroad. But he is one of the most accurate observers I have ever seen,
and so careful in his statements that, as you know, he relates even a
common fact as cautiously as if he were giving evidence in a court of
justice."
"Well, I should like to hear it over again. Tell me the story."
"Your father was, as I said, a young engineer superintending the
construction of the line of road west from Sir John's Run, near Berkeley
Springs, in West Virginia. His men were engaged in blasting a mass of
very hard rock--gneiss, he called it--which ran across the line. Coming
up to where they were at work, immediately after a fresh blast, he found
the block that had just been detached lying on the ground. It was a mass
of stone about as large as the chair you are sitting on; the surface
where it had just been severed from the parent rock was perfectly
smooth, except that about the middle of it appeared a reddish blister,
about the size of half an egg. This attracted your father's notice. He
was curious to see what it could mean, and taking up a hammer that was
lying near, he tapped upon it gently. It cracked like an egg-shell, and
out came a toad, which moved rather feebly, was very weak,
extraordinarily thin, and covered with a sort of red rust. He did not,
however, live more than a few minutes. Whether the blow with the hammer
had hurt him, or whether the fresh air was too much for him, nobody ever
knew. He died, and there being no professional naturalist on the spot,
his body was not preserved. The men of the gang gathered around his
death-bed, and the contractor had some marvellous stories to tell of
things of the kind he had met with in his experience.
"The spot where the toad lay in the slab of rock was probably, your
father thought, about five feet from the surface, but he could not say
with certainty. He was sure there was no fissure or opening in it
communicating with the outer air."
"I should think, mamma, you would be glad the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE
seem to be taking an interest in your friends the toads."
"So I am. I liked and protected them, for the sake of their beautiful
eyes, long before I found out how useful they are in a garden. You
recollect I used to tell you of a lady who had a splendid bed of
mignonette one year, and the next had no mignonette at all, because her
cruel gardener had killed off all the toads?
"A toad's eyes are the only things in nature which could not be
represented without using gold. I fancy that the toad's eyes are the
origin of the superstition about the 'precious jewel in his head.' As to
their being poisonous, as the French peasants say, or making warts, as
the old mammies tell us, that is pure nonsense. I have handled hundreds
of them. Their tongues are as curious as their eyes are beautiful. The
root of the tongue is just behind the under lip, and it folds backward.
"When Mr. Toad sees a fly, he darts his long and active tongue out so
quickly that it is hard to see him do it, and jerks the fly alive down
his wide gullet.
"Do you remember watering Darby and Joan, who have lived twenty years
under our porch, when you were little boys? You thought they seemed to
enjoy a rain so much that you would give them a shower. Poor Darby and
his wife realized the proverb, 'It never rains but it pours.' A gentle,
steady rain was agreeable enough; but you floated them out of house and
home, and I do not think they ever resettled in the same spot.
"There is a charming story about a toad, called Monsieur le Vicomte."
ELM COTTAGE.
BY M. M.
Now is the time when hither and yon
Our city-people run
Seeking a home. And here, close by,
Is the prettiest under the sun.
So dainty it is, so cozy and fresh,
Its walls in a marvellous way
Are covered all over with tapestry
In yellow and green and gray.
The ceiling is frescoed in light and shade,
And the cottage stands so high
That the view extends to the mountains dim,
Whose peaks are lost in the sky.
No window it has, but an open door
Invites one to sweetest rest;
For my wee house, perched on a swaying elm,
Is only an oriole's nest.
HOW DO THEY GROW?
[Illustration: LITTLE JENNIE AND THE GARDENER.]
While the children were waiting for the Professor one bright summer
morning, they overheard through the open window little Jennie asking
John Grant, the gardener, "Where do the flowers come from?"
"Why, don't you see?" said he; "they grow up out of the ground."
"How do they grow?" continued the little questioner, whose curiosity was
clearly on the increase.
Before John could collect his wits sufficiently to frame an answer, the
Professor made his appearance with a pretty rose-bud in his hand.
"Will you not tell us," said Gus, "how flowers grow? There's John out
there digging among them all day, but he seems to know nothing about
them, after all."
"Oh yes, he does," said the Professor; "I presume he knows more about
them, in a practical way, than either you or I. He can take care of them
through the winter, and train them, and get them early into bloom, far
better than I could, I am sure. But very likely I know more of what the
books have to say on the subject, and can more readily find words to
express what is called the theory in the case. The growth of plants has
given rise, perhaps you know, to the science of botany."
"Please don't be very scientific," pleaded Gus, "but tell us in a plain
way how they grow."
"Well, let us begin with the seed. In the first place, the sun warms the
ground in which the seed lies buried. Then the seed swells and bursts,
and sends downward a little root; the root drinks in the water from the
soil, and so gets larger, and spreads around; and by-and-by it sends up
a stem above the ground. As soon as the sunlight falls on the little
plant, it gets stronger, and is able to take food as well as drink from
the soil, so as to get its full shape and size and green color."
"Has it a mouth to eat and drink with?" asked Gus, in some doubt.
"Yes, a great many mouths scattered all over the root, or on very little
branches reaching out from it. While it is under-ground in the dark, it
is thirsty, and cares only to drink water; but as soon as it comes up,
and has enjoyed the light and heat of the sun, it begins to get hungry,
and takes in solid food with the water. The fresh air and sunshine
sharpen its appetite, just as they do in our case."
"The little spring flowers seem to come up so suddenly," said Joe, "as
if they did all their growing in one night. We don't see them at all
until they are standing in full bloom."
"It takes them some days to develop and blossom," said the Professor.
"The stem rises slowly from a little point, getting longer and longer,
until it reaches its full size. Shrubs and trees begin in the same way,
mounting upward until they reach their proper height. If you examine the
ground closely, you will find plenty of little plants just peeping out.
Most of them are grass, and keep on about the same as they begin; but
some change very greatly, and take all kinds of shapes and directions.
They soon put out their leaves, one by one, or two by two, along the
stem, short spaces apart. Just above the leaves, in the larger plants,
branches start out, and grow much like the stem, with their own leaves."
"How do the flowers come?" asked Gus.
"Sometimes they grow on a little stem of their own, called a scape, that
springs up separately from the root. But usually the main stem or one of
the branches is changed into a flower-stem. Now suppose we cut this
rose-bud in two, and then I can show you."
"Please, Professor," said May, "don't cut the poor rose-bud. There is a
book down stairs with one in it cut in two."
[Illustration: ROSE-BUD CUT VERTICALLY.]
Gus brings the book, and the Professor exclaims, "That is what I want
exactly. Here are lines pointing to the parts; and now I'll explain
them. You see, S is the sepals."
"What are they?" asked Joe.
"The sepals are the outer covers of the flower. They lie all over and
hide it when it is in the bud, but are folded back when the bud opens.
There are five, which is a very common number for flowers to have. Some
have only two or three, others none at all. The petals are marked L.
They are the gayly colored parts that lie next to the sepals, and inside
of them. Sometimes the petals are separate from each other, and
sometimes all fastened together. They are also called the corolla, which
means a little crown, and are the showiest portion of the flower. Wild
flowers are apt to have only one row of petals, but those cultivated in
gardens often have a large number. The good care that they get has the
effect to make them deck themselves out with more petals, which are the
parts chiefly admired for their brilliancy."
"What are these little threads near the middle?" asked Joe.
"They are called stamens. In the picture they are marked P. Inside of
them, in the very centre, is what are called the pistils, T. Down below
them are the seeds, in the middle of what becomes the fruit, as you have
noticed in an apple or pear, which is somewhat like a rose when ripe,
though very much larger. After the petals have fallen off the rose, the
part that is left gets ripe with the seeds inside, just as if it were an
apple or a pear."
[Illustration: FISHERMAN'S LUCK.]
MISS PAMELA PLUMSTONE'S PIANO.
BY SYDNEY DAYRE.
"What do you say to Ned's taking a ride up to Miss Pamela's to-morrow?"
said Mr. Weatherby to his wife.
"How? All by himself? A ride of twenty miles?"
"On horseback. Yes. Yes. Does that answer your three questions
satisfactorily? Now _I'll_ ask one. Why not?"
"Oh, I suppose there is no objection, only he has never taken such a
long ride alone."
"Why, mother! I, a great fellow of fourteen! Of course I can go--that
is, please let me. What for, father?"
"I have had a little dividend of fifty dollars paid in on Miss Pamela's
morsel of horse-railway stock, and I know she always wants money as soon
as it comes."
"Probably much sooner, poor soul--" said Mrs. Weatherby.
"Unlike most other people, eh, ma'am?" interrupted Mr. Weatherby.
"--and more than ever now, since she has taken those two girls of her
good-for-nothing brother's. If they had been boys, they might have been
some use on her mite of a farm. When I said so to her, she said: 'Yes,
my dear, that's just the reason their mother's family don't want them;
but, you know, girls have to live as well as boys. We're pretty sure of
getting enough to eat, and as for the rest, I believe the Lord will
provide.'"
"Her faith will be rewarded just now," said Mr. Weatherby, "for this is
an unlooked-for dividend. The road has been doing better than usual of
late."
"I'm very glad," said his wife. "I dare say it will be a real godsend to
them all."
"I'll be off early in the morning," said Ned.
"All alone, and carrying money!" said his brother Tom, with an ominous
shake of the head.
Ned _did_ feel a little like a hero as he started on his long ride
through a thinly settled country, and over a road passing through miles
of thick woods. His suggestion that it might be well to carry a revolver
had been smiled at by his father, and frowned down by his mother, and he
had to confess to himself that he felt a little safer without it. His
half-desire for just a trifling adventure was not to be gratified, for
as noon approached he drew near Miss Pamela Plumstone's quaint old
farm-house, and was soon warmly welcomed by that sprightly lady.
"Why, Master Ned, I _am_ delighted! How good of you! Didn't you find the
roads very bad? And how _is_ your mother and the twins? And has your
father quite got over his rheumatism? And when is she going to get out
to see us again?"
"Very well, thank you. Yes, ma'am. No'm. Just as soon as the roads get
settled, she says," said Ned, attempting to answer her rather mixed
questions, as he perceived by her pause that she expected a reply.
"And what a fine big fellow you've grown to be, Master Ned! I _am_
astonished to see how you improve."
Ned fully agreed with her, but modestly refrained from saying so, and
made known his errand. How poor Miss Pamela's face shone!
"Oh, my dears, come here," she cried, running to a door. "Do come here
and see what has come to us."
Ned looked curiously at the two girls who came in answer to her call.
They had become inmates of Miss Pamela's home since his last visit to
her, and he had never seen them before.
"The youngest one looks as if she might be pretty," he said to himself;
"but how funny they do look!"
They did look funny. Miss Pamela's only ideas on the subject of dressing
little girls were drawn from her memories of what she herself had worn
forty years ago. Their pantalets reached almost to their heels, and
their gingham aprons were almost as long, and cut without a gore. Their
hair was drawn tightly back, and braided in two tails, those of the
older one being long and dangly, and of the other short and stubby.
"See here, my dears," again exclaimed Miss Pamela, "here is some money
I didn't expect. Didn't I tell you, Kitty Plumstone, that Providence
would send you some new music somehow? She plays on the piano, Master
Ned; I really do think she is going to make quite a musician. I teach
her myself, you know. I can't play any more because of the stiffness in
my fingers, but Kitty can play 'Days of Absence,' and 'Come, Haste to
the Wedding,' already."
Ned was expressing pleasure at this pleasing proficiency, when Miss
Pamela bustled away with a few words about dinner, which sounded
agreeably to him after his ride.
A long ramble afterward on the farm, in company with the funny-looking
girls, proved them to be as genial and companionable as they could have
been had their dress included all the modern improvements, although Ned,
who was rather critical in such matters, still thought it a pity they
could not have blue streaks on their stockings, ruffles somewhere about
them, and wear their hair loose.
They knew where the late wild flowers and the wild strawberries grew,
and where the birds built their nests. They gathered early cherries, and
promised Ned plenty of nuts if he would come in October. They had tame
squirrels and rabbits penned up in the wonderful old ramshackle building
which did duty as barn, stable, carriage-house, granary, and general
receptacle for all kinds of queer old-fashioned lumber, the
accumulations of many years. They were poultry-fanciers, too, in a small
way; had a tiny duck-pond at one corner of the barn, where the great
sweep of roof sloped down almost to the ground, forming a shed, and they
all climbed upon it, and watched a quacking mother as she introduced her
first brood of downy little yellow lumps to their lawful privileges as
ducklings. And all agreed (the girls and boy, that is) that it was much
nicer to be young ducks than young chickens; and there is no reason to
doubt that the young ducks thought so too, as they realized the delights
of the cold-water system.
But all agreed that nothing came up to the bantams--the proud little
strutting "gamy" (Ned said that) roosters, all bright color and
ambitious crow, and the darling wee brown mothers, scarcely larger than
quails, whose cunning babies were no bigger than a good-sized marble.
Kitty promised Ned a pair when they should be grown.
After tea he was called upon to admire Kitty's playing, but his praises
of her performance were interrupted by Miss Pamela's profuse apologies
for the condition of the piano.
"It is so terribly out of tune, you see, Master Ned." He was evidently
looked upon as something of a critic in music. He rather liked to be so
considered, and thought it unnecessary to assure them he knew nothing
about it. The old piano sounded to him very much like the bottom of two
tin pans mildly banged together; but if it had been a much better
instrument, it would have been all the same to his unmusical ear.
"Oh, it sounds very well, I assure you, Miss Pamela," he said.
"You see," went on the lady, "it hasn't been tuned for four years or
more. Mr. Scrutite went about the country for many a year tuning pianos;
but he got old, and the last time he came he left his tuning key, or
whatever you call it, saying he'd be round again if he could; but he
never came. It's such an expensive thing, you know, to bring a man
twenty miles to do it, that I've been putting it off, and putting it
off. But we'll have it done now, eh, Kitty?"
"Why, Miss Pamela," said Ned, "I'll do it for you, if you have the thing
they do it with."
"_You_, Master Ned? Can you tune a piano?"
"Well, I never did tune one, but I know exactly how they do it. I've
seen Professor Seaflatt tune my mother's ever so many times."
"Oh, I'm sure you could do it, if you really feel as if you could take
so much trouble; it would be a great kindness to us."
"Of course I'll do it, with the greatest pleasure in the world, ma'am.
Let me see-- I am to go home to-morrow afternoon; I'll do it the first
thing in the morning." And rash Ned went to rest on Miss Pamela's
feather-bed, in a room smelling of withered rose leaves. The bed was
hung with old chintz curtains; the wall-paper displayed a pattern of
large faded flowers. The swallows made a soft twittering in the wide
chimney, as he closed his eyes with a glow of satisfaction at the
thought of the kind action (and very clever one, too!) he had undertaken
to perform.
He found it harder than he had expected. The screws were rusty and hard
to move, and the tuning key was old, and _would_ slip. But before noon
he announced his task completed, and Miss Pamela and her two nieces
gathered near, their faces beaming with interest.
The piano was small and narrow, with legs so thin as to suggest to Ned
that it needed pantaloons. It had been the pride and glory of Miss
Pamela's girlhood, and was still, in her eyes, an excellent and valuable
instrument, although she, being of a modest turn of mind, was willing to
acknowledge that it had probably seen its best days.
"It will be _so_ nice to have it in good tune again!" she said, in a
tone of great satisfaction. "I declare, Master Ned, what a thing it is
to have such advantages as you boys are having!--to be able to turn your
hand to 'most anything! Now, then, Kitty, play 'Days of Absence.'"
Kitty played it. But what could be the meaning of that fearful jumble of
strange sounds? Surely that time-honored melody (modern hymn-book,
"Greenville") never sounded so before. What was the matter? Miss
Pamela's face fell a little, but she still smiled, and said,
"You had better get your notes, Kitty; you are playing carelessly."
Kitty got her notes, and played carefully, but the result was still, to
say the least, most astonishing and unsatisfactory.
"Try 'Come, Haste to the Wedding,' then." But the jig ran riot to such
an extent that Kitty lost her place, stumbled, and finally came to a
dead stop.
Poor Miss Pamela listened with a face of deepening dismay, while Ned
stood still, with cold chills running down his back, as he was suddenly
struck with the appalling idea that he might have undertaken something
entirely beyond his abilities, and that the ruin of the cherished old
piano might be the possible dreadful result.
"Try a scale, Kitty," again suggested Miss Pamela, with a polite effort
to look tranquil.
Oh, that scale--what capers it cut! what unheard-of combinations of
fearful sounds it was guilty of! Up and down it jumped and flourished,
careering about in a manner as far as possible removed from that of a
sober, well-conducted scale. Bass notes and treble notes ran against
each other; high notes and low notes played leap-frog--they groaned,
shrieked, and wheezed in a horrid discord, which could not have been
worse if a thousand imps had been let loose in the old oaken case.
Did you ever see an intelligent dog with a rustling paper ruffle tied
round his tail, paper shoes on, and a fool's cap on his head? and as
everybody laughed at him, and he _knew_ they were doing so, do you
remember his reproachful look of helpless, indignant protest against
being made to appear ridiculous in spite of himself?
Just such an expression we may imagine that poor old piano would have
worn, to any one who could have taken in the full absurdity of the
position. A venerable instrument like itself, after thirty-five years of
honorable service, thus to be forced to exhibit a levity so unbefitting
its age and dignity!
"Well," and Miss Pamela sank into a chair, "it's very strange--_very
strange indeed_."
Poor Ned was red-hot with mortification and chagrin. He certainly was
to be pitied. It was very trying indeed to have been led into such a
scrape by his boyish over-confidence in his own powers, and a real
desire to do a favor. Even through her own surprise, and her distress at
what she feared might prove a lasting injury to her precious old piano,
Miss Pamela felt sorry for his embarrassment.
"Never mind, Master Ned," she said, in a kindly tone. "I dare say the
tuning key was too old, or perhaps you understand modern pianos better.
I don't believe any real harm is done, and you know I was going to have
it tuned with some of the money you were so good as to bring me, so you
see I am no worse off than I was before."
As she left the room, Kitty buried her face in her big gingham apron.
"Oh, Kitty, _don't_ cry!" exclaimed Ned, his trouble greatly increased,
if that were possible, by her evident emotion. "Kitty, I'll have it
fixed the first thing--you see if I don't! I know it can be fixed."
Kitty raised her head, and Ned was wonderfully relieved at seeing that
the tears in her eyes were caused by suppressed laughter.
"Oh, Ned, it's so funny!" she half whispered. "If Aunt Pamela knew I
laughed, though, she would never forgive me."
"Kitty, what _is_ the matter, anyhow?" asked Ned, pointing to the piano.
"Why, _I_ don't know. Don't _you_ know? I thought you knew all about
music and pianos."
"No, I don't, Kitty," said Ned, in a burst of remorseful frankness. "I'm
the only one of the family that don't. The only things I could ever sing
were 'Greenland's Icy Mountains' and 'Oh, Susannah' (that's a song
mother used to sing to us children), and I always got them mixed up,
because they begin just alike; so I never dare to sing 'Greenland's Icy'
in church."
Kitty's words of comfort were as kind as those of her aunt, but Ned felt
very anxious to get away from the scene of his discomfiture, and was
glad to find himself at last on the road home, where he arrived in due
season, finding the family at tea. It was not until he was alone with
his father and mother that he unburdened himself.
"Father," he began, with some effort, "will you allow me to send a
person at your expense to tune Miss Pamela's piano?"
"At _my_ expense? Well, I should want first to know why you ask it."
"The fact of it is, sir, I undertook to tune it myself, and--well, I'm
afraid I made a bad business of it."
"_You did_ WHAT?" asked his mother, turning on him a look of such
comical amazement that he could not help laughing, although he turned
redder than before.
"I tuned her piano."
"Where did _you_ ever learn to tune a piano? I always thought you had no
ear for music."
"I didn't do it with my ears, I did it with my hands, and it was hard
enough work, too. They are all blistered, and my wrists ache, and I am
as lame all over as if I had been sawing wood all day."
"How did you do it? and, in the name of all that is ridiculous, _why_?"
gasped his mother.
"Well, I did it just as I've seen Seaflatt do yours. I screwed every
wire up as tight as I could, and kept on fiddling with the other hand on
the key to see if it kept on sounding, just _exactly_ as he always
does."
Ned never forgot the peal of laughter which came from his parents. Both
keenly relished the joke, and when Ned learned that what he had done
could easily be undone, he felt so much relieved as to be able to laugh
with them.
"Yes," said his father, emphatically, when he could recover his voice,
"I think you had better send Seaflatt up to Miss Pamela's as soon as
possible, and set her mind at rest."
"And, oh, Ned," said his mother, "if ever you tune another piano, may I
be there to see--and hear!"
"If ever I do, ma'am," he answered, with a vigorous shake of the head,
"_I hope you may_."
OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.
BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.
No. I.
HOW THE INDIANS WERE WRONGED, AND THEIR REVENGE.
At three o'clock Tuesday morning, December 11, 1688, James II., King of
England, rose noiselessly from his bed, passed with stealthy steps from
his palace, entered a carriage in waiting, and was driven rapidly to the
bank of the Thames, where he stepped into a boat, and was rowed swiftly
down the stream. As the boat shot past the old palace of Lambeth, he
flung into the river the Great Seal of England, used in stamping all the
royal documents to give them validity. He was fleeing from his palace,
his throne, his kingdom, and from people whom he had outraged in his
attempt to set up an absolute and personal government--to do just as he
pleased without regard to law. He believed that the King had the right
to be above all laws. The people had risen against him, and had invited
his son-in-law, William of Orange, to come over from Holland to aid them
in overthrowing James. William had landed at Torbay, and had been so
warmly welcomed that James was seeking refuge in France with Louis XIV.,
whose adopted daughter, Mary of Modena, as she was called, was James's
wife.
"You are still King of England, and I will aid you in securing your
throne," said Louis XIV.
It was not simply a generous act on the part of Louis to a
fellow-sovereign who was in trouble, but there were ideas behind it.
Louis XIV. believed with James in the absolute right of kings to do just
as they pleased: that the people must do their bidding.
"_The state--it is me!_" said Louis, striking his hand upon his breast,
to indicate that there was nobody else who had a right to say or do
anything in regard to law and government.
The people of England, on the other hand, believed that they had the
right to make their own laws through a Parliament of their own choosing,
and that it was the duty of the King to obey and execute those laws.
James had done what he could to crush out the Protestant religion in
England; Louis had driven the Huguenots, who were Protestants, from
France, waging a cruel war upon them. Thousands had been killed. More
than eight hundred thousand had been compelled to flee to other
countries. The war was waged not merely that James might regain his
crown, but it was a great struggle for civil and religious freedom. It
extended to other countries: battles were fought on the banks of the
Rhine, the Danube, the Po; in the meadows of Holland; on the plains of
Germany; amid the vineyards of Italy; in the wilderness of North
America; on the Penobscot, Piscataqua, Merrimac, and Mohawk.
All through the years Jesuit priests had been laboring to convert the
Indians of Canada to Christianity, and had made them the allies of
France. When the war broke out, all the Indians in Maine and New
Hampshire sided with the French.
The English, especially the men who bought furs of the Indians, had not
always treated them justly.
The traders cheated them when buying their beaver skins. They would put
the furs on one side of the balance, and bear down the other with their
hands, saying a man's hand weighed a pound. The Dutch fur-traders on the
Hudson used their feet instead of their hands. The simple-hearted red
men, knowing nothing of balances and weights, could only look on in
astonishment, wondering at the lightness of the skins. The Indians of
Maine and New Hampshire had a grudge against Major Waldron, who lived at
Dover, New Hampshire.
"His hand weighs too much," they said.
But they had another and greater grievance. To understand it we must go
back a little.
In 1675, Philip, who lived on a hill overlooking the peaceful waters of
Narragansett Bay, begun war upon the English, which lasted nearly two
years, during which the New Hampshire Indians murdered some of the
settlers. The Governor of Massachusetts sent Captain Sill and Captain
Hathorn, with their two companies of soldiers, to seize all the Indians,
although only a few had taken any part in the murders. Major Waldron
invited the Indians to come to Dover; and they, regarding him as their
friend, came from their wigwams along the lakes and rivers, to see what
he wanted.
"Let us have a sham fight," he said.
The Indians agreed to it. They ranged themselves on one side, their guns
loaded with powder only, and the white men on the other.
"You fire first," said Major Waldron.
The Indians fired their guns in the air, and the next moment found
themselves surrounded by the white men, who made them prisoners, taking
away their guns, putting them on board a vessel, sending them to Boston,
and selling two hundred of them into slavery.
One Indian made his escape from the soldiers, ran into Elizabeth Heard's
house, and the good woman secreted him in the cellar, and saved him from
being sold into slavery.
The war between England and France began. The Jesuit fathers were making
their influence felt among the tribes, winning them to the side of
France.
Previous to this the Indians had made themselves at home in Dover,
coming and going as they pleased. There were five strongly fortified
houses in the town, in which the settlers slept at night.
It was the evening of the 27th of June, 1688, when two squaws called at
Major Waldron's garrison, and asked if they might sleep there.
"Indians are coming to trade to-morrow," they said.
Major Waldron was pleased to hear it, for trade with the Indians always
meant a good bargain to the white man.
"Supposing we should want to go out in the night, how shall we open the
door?" asked the squaws.
They are shown how to undo the fastenings.
[Illustration: MAJOR WALDRON'S TERRIBLE FIGHT.]
Major Waldron is eighty years of age, white-haired, wrinkled, but there
is force yet left in his arm, and he is as courageous as ever. He has no
fear of any Indian that walks the earth, and the vague rumors and
whisperings of an uprising are as idle as the wind to him. He lies down
to sleep. The lights in all the houses are extinguished. No sentinel
walks the street. In the darkness dusky forms glide noiselessly through
the town. The doors of the houses open. The terrible war-whoop breaks
the stillness of the summer night. A half-dozen Indians burst into the
room where the brave old man is sleeping. He springs from the bed,
seizes his sword, and single-handed drives them from his chamber into
the large room. In the darkness one steals behind him, strikes a blow,
and he falls. It is their hour of triumph. He has been a ruler and a
judge. The Indians can be sarcastic. They seat him in his arm-chair,
lift him upon the table. It is his throne.
"Get us supper," is their command to the family.
They eat, and then turn to their bloody work. One by one they slash
their knives across his breast.
"So I cross out my account," they say. They are settling an account that
has been standing thirteen long years.
An Indian cuts off one hand. "Where are the scales? Let us see if it
weighs a pound."
One cuts off his nose, another his ears. The old man's strength is gone,
and as he falls, one holds his sword, so that it pierces his body.
In one of the garrisons is a faithful dog, whose barking awakes the
inmates. The Indians rush upon the door. Elder Wentworth throws himself
upon the floor, holds his feet against it, and braces himself with all
his might. The bullets whistle over him, but do him no harm, and he
holds it fast, keeping the Indians at bay, and saving the lives of those
within.
Elizabeth Heard and her children on this evening have come from
Portsmouth in a boat. They are belated, and the Indians are at their
bloody work when they arrive. Her children flee, while she sinks in
terror upon the ground. An Indian with a pistol runs up and stands over
her, but he does not fire.
"No harm shall come to you," he says. He permits no one to touch her. It
is the Indian whom she befriended thirteen years ago.
When the morning dawns it is upon the smouldering ruins of burning
dwellings, upon the mangled bodies of twenty-three men and women, and
upon twenty-nine women and children going into captivity--a long weary
march through the woods to Canada to be sold as slaves to the French, or
kept as prisoners by the savages. Yet amid the ghastly scene, through
the blood and flame and smoke and desolation, there is this
brightness--the remembrance of the kindness of Elizabeth Heard, and its
reward.
[Illustration: REVIEW OF THE CAVALRY BY THE INFANTRY.--DRAWN BY SOL.
EYTINGE, JUN.]
HOW THE LITTLE SMITHS GOT THEIR FOURTH-OF-JULY MONEY.
BY MARGARET SIDNEY.
"What did George Washington do, I wonder, on the Fourth of July?" said
Harper Smith, rattling his tin money bank with an awful din.
"Mercy! I don't know," said Aunt Nancy, shielding her ears, and thinking
twice as much about the noise as she did about the question. "Do pray be
still! I'm sure I wish there wasn't any Fourth of July."
"Oh, Harp, you ninny!" cried his brother Joe. "There wasn't any Fourth
at all till George Washington made it."
"_You_ better study up," said Aunt Nancy, coming to her senses, as
Harper, very much confused, stopped the rattling. "You don't begin to
realize what the guns and the fire-crackers and the torpedoes, and all
the other dreadful things that blow up people and knock off boys'
fingers and toes, are for. It would be a great deal better if boys had
more history in their heads and less money in their pockets. That's the
way to celebrate, I think; and I mean to ask your father about it."
"Oh, don't, _don't_, Aunt Nancy--please _don't_!" cried both boys, in
the greatest dismay, while Lucy ran in from the next room, with
wide-open eyes, at the uproar. "Don't make father take away our money;
we always have it, you know."
"You can have your money," said Aunt Nancy, putting up her spectacles to
look at their distressed faces, and beginning to laugh at the sight;
"but you ought to know what you're spending it for. _I_ would, I know,
be able to tell something about my country, and who fought for it."
When Mr. Smith came home the boys were both out in the barn, looking at
a very new colony of kittens in an old barrel. So Aunt Nancy had about
five minutes of peace and quiet, which she speedily made the most of, I
can assure you--talking away so fast that Mr. Smith had to follow her
pretty closely, with eyes as well as ears on the alert.
When she had finished, "Capital," was all he said. And then the boys
came tearing in, and they had tea.
After supper, "Now for a story," cried Joe, getting possession of the
chair next to Mr. Smith, while Harper flew for another.
"When does Fourth of July come?" asked Mr. Smith, abruptly.
"It's three weeks from day after to-morrow," cried Joe, springing up,
and running for the almanac.
"Weill, what are you going to do on the Fourth?" said their father.
"Oh, _everything_," cried Joe, while Harper came in on the chorus; and
Lucy beat a soft little tune on her father's shoulder with her hand.
"You said you'd give us more money _this_ Fourth," cried Harper, seeing
his chance. "Don't you remember? 'Cause we're bigger, you know."
"And so you'll try to blow off your heads harder than ever, I suppose,"
said Mr. Smith, with a twinkle in the eye next to Harper. "And then
who's to pay the doctor's bills, I wonder?"
"If our heads were off, we wouldn't have to have the doctor," suggested
Joe, dreadfully afraid the money wasn't coming.
"True enough," laughed his father. "Well, heads stand for everything
else--all the hurts, I mean."
"I ain't goin' to blow off _my_ head," declared Harper, getting up in an
anxious way, and standing in front of his father. "Say, father, I
promise you I won't. Do give us the money--_do_."
"Do you want more than you had before?" asked his father, pulling his
ear.
"Yes, _sir_," emphatically declared Harper, all out of breath from his
exercise; "I want forty cannons."
"Mercy!" ejaculated Aunt Nancy, in smothered accents, over in the corner
by the window, with her mending basket.
"Well, then, I'll tell you how you can get it," said Mr. Smith, speaking
very earnestly, and fastening his eyes intently on their faces.
"_Really_, papa?" cried Lucy, sitting up straight on his knee.
"_Really_," said Mr. Smith, bringing his hand down on the arm of his
chair with convincing emphasis. "And I don't mind paying money for such
an object--it's well spent, I can tell you. Now, boys, see here--and
Lucy too;" and he leaned forward and began to talk in a way that made
the children see that this was no funning, but sober earnest, every word
of it. "If you all go to work for three weeks, beginning to-morrow
morning--all the time you get out of school, I mean--and study up
everything you can get hold of that concerns the history of our country:
what Fourth-of-July's for, and all that; who made the country what it
is, so that we can celebrate and bang away, and play with powder and
guns-- Stop! I haven't got through," as he saw both boys' mouths fly
open to launch numberless questions at him. "Begin at the very
foundation; get all the information you possibly can; find out all the
names of the Presidents, for one thing, and all about the establishing
of Congress; most of the principal battles, and all that--why, then,
three weeks from to-morrow night, the one who knows the most, and can
tell it in a sensible way that shows he knows what he's learned, and not
like a parrot, _he_ shall have the most money. And it _shall_ be a large
sum, I promise you, compared to what you had last year. That's all. Now
you may speak." And Mr. Smith leaned back in his chair, and burst into a
hearty laugh at the tumult he had raised around his ears.
At last Harper, in a lull of questions and answers that were flying back
and forth, turned and fixed a reproachful glance over in the direction
of the big mending basket. "'Twas all Aunt Nancy," he cried. "Oh dear!
And she wasn't never a boy. And she don't know how we want things, she
don't."
"We never can do it," cried Joe, in despair.
"Never's a long word," cried Mr. Smith, briskly. "Begin to-night. Come,
boys, get out the maps, and we'll start right off, now, this very
minute;" and he jumped up, and began to roll the big table up closer to
the window.
"And I'm goin' to get that awful old history," cried Harper, rushing
out, full of enthusiasm; "that'll tell lots."
"Do," cried his father, approvingly. "Go along too, Joe and Lucy, and
get all the books you can; _then_ we'll see."
So in two or three minutes three happy and excited children sat around
the table, while their father showed them how to begin, explained the
hard parts, and pointed out places on the map, while Aunt Nancy, over in
the corner, smiled and nodded to herself more than ever.
All of a sudden a voice broke in on the absorbed group: "And _I'm_ going
to have a finger in this Fourth-of-July pie; so you needn't think you
can keep me out."
Everybody looked up and stared.
"Yes, I am; so there, now!" repeated Aunt Nancy, decisively. "And the
one that I find knows the most when you all get through in three weeks,
why, there's some stray dollars in my purse that I don't know what to do
with, and they might as well go along with your father's as anywhere
else."
At this there was such excitement over by the table that nobody could
hear anything, till Harper's voice finally got the high key. "And if
anybody sees a bigger Fourth of July than _we'll_ have, I'd like to know
it, that's all."
"Three cheers for Christopher Columbus, and the whole lot!" cried Joe.
"I wish 'twas Fourth twice a year, I do."
"We haven't got ready for _one_ yet," said Lucy, deep in an atlas. "I'm
goin' to make this a good one first."
"Three cheers for Christopher Columbus--and Lucy!" said Harper, taking
the hint, and settling down to work.
"It _can't_ be nine o'clock?" cried Joe, when Mr. Smith gave the word
"To bed."