Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JUNE 25, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 817. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
OAKLEIGH.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER I.
It was a large house, standing well back from the broad highway that
leads from Brenton to Pelham, so far back, indeed, and at the end of
such a long shady drive, that it could not be seen for some few minutes
after turning in from the road.
The approach was pretty, the avenue winding through the trees, with an
occasional glimpse of the meadows beyond. The road forked where the
trees ended, and encircled the lawn, or the "heater-piece" as the family
called it, it being in the exact shape of a flatiron. The house stood on
high ground, and there were no trees very near.
It was a white house with green blinds, solid and substantial looking.
The roof of the piazza was upheld by tall white columns, and vines
growing at either end relieved the bareness. On the southern side of the
house a small conservatory had been added. On the other side the ground
sloped to the Charles River, though in summer one could see only the
water from the upper windows, because of the trees which grew so thick
upon the banks.
This was Oakleigh, the home of the Franklins, so named because of a
giant oak-tree which spread its huge branches not far from the back of
the house.
As to the Franklins, there were five of them, and they were all
assembled on the front porch.
Though it was the last day of April, spring was unusually early for
Massachusetts this year, and the day was warm and clear, suggesting
summer and delightful possibilities of out-door fun.
Edith, the eldest, sat with her work. It was unusual work for a girl of
barely sixteen. A large old-fashioned basket was on the floor by her
side, with piles of children's clothes in it, and she was slowly and
laboriously darning a stocking over a china egg.
The children had no mother, and a good deal devolved upon Edith.
Jack and Cynthia, the twins, came next in age, and they were just
fourteen. They looked alike though Jack was much the taller of the two,
and his hair did not curl so tightly as Cynthia's. She sat on the steps
of the piazza. Her sailor hat was cast on the ground at her feet, and
her pretty golden-brown hair was, as usual, somewhat awry.
It was one of the trials of Edith's life that Cynthia's hair would not
keep smooth.
Jack lay at full length on the grass, sometimes flat on his back,
staring at the sky, sometimes rolling over, the more easily to address
his sisters.
Jack had a project in his mind, and was very much in earnest. Cynthia,
of course, was already on his side--she had known of it from the first
moment the idea popped into his head, but Edith had just been told, and
she needed convincing.
Janet and Willy, "the children," were playing at the other end of the
porch. They were only six and five, and did not count in the family
discussions.
"There's money in it, I'm sure," said Jack; "and if I can only get
father to agree with me and advance some money, I can pay him back in
less than a year."
"Papa hasn't much money to spare just now," said Edith, "and I have
always heard that there was a good deal of risk about raising chickens
from an incubator."
"My dear girl," returned Jack, with an air of lofty authority, "allow me
to say that you don't know much about it. I've been reading upon hens
for two days, and I find that, allowing for all risks--bad eggs,
inexperience, weasels, and skunks, and diseases, you're sure to make
some profit at the end of a year. Now, I'm late in thinking of it, I
know. To-morrow is the 1st of May, and I couldn't get more than three
hatches this summer, but that would probably pay the cost of the
incubator. I can get a first-rate one for forty dollars, and I can buy
one 'brooder.' If I bought one I could make the others like it."
"But your eggs?" said Edith. "You would have to pay a great deal for
eggs."
"Eggs would be about five or six dollars a hundred, and it takes two
hundred to fill the machine. I should want to get a fine breed, of
course--Brahmas, or Cochins, or Leghorns, probably, and they cost more;
but, you see, when they begin to lay, there comes my money right back to
me."
"When they do," said Edith, sceptically.
"Edith, don't be so mean!" cried Cynthia. "Jack wants to begin to make
money, and I think he's right. I'm going to help him all I can, and we
want you to be on our side to help talk over papa. He is always telling
Jack that he'll soon have to begin to work, and now here's a chance."
"Papa wants Jack to make some money to help support us when he is old
enough, but he wants him to finish his education first, of course. And I
am sure he doesn't want him to lay out a lot of money, as he would have
to do in raising hens."
"That's just like a girl," said Jack, scornfully. "Don't you know that
there's always a lot of risk in anything you undertake, and you've got
to take the chances? There are very few things you don't have to put
money into."
"Of course, for a grown man. But a boy of your age ought to work for a
salary, or something of that sort--not go investing."
Cynthia stirred uneasily. She knew this was just the wrong thing to say
to Jack. Unfortunately, Edith was so apt to say the wrong thing.
Jack sprang to his feet. "There's no use arguing with girls. I may be a
'boy of my age,' but I've got some sense, and I know there's money in
this. I'm not going to say another word about it to anybody until father
comes home, and I can talk it over with him."
And Jack walked off around the corner of the house, whistling to Ben and
Chester, the two big setters, to follow him, which they did with joyful
alacrity.
"There!" exclaimed Cynthia, "now he's gone off mad. I don't see why you
said that, Edith."
"Said what? I'm sure it is true. The idea of a boy of his age--"
"There you go again. Jack may be young, but he is trying awfully hard to
help papa, and you needn't go twitting him about his age."
"I'm sure I never meant to twit him," said Edith; "and I think he's
awfully touchy. But it is half past four, Cynthia, and time to go meet
papa. Won't you be sure to brush your hair and put on a fresh neck-tie
or something? You do look so untidy. That skirt is all frayed out around
the bottom."
"Oh, bother my hair and my neck-tie, and everything else!" cried
Cynthia, though with perfect good-nature. "Edith, you make such a fuss!
Shall I go meet papa?"
"No, I'll go; but I wish you would order the horse. Now, Cynthia, don't
forget your hair, will you? Papa hates to see you untidy."
For answer Cynthia banged the screen-door as she disappeared into the
house and walked through the wide hall, humming as she went.
"What shall I do with these children?" sighed Edith to herself, as she
laid down the stocking, mended at last, and prepared to put up her work.
"I'm sure I do the best I can, and what I think our mother would have
liked, but it is very hard. If Cynthia only would be more neat!"
A loud crash interrupted her thoughts. At the end of the piazza, where
the children had been playing, was a mass of chairs and tables, while
from the midst of the confusion came roars of pain, anger, and fright.
"What _is_ the matter?" cried Edith, running to the scene, and
overturning her work-basket in her flight.
It took several minutes to extricate the screaming children, set them on
their feet, and ascertain that no bones were broken.
"Get the red oil!" shrieked Janet; "that naughty boy has killed me! I'm
dead! I'm dead! Get the red oil!"
"It's no such a thing!" shouted Willy. "I didn't do it, and I'm dead,
too. Ugh! I'm all bludge. Get the red oil!"
Cynthia had witnessed the scene from the window, and appeared just in
time with the bottle of red oil, the panacea for all the Franklin bumps
and bruises.
"What were you doing, you naughty children?" said Edith, as she wiped
the "bludge" from Willy's lips, and found that it came from a very small
scratch, while Janet was scarcely hurt at all.
"We were only playing cars, and Willy _would_ ride on the engine, and
made it topple over, and--"
"It's no such a thing!" interposed Willy. "Girls don't know nothin'
'bout steam-cars, and Janet went and put her feet on the back of my
chair, and--"
He was interrupted by a blow from Janet's small fat fist, which he
immediately returned in kind, and then both began to scream.
"Yon are both as bad as you can be, and I've a good mind to send you to
bed," said Edith, severely, shaking Janet as she spoke.
Janet cast herself upon Cynthia. "Edith's horrid to us! She is so cross.
Cynthia, don't let her send us to bed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hit Willy;
I'm sorry we upset the chairs; I'm sorry for everything."
"Well, here comes the horse, and I must go," said Edith. "Oh, look at my
basket!"
And it was indeed a sight. Spools, scissors, china eggs, stockings,
everything lay in wild confusion on the floor.
"Never mind. I'll pick them up," said Cynthia. "Don't bother about them,
Edith. The children will help me. Come along, Willy and Janet. Let's see
which can find the most spools."
Edith looked back doubtfully as, having put on her hat, she got into the
carriage. What would her basket be like when she next saw it? But it was
kind of Cynthia, and how much better Cynthia managed the children than
she did. What was the reason? She was thinking it over, when she heard
her name called loudly from behind, and, pulling in the horse quickly,
she waited, wondering what had happened now.
Cynthia came flying down the avenue. "Edith! Edith! Wait a minute! I
forgot to tell you. Don't say anything to papa about Jack's scheme, will
you? Let him tell."
"Oh, Cynthia, how you frightened me! I thought something dreadful was
the matter."
"But don't, will you, Edith? Promise! You know--well, Edith, Jack can
explain it so much better himself."
Cynthia was too kind-hearted to tell Edith that she would spoil it all
if she said anything first, but Edith knew that was what she meant. A
sharp reply was on her lips, but she controlled herself in time.
"Very well," she said, quietly, "I won't."
And then she drove on, and Cynthia went back to the house satisfied.
Edith had a quick, impatient temper, and it was not an easy matter for
her to curb her tongue. Her mother had died five years ago, when she was
but eleven years old. Then an aunt had come to live with them, but she
had lately married and gone to South America, and now there was no one
else, and Edith was considered old enough to keep house and look after
the children.
The road wound through the woods, with here and there a view of the
river, leading finally into the old New England town and forming its
main street.
Tall elm-trees shaded the approach to the village, and fine old houses,
with well-kept lawns in front, were to be seen on either side.
The horse that Edith drove was by no means a fine one, and the old buggy
was somewhat unsteady and rattled alarmingly. In other words, the
Franklins were poor, but they had hosts of friends; and as Edith entered
the village she nodded right and left to the various people she met.
Every one liked the Franklins, and the family had lived at Oakleigh for
generations.
As she reached the station the train came in. A throng of carriages
filled the broad space in front, and Edith was obliged to draw up at
some little distance from the cars. Presently she saw her father coming
towards her, and with him was an odd little figure, the sight of which
made Edith's heart sink with apprehension.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" she exclaimed to herself, "if there isn't Aunt
Betsey!"
Then she shrank back into the corner of the buggy, and watched the
amused glances that were cast upon her relative by all who saw her.
Miss Betsey Trinkett, of Wayborough, was Edith's great-aunt, and
constituted one of the largest thorns in her side. She was old, she was
odd, she was distinctly conspicuous; and Edith disliked above all things
to be conspicuous.
Miss Betsey trotted along the platform by her nephew's side, quite
unconscious of the tumult she was raising in the breast of her
grandniece. She was dressed in a short, scant velveteen gown that might
have belonged to her grandmother, and a large bonnet of the same date,
from which hung a figured lace veil. A gay shawl was folded about her
slender shoulders, and Mr. Franklin carried her carpet-bag with the
silver lock and key.
She waved a welcome to Edith with a mitted hand, and Edith, recovering
herself, nodded in response.
"How do you do, Aunt Betsey? What a surprise!"
"Yes, my dear, I like to surprise you now and then. I came up to Boston
town on business, and your father insisted upon my coming out to see you
all. In fact, I knew he would, so I just popped my best cap and my
knitting into my bag, along with some little things for you children,
and here I am."
And she stepped nimbly into the buggy, followed by Mr. Franklin.
"We shall be a 'Marblehead couple,'" he said, as he balanced himself on
the seat and took the reins.
Edith detested "Marblehead couples," otherwise driving three on a seat,
and she hid herself as much as possible in her corner, and hoped that
people would not know she was there.
Miss Betsey chatted away with her nephew, and in time the three miles
were covered, and they turned into the Oakleigh drive. Edith had
recovered somewhat by this time, having been engaged in scolding herself
all the way from the village for her uncordial feelings.
The others welcomed Aunt Betsey most cordially. Her carpet-bag always
contained some rare treat for the little ones; and, besides, they were a
hospitable family.
"But come with me, girls," said Miss Betsey, mysteriously, when she had
bestowed her gifts. "There is something I want to consult you about."
She trotted up the long flight of stairs to her accustomed room with the
springiness of a young girl, Edith and Cynthia following her. She closed
the door behind them, and seating herself in the rocking-chair, looked
at them solemnly.
"Do you remark anything different about my appearance?"
"Why, of course, Aunt Betsey!" exclaimed Cynthia; "your hair!"
"Well, I want to know! Cynthy, you are very smart. You get it from your
great-grandmother Trinkett, for whom you were named. Well, what do you
think of it?"
Edith had hastened to the closet, and was opening drawers and removing
garments from the hooks in apparently a sudden desire for neatness. In
reality she was convulsed with laughter.
Cynthia controlled herself, and replied, with gravity, "Did it grow
there?"
Miss Betsey rocked with satisfaction, her hands folded in her velveteen
lap.
"I knew it was a success. No one would ever know it, would they? My
dears, I bought it to-day in Boston town. The woman told me it looked
real natural. I don't know as I like the idea exactly of wearing other
people's hair, but one has to keep up with the times, and mine was
getting very scant. Silas said to me the other night, said he, 'Betsey,
strikes me your hair isn't as thick as it used to be.' That set me
thinking, and I remember I'd heard tell of these frontispieces, and I
then and there made up some business I'd have to come to Boston town
about, and here I am. I bought two while I was about it. The woman said
it was a good plan, in case one got lost or rumpled, and here it is in
this box. Just lay it away carefully for me, Cynthy, my dear."
The old lady's thin and grayish locks had been replaced by a false front
of smooth brown, with puffs at the side, and a nice white part of most
unnatural straightness down the middle.
"You see, I like to please Silas," she continued. "I'll tell you again,
as I've told you before, girls, Silas Green and I we've been keeping
steady company now these forty years. But I can't give up the view from
my sitting-room windows to go and live at his house on the other hill,
and he can't give up the view from his best-room windows to come and
live at my house. We've tried and tried, and we can't either of us give
up. And so he just comes every Sunday night to see me, as he's done
these forty years, and I guess it'll go on a while longer."
They were interrupted by the sound of the tea bell.
Miss Betsey hastily settled her cap over the new front, and they all
went down stairs, Cynthia pinching Edith to express her feelings, and
longing to tell Jack about Aunt Betsey's latest.
But they found Jack having an animated discussion with his father, his
thoughts on business plans intent.
Cynthia anxiously surveyed the two, and she feared from appearances that
Mr. Franklin did not intend to yield.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
LIFE IN A LIGHT-HOUSE.
BY A. J. ENSIGN.
A cold biting west wind was blowing. The sea close under the beach was
smooth and steel blue, and the breakers reared their white crests
slowly, falling in dull booms of muttered thunder. Beyond the rollers a
wide expanse of ice-hard gray water swept away to the iron line of the
horizon, where strange shapes of writhing billows tossed against the
glow of the rising moon. Half a dozen stars of the first magnitude swam
in moisture in the zenith, and far away in the west a smudge of black
cloud, touched on its lower edge with blood red, kept the record of the
swift winter sunset.
"It will blow from the south'ard and east'ard afore mornin', an' it'll
snow," said the light-house keeper, as he peered out into the growing
gloom, pierced as it was by the rays of the lamp which he had set
burning half an hour before.
"Ay," said his assistant, "an' we'll have fog, too, I'm thinkin'."
"Well, get steam up for the siren, an' stan' by fur trouble afore dawn."
The predictions of both men came true. Before two o'clock in the morning
the wind had shifted to the southeast, and was blowing a gale. Great
tangled masses of brown cloud were flying across the sky at terrific
speed, and in and out of the rifts shot the red moon flaming like a
comet. The breakers no longer reared and fell slowly, but hurled
themselves in shrieking masses of foam upon the stricken beach. A
yelling as of ten thousand evil spirits surrounded the caged lantern;
but the great yellow light blazed out its warning upon the black waters.
But not for long; for out of the southeast swept the impenetrable gray
fog that no light could pierce. Then the hoarse moaning blast of the
steam-siren sent its cry of warning out over the raging waters. At four
o'clock the gale was terrific, and ever and anon the shriek of a
steam-whistle told that some vessel was groping her way toward the
entrance to the harbor. Suddenly the whistle burst into a series of
rapid screams.
"Wake up, Tom!" shouted the assistant keeper, who was on watch. "There's
a tug out yonder that's parted the hawser of her tow."
The keeper sprang to his feet and listened to the despairing screams of
the whistle out in the fog.
"You're right!" he exclaimed. "And whatever's gone adrift'll be ashore
in less than an hour. They'll never hear those whistles at the station
with the wind in this quarter."
He jumped to the telephone and called up the life-saving station a mile
above.
"There's a tug off here," he said, "and she's lost her tow."
"All right," came the answer; "we'll look out for 'em."
[Illustration: TAKEN ASHORE IN A BREECHES-BUOY.]
Half an hour later a big three-masted coal barge, which thirty years
earlier had been an English bark, was in the breakers half a mile above
the life-saving station; but owing to the sharp lookout for her, all her
people, three men, a boy, and a woman, were taken ashore safely in the
breeches buoy. At sunup the other barge, which had been in tow of the
tug, was seen three miles offshore hove to under her leg-of-mutton
canvas. She was picked up by an incoming steamer, and towed into the
harbor.
That is a sample of the experience of a light-house keeper whose light
is on the land. He has a comparatively comfortable berth; but all lights
are not so pleasantly situated. Some are situated at considerable
distances from the shore, on dangerous reefs. Most of the houses so
situated are built on iron-screw piles, like those at Thimble Shoals,
Virginia, Fowey Rocks, Alligator Reef, and Sombrero Key, Florida. These
houses stand on iron legs, which are screwed down into the rocks on the
bottom, and the keeper's only means of leaving his confined dwelling is
by the boat, which swings at davits, as it would aboard a ship. It has
been found that a light-house built in this manner will stand the shocks
of heavy weather much better than one made of solid masonry. The storm
wave of the Atlantic Ocean travels at the rate of about thirty miles an
hour, and when one of these waves, towering from fifteen to thirty-five
feet, strikes an obstacle, such as a light-house, it deals a blow whose
force can be measured only in hundreds of tons. The iron-screw
pile-house, however, is elevated far enough above the level of the sea
to escape the blows of the waves, which meet with no greater resistance
than that offered by the slender legs of the structure.
Let us imagine the experience of a keeper of one of these lights in a
great storm. It is September. All day the sea has been deathly calm, but
with a slow swell of ominous breadth and weight. The sky has been of a
dead gray color, and has seemed to hang so low that one might almost
reach it from the top of the lantern. Toward night the wind begins to
come in fitful gusts that moan around the light-house like the voices of
warning spirits. The keeper goes out on the balcony and looks anxiously
around the horizon. He knows that they are in for a bad night, and he
knows that even iron-screw light-houses have been carried away in great
gales. But he goes calmly and carefully about his work. He sees that the
boat and all other objects outside the house are well secured. He sees
the lamp well supplied with oil and trimmed wicks. He gives the lenses
and reflectors a few more affectionate rubs, and as the sun goes down
fire-red into a crimson sea he lights the wicks and goes down to his
supper.
The gusts of wind outside increase in number and in force. Strange
shriekings and moanings break from the crannies of the light-house. It
is blowing half a gale now, and the sea is beginning to rise. Fiercer
and fiercer become the blasts. The light-house begins to vibrate like a
fiddle. A strange humming, as of the giant strings of some enormous
AEolian harp, is added to the shriller screams of the wind. It is the
gale singing through the iron legs and braces of the structure. And now
a squall more violent than any that have preceded it comes yelling
across the sea. It tears the foaming crests off half a dozen waves, and
sends them swirling down to leeward in shivering sheets of snowy
spoondrift. With fearful force the blast strikes the light-house, at the
same time hurling some of the spoondrift against its weather side with
a crash. What was that? Did the whole building sway?
The keeper shuts his lips tightly and goes up to look at the lamp. It is
burning brightly. He descends again, and puts on his oil-skins and
sou'wester. Waiting for a lull in the gale, he bolts out upon the
balcony, hastily closing the door behind him. For a moment he stands,
clinging with all his might to the iron railing, while the mad wind
seems to try to strip his clothing from him. How the building trembles
under the furious assaults of the wind! What an awful roar the
conflicting elements make around its iron walls! The keeper's eyes are
half blinded by the driving rain and salt spray. But he can see by the
light of the faithful lamp above him towering walls of black and shining
water sweeping down out of the fathomless darkness beyond as if to
engulf his little refuge. They rush forward and disappear within the
circle of gloom below the light, and the next instant he hears them
hissing and shrieking around the sturdy iron leg.
There! There is the monster wave of all, heaving its mighty crest
twenty-five feet, so that the keeper sees it level with his eyes as he
gazes, fascinated. It is coming, it is coming. Ah, it is too big to pass
the reef without breaking. See! It has toppled over, and goes boiling
under the gallery in a wild mass of ghostly foam. The keeper shivers a
little, shakes his head, and goes back to his warm room, muttering a
prayer for the safety of the sailors on the sea. You and I would mutter
one for our own, perhaps, if we stood on a swaying balcony above a
storm-torn ocean.
Before morning the keeper hears the report of a gun. He knows too well
the meaning of that sound. It is a signal of distress. He rushes out on
the balcony again, and sees the dim form of a dismasted ship driving
upon the reef. What can he do? Not a thing. He calls up his assistants,
and they helplessly watch the vessel strike. They hear the cries of her
people. They see the waves burst over her in great clouds of seething
spray. Suddenly one of the men utters a shout.
"See! There's a spar driving down on us with some one on it."
[Illustration: A RESCUE FROM THE LIGHT.]
Now the keeper and his assistants can do something, and they move with
the rapidity of men whose wits are accustomed to the emergencies of the
deep. Projecting from one side of the house is an iron arm, at the end
of which hang a block and tackle. This is used for hoisting supplies
from the boat which brings them off. Quickly a line is fastened around
the hook at the bottom of the tackle. This is to give the shipwrecked
mariner something by which to hold. The broken and half-buried spar
sweeps down toward the light-house. Two men are clinging to it with the
strength of despair. The tackle is lowered, and as the spar drives
against one of the stout iron legs of the light-house one of the two men
catches the rope, and is quickly hauled up to the gallery. At once the
tackle is lowered again, and the other man is hauled up. Half blind,
half drowned, staggering with exhaustion, they are taken into the house
where warm drinks and dry clothing revive them. Then they sit beside the
stove and tell the dreadful story of the wreck, while the howling of the
wind, the thunder of the seas, and the swaying of the house remind them
all that the storm still rages without.
Finally the great gale ends, and gradually the sea goes down. The
shipwrecked seamen are anxious to reach land, and the light-house
keeper, upon whose stores two extra mouths make serious inroads, is
willing to have them go. Late in the afternoon of the third day they see
smoke on the horizon. By-and-by the smoke appears to rise from a little
black speck. Gradually the speck grows larger, and at length it assumes
the outlines of a small steam-vessel.
"That's her," says the keeper. "Now you'll be able to get ashore."
"Is it the tender?" asks one of the wrecked sailors.
"Yes," says the keeper. "She was due here just about the time the gale
set in."
[Illustration: RECEIVING SUPPLIES IN CALM WEATHER.]
It is the stanch little light-house tender, whose duty it is to visit
the various lights in her district, and replenish their supplies. Many a
rough time she has at sea, and many a narrow escape; but the pressing
necessities of the keepers of the isolated lights embolden the captains
of tenders to brave many dangers. The tender is alongside the
light-house in due time, and the tackle which so lately saved human
lives hoists up boxes of provisions, cans of oil, and other articles.
The two shipwrecked sailors are put aboard the tender to be landed at
the nearest port, and in a short time the little vessel is once more a
smudge of smoke upon the horizon.
And so let us bid good-by to the light-house and the keeper. We know now
that he is a brave and faithful fellow, who, if need be, will lower away
his little boat, and pull to the rescue of those in danger. We know that
in spring and in summer, in autumn and in winter, in calm or storm, in
clear weather or in fog, in health or in sickness, he will be found
always at his post, always at his duty. We know that when the skies are
clear, and the sea smooth, and the stars bright, the lamp will burn and
send its gentle yellow rays out upon the inky waters to guide the
mariner over the trackless sea. We know that when the gray curtain of
the fog hides the light, the hoarse scream of the steam-siren or brazen
clang of the fog-bell will echo over the water, and warn the sailor
against hidden dangers. For always and everywhere the light-house keeper
is a brave, honest, faithful man; humble, indeed, but the reliance and
the guide of "those who go down to the sea in ships."
[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]
This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur
Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any
question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should
address Editor Camera Club Department.
PAPERS FOR BEGINNERS, No. 6.
SIMPLE DEVELOPMENT.
A girl who was taking her first lesson in developing said that
developing was dozens of "whens" and "ifs," and one must learn them all
at once or else spoil all one's plates.
Our first directions for development will not be with the kind of
pictures which the beginner usually takes, but the kind he ought to
take, and which are simplest and easiest to develop. These are time
landscape pictures.
By time pictures is meant those which are taken with a short-time
exposure instead of with a drop-shutter in bright sunlight. The day for
making a successful time picture is when the sky is slightly clouded and
the light soft, so that there are no deep shadows.
The picture being made, and everything ready for development, remove the
plate from the holder and lay it face up in the tray. Turn the
developer--which is ready in the glass graduate--quickly over the plate,
taking great care that the whole surface is flooded instantly. If the
developer is not applied uniformly patches will appear on the negative
which print darker, the dark spots being where the developer did not
reach the plate as quickly as it did the other parts.
As soon as the developer has covered the plate, move the tray gently to
and fro, tipping it this way and that, but not enough to expose the
plate. In about a half-minute the high lights will begin to appear. The
high lights are those parts of the plate which have been exposed to the
strongest light, and which will show white, or light, in the printed
picture. The sky, which has reflected the strongest light, will appear
first. It will show as black patches here and there at one edge of the
plate.
By the time the sky is well out other objects will begin to show, those
which were in the deepest shadow will be the longest coming out. After
the image is well defined on the plate, lift it carefully from the tray
and look through it toward the light, holding rather near the lantern so
as to see if the detail is out.
To explain what is meant by detail, we will suppose that there is a mass
of shrubbery in the picture. If this part of the picture is developed
far enough, the lights and shadows and the forms of the bushes will show
when the plate is looked at against the light, but if the glass is clear
there is no detail, and the development has not been carried far enough.
It must be put back in the developer and allowed to remain longer.
When the plate has been sufficiently developed, which will be in from
three to five minutes, the yellow color will begin to fade, and the
outlines, which have been quite sharp, will grow dim. At this point, if
one looks at the plate the picture can be quite distinctly seen on the
back.
Take the plate from the developer, rinse it thoroughly in clean water,
and place it, film side up, in the tray of hypo solution, which is made
by dissolving 1 oz. of hyposulphite of soda in 4 oz. of water.
This bath, which is usually called the fixing-bath, though the proper
term would be clearing-bath, removes from the negative the sensitive
silver salts which have not been affected by light or by development,
and makes the image permanent. After the plate has remained in the
clearing-bath for five minutes it will be found on looking at the back
of the plate that the yellow color has almost entirely disappeared,
leaving on the glass the clear image of the landscape. The plate should
remain in the hypo for ten minutes, so that the salts of silver may be
thoroughly dissolved, or the plates will look streaked, and will not
make satisfactory prints.
The plate must next be washed to remove all traces of hypo. Hypo stains
the negative, and if not thoroughly washed out is apt to form again in
crystals and ruin the negative.
An hour is long enough to wash the negative in running water, and two
hours, with four or five changes of water, where there is no running
water. When the negative has been washed long enough, take a small wad
of soft cotton, and holding both plate and cotton in the water wipe the
film gently with the cotton to remove any dirt which may have settled in
the film. If one has no drying-rack set the plate on a shelf, with the
film side toward the wall to avoid the settling of dust in the film.
When the negative is dry, place it in an envelope, number and mark it,
and place it in some place where it may be found without trouble.
BILL TYBEE AND THE BULL.
YARN OF A WHALEMAN ON SHORE.
BY W. J. HENDERSON.
"And didn't yeou never have nothin' more to do with whalin'?" asked
Farmer Joe.
"Oh, well," Handsome answered, "I never said that I gave up whaling for
good and all. You know, sailors never know when they're well off."
"Waal," said Farmer Joe, "it 'pears to me that this 'ere's abaout a good
time to tell us some more on 't."
"Did I ever tell you about going whaling on shore?"
"Git aout!" exclaimed Farmer Joe.
"You don't believe it, eh? Did you never hear of Amagansett, Long
Island? That's where all good whalemen go when they get to be too old to
go to sea. They have their boats there, and when a whale heaves in sight
off shore they put right out through the surf, and generally there's one
dead whale in those parts when they come back. But it isn't about that
I'm going to tell you, because chasing whales in boats is all the same
whether you start from shore or a ship. But down there's where I met old
Bill Tybee."
"Who were he?" asked Farmer Joe.
"He was a very old sailor, who'd quit the sea, and was running a sort of
express business. That is, he had a horse and wagon, and used to cart
things for people. He was a great old chap, I tell you, and the yarns he
used to tell would have scraped barnacles off the back door of the North
Pole. His horse was so old he couldn't move at any pace except a sort of
dog-trot, and the wagon rumbled and squeaked like a fife-and-drum corps.
One day I said to Bill that I'd like to know why he didn't get a new
horse and wagon, and then he told me a regular hair-twister. I'm going
to tell it to you, and I'm going to tell it just the way Bill told it to
me."
Handsome shifted his seat a foot or two, took a round turn around his
foot and tested the splice which he had been making, and then screwing
his face up in imitation of "old Bill Tybee," he began.
"Git a new hoss an' waggin, hey? I ain't no dude. Nex' thing I 'spect
you'll be wantin' me to run a tally-hoo coach to take beach-combers out
a clam-diggin'. New hoss an' waggin! Say, I had 'em oncet, an' I don't
want 'em no more. I got all the trouble I want now, without havin' a
cantankerous young colt a tryin' to jump fences with me an' the waggin.
Say, I'm goin' to tell you 'bout the new hoss an' waggin I had oncet,
an' then I leave it to you, if you was me an' I was you, would you try
it on some more. 'Bout two year ago come Thanksgivin' I got so sot up in
bizness that I bought Farmer Hiram Smoggs's brown colt, that were jes
seven year old that fall, an' his one-hoss farm waggin wot Fin Dooley
had jes painted redder'n a new can-buoy on the starboard side o' a ship
channel. I gave him this 'ere hoss an' waggin wot I'm a-drivin' now to
boot. Werry good. I got aboard my new waggin, and h'isted my whip, an'
whistled the 'Star-Spangled Banner,' and sez I, 'Thar, gol bust ye,
you're in commission, ye wall-sided hooker,' sez I. Then I got under way
fur my fust cruise. It were plain sailin' gittin' out o' the harbor,
an', as the weather were fair with a stiddy wind, I let the colt go
along under plain sail. Waal, I hadn't gone more'n a couple o' cable
lengths w'en ole Widdy Moriarty she comes down to the sea-wall on her
place, an' sings out to me. So I hove the colt to, an' I axes her,
'Wot's up, mate?' An' she says she wants me fur to take a box o' heggs
down to the Fraser Bellew's grocery store. So I filled away on the colt,
an' luffed up alongside o' the sea-wall, an' made him fast to a pile wot
were stickin' up. I got the heggs, an' stowed 'em right forrard in the
forepeak o' the waggin. I got aboard, an' filled away on my course
ag'in.
"Werry good. Nex' I war hove to by Pete Maguff, a cullud man, who put a
bar'l o' maple syrup aboard. Then Jim Penn he puts in a bar'l o' flour
fur me to take back to ole man Bellew 'cos 'twarn't the right kind. Them
two bar'ls pooty nigh filled up the whole waist o' the waggin.
Howsumever, w'en Hank Mosher axed me to take a bar'l o' apples aboard I
carkilated I could git her under the break o' the tailboard, an' I did.
Pussonally, I war now usin' the box o' heggs fur a bridge, an' were
a-steerin' the colt from there. Bein' loaded right down to the
Plimsoll's mark, I didn't go to crackin' on sail, but let the colt go
along under his lower tops'ls like. All right, sez you. But allus keep a
bright lookout fur squalls, sez I. Werry good. I hadn't logged off
more'n half a knot w'en Farmer Powley's ten-acre pasture were on my
starboard hand, an' his black-an'-white bull, Napoleon Bonyparty, were
standin' plum in the middle o' the same. Now w'en that 'ere bull seed
that 'ere red waggin he knowed it warn't the ole merchant hooker wot
he'd seed me a-steerin' up an' down that road so long. Nope; he med up
his mind it were a foreign cruiser, an' sez he to hisself, 'This are
where I shows 'em wot kind o' a coast-defense ram I are.' So he blowed
one whistle, hooked on, an' come down the field under forced draught,
turnin' up a mos' terrible starn wave o' dust on account o' the pasture
bein' werry shallow water. I hailed him, an' told him it war me, but he
couldn't hear nothin'. All he could do war to see a red waggin. So,
seein' that he war a-goin' to ram, I ups an' I lets fall to'gallants an'
royals onto the colt, an' away we went dead afore the wind at a
twelve-knot gait. The bull didn't stop fur to jump the fence. He jes
went through it. Now it were a starn chase right up the hill.
"Werry good. But afore I'd got fur I heard a thump, an' lookin' round I
seed Hank Mosher's bar'l o' apples'd bounced out over the starn, an'
were a-rollin' down the hill at a ginerally lively gait. Gosh! You'd ort
to see the bull clear that bar'l. Say, flyin'-fish would have to take
lessons from him. Waal, havin' lightened ship by losin' some o' my cargo
I reckoned I'd make better speed; but I didn't seem to gain werry much
onto the bull. He follered me right slap inter town, an' then there war
a sort o' grand general mixification, sich as never war seed afore or
sence.
"Fust place, everybody begin fur to yell. One sez murder, an' another
sez fire. Wimmen screeched an' boys hollered, an' the bull he bellered
louder'n any on 'em. Jehosaphat Book, the cullud dominie, he run out an'
tried to jump inter the waggin. Jes at that minute the bar'l o' flour
give a bounce up in the air. The head o' the bar'l fell out, an' the
bar'l, flour, an' all came down over Jehosaphat's head. Afore he could
git it off the bull war there, an' he jes picked up Jehos an' his bar'l
an' fired 'em right through the winder o' the school-haouse. Jehos
landed in the middle o' the floor, an' comin' out o' the bar'l he war
all white. The chillen set up a yell, 'Ghost! ghost!' an' afore the
teacher knowed wot'd happened school war out. Jehos picked hisself up,
an' saw hisself in the lookin'-glass. Then he let out a squeal an'
started fur the street. He thort he'd turned white.
"But that warn't the wust of 't. That there bar'l o' apples a-rollin'
down-hill had fetched up ag'in the feet o' Blind Billy Bunker's team o'
mules, an' they'd started off on a dead run with bar'l hoops a flappin'
round their legs. They came into town a quarter o' a mile astarn o' me,
and jes in time to meet Jehos w'en he come out in the street all white.
He scared them mules so bad that they stopped right in their tracks, an'
Billy Bunker war shot off the seat o' his waggin an' out into the road
on his head. He got up an' made a grab fur the fust thing that he could
feel, an' it were Jehos. Billy war so mad that he punched Jehos's head
an' Jehos punched back, an' there was the cullud minister, all white,
a-fightin' in the middle o' the street with a blind man. An' the sheriff
he came along an' arrested 'em both, an' Jedge Sooter fined Jehos five
dollars fur disturbin' o' the peace, w'en he'd ort to have fined the
bull.
"But that warn't the wust of 't. All this time me an' the bull was still
a-goin'. Somebody'd hollered fire, an' somebody else'd run off to the
fire-engine house, an' told 'em that they'd got to come quick or the
whole bloomin' town'd go. Jes then the red waggin hit a stone in the
middle o' the street, an' she pitched so hard she hove her tailboard
right up into the air an' overboard. That tailboard were jes as red as
anythin', an' w'en the bull seed it soarin' in the air like a ole-time
round shell with a navy time-fuse, he jes got clean crazy. He ketched it
onto his horns, an' lowerin' his head scraped up about two tons o' dust,
an' hove dust an' all right through the big front winder o' Jeremiah
Boggs's book an' newspaper store. The firemen seein' all the dust,
thought it war smoke, an' they comes up with their engine an' lets drive
a stream o' water a foot thick right through the hole in the winder, an'
completely sp'iled the whole shop.
"But that warn't the wust of 't. Jeremiah's brindle bull-dog were asleep
under the counter, an' that there stream o' water hit him ca-plum in the
middle o' the back. He let out one yell, an' out o' the shop he went an'
down the street all drippin' wet an' squealin' like a pig. Everybody wot
seed him hollered 'Mad dog! mad dog!' An' then ole Willum Henry Peet,
the constable, he got clean rattled, an' pulled out his rewolwer an'
beginned to shoot all over the country. As me an' the bull was still
a-goin' I didn't see that, but I could hear it. Waal, Willum Henry's
shootin' started up some other folks, an' putty soon there war a whole
rigimint o' people out in the street a-shootin', an' not hittin'
anythin' 'ceptin' winders, w'ich the same they busted forty-seven. The
firemen findin' they'd made a mistake, an' there warn't no fire, said as
how Jeremiah'd sent out a false alarm, an' they started to lick him.
Some o' his friends come to help him, an' in five minutes there war a
reg'lar riot right out in front o' his store.
"All this time me an' the bull war still a-goin'. I didn't seem to gain
much onto him, so I set the royals an' the stu'ns'ls onto the colt,
although it were werry stormy weather, an' I made up my mind that if
somethin' didn't carry away I'd be able to hold him right where he war.
I had to keep goin' right straight ahead. 'Cos w'y: if I'd 'a' put the
helm hard over fur to turn a corner, I'd 'a' rolled the deck-house
right off'n my red hooker. Waal, a leetle furder up the street we comes
to Peanut Brewer, with his black horse a-standin' dead still. He'd
balked, an' Peanut war sittin' on top o' a load o' hay a-sayin' bad
words at him. Mrs. Mehitabel Saggs's little boy come out with a big
fire-cracker to set off under the hoss an' make him start. At that werry
minute Pete Maguff's bar'l o' maple syrup on my waggin' give a jounce,
and went by the board over the port rail. That there bar'l rolled right
under Peanut's hoss jes as the fire-cracker busted. It sot fire to the
bar'l, an' she blazed right up. 'Now,' sez Peanut, 'my ole black hoss'll
start,' sez he. An' so he did. He started an' went jes fur enough to
pull the waggin' right over the fire, an' then he stopped. Waal, sir,
Peanut had to jump fur his life, fur that load o' hay blazed up in half
a second. The fire company war on the dead run fur home w'en they seed
the blaze, an' down they come at their finest gait, with Jeremiah Boggs
an' his gang astarn o' them, keepin' up a permiskious fire o' stones,
sticks, an' termatter cans an' sich things. Jes then Jeremiah's dog come
around the corner with forty boys a-chasin' him an' yellin' 'Mad dog.'
He run right under Peanut Brewer's black hoss, an' that started him.
Yaas, sir, he got right up onto his hind legs, an' away he went down the
street licketty-split, pullin' a load o' hay on fire. By that time
everybody in town were putty nigh crazy, an' the President o' the
village had telegraphed fur the militia to come."
[Illustration: "ALL THE TIME THE BULL WERE ATTENDIN' STRICTLY TO
BIZNESS."]
"All the time the bull were attendin' strickly to bizness. The colt war
all covered with foam, an' I made up my mind that afore long he war
a-goin' fur to give out, an' me an' the bull would have to settle the
question atween ourselves, in w'ich case the bettin' would all 'a' bin
in favor o' the bull. So I kinder considers a little, an' all on a
suddint I recommembered them heggs. I yanked the top off'n the box, an'
diskivered that most o' the heggs was scrambled--raw--but still
scrambled. Howsumever, there was a few that wasn't. So I took one o'
them an' hove it at the bull. It hit him smack on the middle o' the
forehead. Waal, if he'd been mad afore, he war crazy now. He let out a
roar that made my bones rattle, an' he opened out his last link o'
speed. Now he commenced fur to gain on me, hand over fist; so I made up
my mind to do somethin' desprit. I put the helm hard a-starboard, an'
steered the colt into a narrer channel wot led right down to the bay.
The bull he tried to cut short goin' round the corner, an' he run into
the lamp-post, w'ich the same he knocked clean down into Parker's
basement, where Johannes Pfeiffenschneider, the cobbler, works, an'
scared Johannes so that he sp'iled Miss Beasley's Sunday shoes, an' lost
putty nigh all his trade.
"Down at the foot o' the street war Mark Rogers's oyster sloop _Betsey
Jane_, lyin' alongside o' the wharf. On the wharf war about ten million
oyster shells, all piled up. 'Now,' sez I to myself, sez I, 'here's
where I've got to stop the bull.' I steered the colt right straight at
that reef o' shells, trustin' to our speed an' our shaller draft to
carry us right over. There war a smash, crash, biff! an' over we went.
Then I jumped up, grabbed the box o' scrambled heggs, an' hove 'em
straight in the bull's face. Waal, gol bust me if that there bull didn't
look like the gran'father o' all omlets. He was clean blinded fur a
minute, an' he kicked out with all four legs in the middle o' the reef,
till the air war white with flying oyster shells. He kicked so many of
'em into the bay that Mark had to dredge out a new channel. Then he got
his eyes clear a minute an' he seed me a-laffin'. He jes made one jump,
an' he got under the waggin' with his head. The next thing I knowed I
war in the bay. That there bull jes picked up waggin', colt, an' me, an'
he hove us straight off the dock an' into the bay."
"And what happened after that?" I asked.
"Waal, we had to swim out, o' course. It killed the colt, that cold bath
arter bein' so heated, an' the waggin' was busted into kindlin' wood.
An' the bull? Oh, yaas, the bull. Waal, he was puffickly satisfied, an'
he went up along the side o' the road an' eat grass jes as if he'd never
did nothin' else in all his life. Now, my son, you know w'y I don't git
a new hoss an' waggin. I bin there, an' w'en I bin to a place wot's not
to my likin' I knows enough not to go back. Git ep!"
SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.
BY KIRK MUNROE.