Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 156. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday October 24, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WAIT A FEW MINUTES, PUSSY."]
CARBO: HIS STORY.
BY SHERWOOD RYSE.
One raw, disagreeable night last spring I was set down by a local train
at a little junction on a Western railroad to wait for the
eastward-bound express. The dépôt house was a little place lighted by an
oil lamp which gave out a choking smell, and heated by a big stove that
devoured every breath of fresh air that found its way into the close
room.
Turning away from it, I began pacing the platform in order to keep warm,
and had passed an engine that was taking a rest on a side track, but
panting heavily all the time, when, as I came back, I thought I saw a
queer little face at the window of the cab. I stopped, and the queer
little face again showed itself. It was, without doubt, a monkey. As I
stopped and made signs to him he began to chatter and to rap on the
glass with his fingers, and the next moment the engineer's face appeared
above his.
"You have a strange passenger there," said I.
"Well, yes, p'r'aps so," replied the engineer, and he picked up a
lighted lantern and threw the light upon my face. "Yes, it may seem
queer to strangers," he went on, "but it's natural to me now. We've
travelled many a hundred miles together. Eh, Carbo?" addressing his
companion.
"I think there must be a story connected with that monkey," I said.
"Would you mind telling it to me if there is?"
"Are you waiting for the express?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, come up into the cab. It's warm in here. Carbo, you selfish
rascal, give up that seat to the stranger. There, there, I know you're
fond of me," he added, "but you needn't keep on kissing me.
"Well, sir, it's wonderful the intelligence of these monkeys. When I
first knew Carbo he was in the coal business, and that's why I call him
Carbo. Yes, you may laugh, but it's a fact. He had a coal-yard right at
the dépôt at K----, a little junction where every train but two
expresses a day has to stop. He wasn't the proprietor of that yard. He
was a salaried employé, like what merchants call a 'buyer.' He bought
the coal, and the chap that owned the yard sold it again at a big
profit--at least I guess he must have sold some of it."
"And pray what sort of money did Carbo pay for it?" I asked.
"Antics, sir," replied the engineer, disengaging Carbo's fingers from
his beard, which the attentive little fellow was carefully combing;
"antics, sir, and pranks. This was the how of it: Carbo lived, as I say,
with a man that owned a little house and yard right where the engines
mostly stopped at K---- Junction. Coal was dear that winter, and so this
man lighted on a dodge to make Carbo keep him in coal free of all
expense.
"He set up a pole, in the middle of his yard, twenty feet high, and on
top of it he set a little platform with a little roof over it, and on
that platform he tied this here monkey. Well, sir, that man knew human
nature well, for he reckoned that not an engine would stop there but the
engineer and his mate would have a shot with a chunk of coal at that
chattering monkey on the pole, and every chunk would fall into his yard.
And I guess the old man--he wasn't so old either, but he was a dry kind
of a chap as always had a sly grin on his face, as if he was chuckling
at the way we boys slinged good coal into his yard--I guess he reckoned
aright. Many's the time when I've chucked half a dozen lumps of coal at
this little chap, never thinking how I was a-feeding the old man's stove
with the company's coal. I reckon Carbo must have made as much as two
hundred-weight of coal a week. It seems a heap to give away, but, bless
you! I never guessed that any other engineer but me ever threw coal at
that monkey. But I thought a good deal of it afterward, and I made up my
mind that every one of 'em did, and their mates too--such is human
nature. Not that we wanted to hurt the little beast, but he _was_ such a
good mark, though I never heard that any one ever hit him, he was so
quick."
"Well, sir," I said, as the engineer paused to light his pipe, "that is
the best true monkey story I've heard yet, and I guess it _is_ true. But
how did you come to get him? I should think he would have been too
valuable to be parted with."
"There's a story to that, too, Colonel," he replied. "It was a year ago,
just about this time, that the family that Carbo lived with got burned
out one windy night. P'r'aps they'd been using coal too free, seeing as
they came by it so easy. Anyway, I came up one morning on my engine, and
there the little house and the cow-shed and the little corn-crib was all
a heap of smoking ashes. It had caught fire in the night, and burned
down in twenty minutes, so the neighbors said. The poor old man was so
badly burned trying to get his cow out of the shed that he died inside
of two days; and his wife and daughters escaped in their night clothes,
but that was all they had. The neighbors took them in, but everything
they owned, except a few acres of run-down land, was burned up.
"Of course it got talked of along the line, and by-and-by it came out
that every engineer and fireman as come along had chucked chunks of coal
at that monkey on his pole. Well, the agent at K---- was a kind-hearted
chap, and no fool either, and he thought he'd get up a benefit to help
the poor old woman. So he had a handbill printed, telling how the family
had been burned out, and the old man killed, and how that all they had
left was a pet monkey. Then it went on to say that the monkey would be
raffled for at two dollars a share, and called upon every engineer and
fireman who had thrown the company's coal at the monkey to take a share
for the benefit of the widow and orphans.
"Well, sir, that handbill was circulated all along the line, and the
boys came to think how they'd been throwing away the company's coal (for
the neighbors told the whole story when the old man was dead), and they
felt mean. Then the company refused to take any shares when it was
brought to their notice, so the boys thought they'd make it right with
their consciences by buying a share with what they owed the company for
coal they'd thrown at the monkey.
"And so, as every train came up after pay-day, the boys handed in two
dollars apiece without a growl, and some of us took two shares apiece.
Then the handbill had got into the cars, and some of the passengers who
read the story bought shares; and so, when it came to be footed up, the
value of this little chap here was found to be five hundred dollars, all
paid up.
"Well, sir, we appointed a committee to conduct the raffle, and one
night I got a dispatch from Perkins, the dépôt agent at K----, saying:
'Monkey is yours. Will you take twenty dollars for him?' I wired back:
'No, nor two hundred. Keep him until I come up with No. 12.' So next day
I got him. You see, I'd been thinking a deal about this monkey, and now
I'd won him I thought he'd keep me in luck. Well, I've had him nigh on
to a year now, and I wouldn't part with him for as much money as he
brought the widow."
"I don't wonder at that," I said; "and he seems very fond of you, too.
But what became of the widow and orphans?"
"Oh, she's done finely. She bought out a small grocery, and she got so
well known, owing to her misfortune, that all the folks came to trade
with her. I drop in on her sometimes when I have to lay over for an hour
or two, and she always asks after Jocko, as she calls him; but it's such
a common monkey name that I called him Carbo, which means something; and
then she mostly cries a little, thinking of the old man. I don't know
as she thinks Carbo brought her much luck altogether, but he kept the
family in coal for a whole winter--no one would ever have thought of
throwing at a dog, even on top of a pole--and he brought five hundred
dollars that saved 'em from the poor-house.
"But here's the express signaled, so I guess you'd better get down. I've
told that story a hundred times, I reckon, and I'm 'most tired of
telling it; but I saw you was a stranger in these parts, so I didn't
mind telling it to you. Good-night to you, sir, and a pleasant journey!"
A ROLL OF HONOR.
BY G. T. LANIGAN.
Our young readers are already familiar with the stories of Kate Shelley,
Edith Baxter, and the young hero of the Wardley coal mine, which have
been told within a short time in YOUNG PEOPLE. Here are some other names
that may be added to this noble list.
Every year, on the occasion of the national fêtes, the Belgian
government makes a public distribution of rewards to persons who have
displayed remarkable courage in a good cause. At the last festival at
Brussels the Home Minister pinned a medal on the breast of a little boy
of nine, whom he rightly called "a young hero." Genin, while playing in
a field near the Sambre, had seen a little girl fall into the river, and
jumping in after her, saved her, with much difficulty, and then found
that it was his little sister that he had rescued. She had been playing
on the river's edge against their parents' strict command, and to save
her from punishment he took the blame of her disobedience on himself,
and received a severe beating like a little Spartan. His sister,
however, could not bear to see him suffer, and told the truth; and the
story being confirmed by the evidence of an eye-witness, little Genin
was sent for to Brussels, and decorated amid the cheers of a hundred
thousand people.
Charles Mahony was a boy of twelve, who was playing on the banks of the
Aire, in May last, with his two brothers, aged five and two, when they
fell into the stream, swollen with the spring floods. Charles plunged in
and brought the younger child to shore, and then swam for the elder one,
who was drowning in the middle of the torrent, but the current was too
powerful and the water too cold, and though he reached him, it was only
to sink with him.
At Ashton-under-Lyne, Edward Wilcox, a peasant boy of fourteen, heard
one night not long ago cries of distress from a canal near the house
where he lived, and running out found a woman drowning, while two men
were looking on, terrified and incapable of aiding her. Jumping into the
water, he seized her as she was sinking, and brought her ashore and
placed her in the warm bed he had just left, until he could run off for
assistance. He thus earned the medal given him by the Humane Society.
During the holiday season two American girls have shown how useful an
accomplishment swimming is. One was Fannie Coman, of Harlem, a slim
blue-eyed girl of fourteen, who, when a little girl fell from the wharf
into the river where both current and tide were strong, called to those
on shore to come to her help, and diving into the stream, brought the
child up and placed her in a boat moored off the wharf, and then swam
off to recover her slipper. The second was Emma Hamilton, a girl of
fifteen, living at Northport, Long Island, who made a gallant though
fruitless effort to save her cousin when he was seized with a cramp
while bathing, and at last recovered his body.
Two other heroes, the youngest of all, remain to be mentioned. One was a
five-year-old boy at Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, named Carey, who, when a
playmate fell into the water, held him up by the hair till assistance
reached them. The other was the elder of two very young brothers who
broke through the ice while skating at Cincinnati, and were clinging
desperately to the slippery floes while the rescuers were toiling to
reach them. "Be sure you take Willie out first!" were the only words the
elder brother said; but before assistance came the little fellows sank
together in the icy water.
These are the stories of brave boys and girls, the youngest five, the
eldest only fifteen, born some in Europe and some in America, some city
bred and delicately reared, others the children of farmers and rude
laborers. Upon each devolved, without an instant's warning, the most
sacred and awful of responsibilities--the saving of the lives of others
at the risk of one's own life. In not one case did childhood falter, and
in every instance the bravest thing was done in the wisest way.
Some of the children, doubtless, had read and admired the histories of
patriots and brave soldiers, and had wondered whether such heroes lived
nowadays, or such heroic deeds could ever again be done. And when the
need came the hero was found, and the hero was the child that had read
and wondered.
THE CHILD AND THE BIRD.
BY MARGARET SANGSTER.
"Oh, where are you going, my dear little bird?
And why do you hurry away?
Not a leaf on the pretty red maple has stirred,
In the sweet golden sunshine to-day."
"I know, little maiden, the sunshine is bright,
And the leaves are asleep on the tree,
But three times the dream of a cold winter's night
Has come to my children and me.
"So good-by to you, darling, for off we must go,
To the land where the oranges bloom,
For we birdies would freeze in the storms and the snow,
And forget how to sing in the gloom."
"Will you ever come back to your own little nest?"
"Ah, yes, when the blossoms are here,
We'll return to the orchard we all love the best,
And then we will sing to you, dear."
PIANO-PLAYING IN THE TIME OF MOZART AND BEETHOVEN.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
I hope that some of my readers will remember the history of the
piano-forte in a former number of YOUNG PEOPLE. Since then we have
looked somewhat into the lives of great composers. Now let us see to
what degree piano-forte playing had progressed when Mozart died, in
1792, and when the great master Ludwig von Beethoven was a young man
just entering on his career of work.
To begin with, let us look at the pianos of that day. Although the
harpsichord had been greatly improved upon, the keys and strings yet
needed something to aid elasticity of touch. In Bach's day it had been
the custom to strike the key, drawing the fingers _inward_ slightly, and
a suppleness of wrist, which masters think so much of at present, was
not considered valuable. But with Haydn and Mozart came a need of
something finer in the piano-forte itself, and musicians felt strongly
the necessity of an improvement in the instrument whereby they could
make more gradual effects. Many efforts to alter the strings and hammers
for this purpose proved unsuccessful, but at last the main difficulties
were overcome, and before Beethoven's death, in 1827, pianos of various
degrees of excellence were in use, with all the desired improvements. To
this more than to anything else we owe the improvement in piano-forte
playing.
[Illustration: LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN.]
At concerts during this period the piano was largely used, and also in
private houses; but lessons from the best masters were rare, and, unless
the pupil designed to pursue a musical career, few except the leading
people of society studied piano-forte music. In general, the interest
in it was not great. Poor Beethoven used often to writhe under what he
considered personal slights. A story is told of his once being at the
house of Prince ---- with Ries, the famous musician. They were invited
to play together, and while in the midst of their performance a young
nobleman at the lower end of the salon talked quite loudly with his
companion. Beethoven glared at him once or twice in vain, and finally
lifting Ries's hands from the piano, he called out, "Stop! I will not
play for such dogs!" and away he went in spite of every attempt to an
apology.
Such interruptions to music in a drawing-room occur often enough now,
but in the beginning of this century, as I said, piano-forte
performances were confined to a much smaller number, and naturally
appreciation was not general. On the other hand, if a child showed any
ability, it was kept very closely to study. Mozart had pupils who
thought nothing of five hours' practice a day, and Beethoven, when a
boy, was kept to the piano for hours by means of a good beating every
time he left it.
The misery of a musical career at that time was certainly lack of
general understanding of the art. Musicians had to procure for
themselves noble _patrons_--rich ladies or gentlemen who would help them
on in their divine art, patronize their concerts, get pensions for them,
or in some cases offer them homes where they might work unmolested by
debt and other domestic trouble. In this way Beethoven lived a great
part of the time at the house of Princess Lichnowsky in Vienna. Mozart
was also indebted to some friends for hospitality and influence, and
indeed where the public were so often unappreciative, private patronage
had to be sought for, in order that the world might have many of the
noble harmonies we possess to-day.
In those days the famous composers or musicians were the only teachers,
so that any young student who cared for his work had admirable
opportunity to improve. Mozart gave lessons of great length, and seems
to have enjoyed them heartily. Haydn had many pupils, one of whom was
Beethoven, and we read that he paid Haydn eighteen cents a lesson!
During that period which includes the last years of Mozart's life and
the first of Beethoven's, between 1780 and 1792, the way was being laid
for Beethoven's grandest work, and yet we can hardly call it a
transition state; that is to say, a period of time when any art is
undergoing a change which shall effect its whole purpose. But with
Beethoven came the perfection of the _Sonata_ and the _Symphony_, and
all performers, whether in public or private, who attempted his works,
were compelled to understand technique and the use of their fingers on
the keyboard, so that we may say, justly enough, that with Beethoven we
seem almost to begin a new era in piano-forte music.
I have told you the step upward old Bach made; then Haydn went still
further, preparing the way for Beethoven's perfect work. Mozart's
brilliancy and delicacy both as a performer and a composer helped the
movement on in every way, and during the first quarter of this century a
number of men came into fame as masters in execution and composition as
well. Indeed, with the beginning of this century piano-playing had
reached a period of excellence which allowed a master to indulge all his
feelings and ideas in composing for this instrument.
In 1787, Beethoven, then a lad of about seventeen, visited Mozart in
Vienna. It was about the time that _Don Giovanni_ was being produced,
and Mozart's mind was full of its importance, so that the visit seemed
of much less consequence to him than to Beethoven. The latter seated
himself at the piano, Mozart standing by waiting good-humoredly for one
of the usual performances of "prodigies" whose parents destine them for
the public. But the lad played so brilliantly that Mozart could not but
believe that he was executing a well-prepared piece. Beethoven felt
this, and eagerly begged Mozart to give him a theme and let him vary
upon it.
To this Mozart consented, and presently the room seemed to vibrate with
the rush of harmony beneath Beethoven's touch. Mozart listened in silent
admiration, and going softly upon tiptoe into the next room, said to
some friends assembled there:
"Pay attention to him. He will make a noise in the world some day or
other"[1]--a prophecy soon fulfilled.
[1] This story is told in many ways, often more elaborately, but this
seems to be the correct version.
Beethoven's touch was strong and masterly, but rather heavy, and as his
deafness increased, his performances on the piano were almost painful to
listen to. His left hand often remained unconsciously on the wrong
chord. Mozart never lost the brilliancy of his playing. Haydn, it is
said, made the piano "sing," but to the musicians who followed Beethoven
we owe the perfection of piano-forte playing and instruction. Moscheles,
Mendelssohn, Chopin, and others realized the highest art in execution.
Not very long ago a lady was recounting to me scenes in which, according
to her description, Mendelssohn and Moscheles performed actual marvels
at the piano, the delicacy and lightness of both their styles reminding
her "of a forest full of delicious birds."
In the period of which I speak now--that is, the beginning of this
century--you will remember how little public appreciation of art
existed, and how hard the greatest men toiled for all they obtained. But
love of art is powerful. It will carry any one of you over the roughest
places, and in looking at your well-arranged exercises, try to remember
those patient, eager students of eighty years ago, to whom every bit of
help came so slowly that we of to-day ought to think our pathway cleared
of every thorn.
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[2]
[2] Begun in No. 146, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY W. L. ALDEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," "THE CRUISE OF THE 'GHOST,'" ETC., ETC.
CHAPTER XI.
It sometimes blows very hard on the St. Lawrence. It blew especially
hard the morning the young canoeists returned to the banks of the great
river from their excursion up the Jacques Cartier. As far as they could
see, the St. Lawrence was covered with white-caps. The wind blew
directly up the river, and a heavy sea was breaking on the little island
which lay opposite the mouth of the Jacques Cartier. Paddling against
such a wind and sea would have been nearly impossible, and the boys
resolved to wait until the wind should go down.
The day was a long one, for there was nothing to do but to watch the men
at work in the saw-mill, and to look out on the river to see if the wind
and sea had gone down. It continued to blow hard all day and all night,
and when Harry awoke his comrades at five o'clock the next morning it
was blowing as hard as ever.
Nobody wanted to spend another day at the saw-mill. Although the wind
was blowing up the river, the tide was ebbing, and would help the canoes
to make some little progress, in spite of the wind and sea. So after a
hurried breakfast the fleet got under way at six o'clock, and gallantly
breasted the waves.
The boys found that paddling against so strong a head-wind was harder
than they had imagined that it could be. It was almost impossible to
force the upper blade of the paddle through the air when trying to make
a stroke, and it was only by turning the two paddle-blades at right
angles to one another, so that the upper blade would present its edge to
the wind, that this could be done. The seas were so large that the two
canoes which were leading would often be entirely invisible to the other
canoes, though they were but a few yards apart. The _Twilight_, as was
her habit when driven against head-seas, threw spray all over herself,
and the _Dawn_ exhibited her old vice of trying to dive through the
seas. The other canoes were dry enough, but they presented more
resistance to the wind, and hence were harder to paddle.
Little was said during the first half-hour, for everybody was working
too hard at the paddle to have any breath to spare for talking; but
finally Harry, who was in the advance with Charley, slackened his
stroke, and hailing Joe and Tom, asked them how they were getting along.
"Wet as usual," replied Joe. "The water is pretty near up to my waist in
the canoe, and two waves out of three wash right over her. But I don't
care; I'll paddle as long as anybody else will."
"My canoe will float, unless the bladders burst," said Tom, "but I'll
have to stop and bail out before long, or she'll be so heavy that I
can't stir her."
"Never mind," cried Joe. "Look at the splendid time we're making. We've
come nearly a quarter of a mile, and that means that we're paddling at
the rate of half a mile an hour. At this rate we'll get somewhere in the
course of the summer."
"There isn't any use in tiring ourselves out for nothing," exclaimed
Harry. "Boys, we'll make that sand-spit right ahead of us, and wait
there till the wind goes down."
"All right," said Joe. "Only it's a pity to go ashore when the tide is
helping us along so beautifully. That is, the Commodore said it would
help us, and of course he is right."
"No reflections on the Commodore will be allowed," cried Harry. "Bail
out your canoes, you two fellows, and Charley and I will wait for you."
Joe was very anxious to go ashore and rest, for he was nearly tired out;
but he was not willing to let Harry know that he was tired. The two boys
had been disputing while on the Jacques Cartier as to their respective
strength, and Harry had boasted that he could endure twice as much
fatigue as Joe. This was true enough, for Harry was older and much more
muscular, but Joe was determined to paddle as long as he could swing his
arms rather than admit that he was the weaker.
The sandy spit where Harry proposed to rest was half a mile farther on,
but before it was reached poor Joe managed to sprain the muscles of his
left wrist. He was compelled to stop paddling except just hard enough to
keep the _Dawn_'s head to the sea, and to call out to the Commodore that
he must be allowed to go ashore at once.
Now the north shore of the river, near which the canoes were paddling,
was a rocky precipice, rising perpendicularly directly from the water,
and at least two hundred feet high. To land on such a shore was of
course impossible, and the sandy spit toward which the fleet was
paddling was the only possible landing-place within sight, unless the
canoes were to turn round and run back to the Jacques Cartier.
In this state of things Harry, after consulting with Charley and Tom,
resolved to tow the _Dawn_. Her painter was made fast to the stern-post
of the _Sunshine_, and Harry, bracing his feet and setting his teeth
tight together, began the task of forcing two heavy canoes through the
rough water. He found that he could make progress slowly, but Joe could
not steer the _Dawn_ except by paddling, and as he was able to do very
little of that, she kept yawing about in a most unpleasant way, which
greatly added to Harry's labor.
Suddenly Joe had a happy thought: he set his "dandy" and hauled the
sheet taut, so that the boom was parallel with the keel. The effect of
this was that whenever the canoe's head fell off, the sail filled and
brought her up again. Joe was relieved of the task of steering, and
Harry was able to tow the _Dawn_ much more easily than before.
The other canoeists followed Joe's example, and, setting their
"dandies," greatly lessened their labor. The canoes kept their heads to
the wind of their own accord, and everybody wondered why so obvious a
method of fighting a head-wind had not sooner been thought of.
It was eight o'clock when the sandy spit was reached. The tide had been
ebbing for some hours, and the sand was warm and dry, except near the
edge of the water. The canoes were hauled some distance over the sand to
a spot where there was a clump of bushes, and where it was reasonable to
suppose that they would be perfectly safe even at high tide. A second
breakfast was then cooked and eaten, after which the boys set out to
explore their camping-ground.
It was simply a low sand-bank, about a hundred feet wide at widest part,
and running out two or three hundred feet into the river. As has been
said, the north bank of the river was a perpendicular precipice, but now
that the tide was out, there was a path at the foot of the rocks by
means of which any one could walk from the sand-spit to a ravine a
quarter of a mile away, and thus reach the meadows lying back of the
precipice. This path was covered with water at high tide; but as it was
sure to be passable for three or four hours, Harry and Tom set out to
procure provisions for the day.
The fleet was wind-bound all that day, for neither the wind nor the sea
showed the slightest intention of going down. Harry and Tom returned,
after an hour's absence, with bread, butter, eggs, milk, and
strawberries, and with the cheerful information that, in the opinion of
a gloomy farmer, the wind would continue to blow for at least two days
more.
After resting and sleeping on the soft sand, the boys began to find the
time hang heavily on their hands. They overhauled their sails and
rigging, putting them in complete order. Charley mended a pair of
trousers belonging to Joe in a really artistic way, and Joe, with his
left arm in a sling, played "mumble-te-peg" with Harry. Tom collected
fire-wood, and when he had got together more than enough to cook two or
three meals, occupied himself by trying to roll a heavy log into a
position near the canoes, where it could be used as a seat or a table.
The sand was strewn with logs, big and little, and Harry proposed that
as many logs as possible should be got together, so that an enormous
camp fire could be started. It was a happy idea, for it gave the boys
employment for the greater part of the day. It became a matter of pride
with them to bring the biggest and heaviest of the logs up to the
fire-place. Some of them could only be stirred with levers, and moved
with the help of rollers cut from smaller logs. Whenever a particularly
big log was successfully moved, the boys were encouraged to attack a
still bigger one. Thus they finally collected an amount of fire-wood
sufficient to make a blaze bright enough to be seen a dozen miles at
night.
When they were tired of rolling logs, Tom went fishing, but caught
nothing, while Charley cooked the dinner and watched the rising tide,
half afraid that the water would reach the fire and put it out before he
could get dinner ready. The tide rose so high that it came within two or
three yards of the fire, and almost as near to the canoes, but it spared
the dinner. When the tide was nearly full, only a small part of the
sand-spit was out of water, and the path along the foot of the precipice
was completely covered, so that the waves broke directly against the
rocks.
[Illustration: AROUND THE CAMP FIRE.]
"It's lucky for us that the tide doesn't cover the whole of this place,"
remarked Charley, as he placed the dinner on a large log which served as
a table, and beat a tattoo on the frying-pan as a signal to Tom to give
up fishing and come to dinner. "I should hate to have to take to the
canoes again in this wind."
"It's lucky that the tide will ebb again," said Harry, "for we're cut
off from the shore as the tide is now, unless we could climb up the
rocks, and I don't believe we could."
"It's all right," said Tom, putting his fishing-tackle in his canoe,
"provided the tide doesn't come up in the night and float the canoes
off."
"Oh, that can't happen," exclaimed Harry. "The tide's turned already,
and doesn't reach the canoes."
"I'm going to sleep on the sand," remarked Joe. "It's softer than the
bottom of my canoe, and there isn't any sign of rain."
"You don't catch me sleeping anywhere except in my canoe," said Harry.
"There isn't any bed more comfortable than the _Sunshine_."
"Can you turn over in her at night?" asked Joe.
"Well, yes; that is, if I do it very slow and easy."
"The bottom board is a nice soft piece of wood, isn't it?" continued
Joe.
"It's pine-wood," replied Harry, shortly. "Besides, I sleep on
cushions."
"And you like to lie stretched out perfectly straight, don't you?"
"I like it well enough--much better than I like to see a young officer
trying to chaff his Commodore," returned Harry, trying to look very
stern.
"Oh, I'm not trying to chaff anybody!" exclaimed Joe. "I was only
wondering if your canoe was as comfortable as a coffin would be, and I
believe it is--every bit as comfortable."
When the time came for "turning in," Joe spread his water-proof blanket
on the sand close by the side of his canoe. He had dragged her several
yards away from the rest of the fleet, so as to be able to make his bed
on the highest and driest part of the sand, and to shelter himself from
the wind by lying in the lee of his boat. The other boys preferred to
sleep in their canoes, which were placed side by side and close
together. The blazing logs made the camp almost as light as if the sun
were shining, and the boys lay awake a long while talking together, and
hoping that the wind would die out before morning.
Joe, whose sprained wrist pained him a little, was the last to fall
asleep. While he had expressed no fears about the tide (for he did not
wish to be thought nervous), he was a little uneasy about it. He had
noticed that when the tide rose during the day it would have completely
covered the sand-spit had it risen only a few inches higher. Long after
his comrades had fallen asleep it occurred to Joe that it would have
been a wise precaution to make the canoes fast to the bushes, so that
they could not be carried away; but he did not venture to wake the boys
merely in order to give them advice which they probably would not
accept. So he kept silent, and toward ten o'clock fell asleep.
In the course of the night he began to dream. He thought that he was a
member of an expedition trying to reach the North Pole in canoes, and
that he was sleeping on the ice. He felt that his feet and back were
slowly freezing, and that a polar-bear was nudging him in the ribs
occasionally, to see if he was alive and ready to be eaten. This was
such an uncomfortable situation that Joe woke up, and for a few moments
could not understand where he was.
The wind had gone down, the stars had come out, and the tide had come
up. Joe was lying in a shallow pool of water, and his canoe, which was
almost afloat, was gently rubbing against him. He sprung up and called
to his companions. There was no answer. The fire was out, but by the
starlight Joe could see that the whole sand-spit was covered with water,
and that neither the other boys nor their canoes were in sight. The tide
was still rising, and Joe's canoe was beginning to float away, when he
seized her, threw his blankets into her, and stepping aboard, sat down,
and was gently floated away.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SOME HINTS ON DOG TEACHING.
BY EDWARD I. STEVENSON.
Any reader of the YOUNG PEOPLE who owns a dog, and who truly appreciates
that animal's best qualities, should not suppose that the great end in
educating his pet is getting him so familiar with half a dozen "tricks"
that he will meekly perform them to the end of his life. Tricks are well
enough as far as they go, but the grand object in teaching Towser or
Jack should be the development in him of just as much general
wide-awakeness and intelligence as is possible. One does not want by his
chair in the winter, or on a summer-day's stroll a French performing
poodle. He wants an affectionate, obedient, honest comrade--a comrade
occasionally a servant, but always a friend.
This platform being adopted by Jack's master, let Jack himself from the
first moment that he is taken in hand be made to feel two things. First,
that the teaching is thoroughly a business that you and he are together
interested in, and that its processes are all good fun and frolic, not
work; secondly, that it is an affair of rewards and punishments. Jack's
teaching must also be carried on with great regularity from day to day,
and during only a few minutes of each day; no more. That Jack's teacher
must be patient and good-tempered at his task, and that he must try to
bring to it all the tact he possesses, need scarcely be said.
Let us suppose that one of the readers of the YOUNG PEOPLE has bought or
has had given him a puppy of any species whatsoever--one need not here
go into the much-vexed question of the relative intelligence of
different breeds. Any dog, even if it be a "cur of low degree," is
capable of high education, provided his schooling is begun early enough.
You may begin to teach your puppy just as soon as you notice that he is
running about freely and playing either by himself or with his kennel
kin. Do not try to teach him earlier. If he be of the Newfoundland, the
mastiff, or the St. Bernard species, his thirteenth week should mark the
beginning of his education. Before this date you must content yourself
with letting your pet see as much of you as possible each day. Permit
him to scramble over you; feed him yourself; talk to him all that you
can, so that he may early become entirely accustomed to the sound of
your voice and his own name. When he is disposed to play, do you play
with him.
The first direct step in his education should be to teach him, as a
matter of duty, to come to you whenever called. As a matter of liking he
has probably acquired this habit already. Take a dozen bits of cracker,
stand fifteen or twenty feet distant, and call him by name, as "Come
here, Jack." If he comes without delay, give him at once one of the
pieces of cracker, pet him very enthusiastically, and make as much ado
as possible over his arrival. Next walk off as before and repeat the
process. If, however, he refuses to come after you have called him twice
or thrice, say very decidedly, "Jack, if you do not come I shall whip
you." Go up to him and administer one single cut with your whip. It is
well to use one whip throughout all your dog's pupilage, to let him know
by sight that particular whip, and also that the words "whip" and
"whipping" refer to it.
After you have struck him once, go directly back to where you were
standing, and call him as kindly as you can, holding out his reward. Now
he may be afraid to come to you, recollecting the incident of a moment
earlier. But he must never be whipped twice in succession. Go to him
without anger in your face, pet him, play with him (I don't mean romp
with him), until you see that his temporary dread of his master is gone,
and that his spirits are recovered. Thereupon leave him, and try the
cracker persuasion as before. He will probably come readily enough now.
If not, you may this time use your whip; but recollect that while he is
so young, his punishments should be alternated, as I have suggested, or
you may do any high-spirited animal mischief without remedy.
When your dog is grown older, and has had time to develop actual
stubbornness, the case is different. Be exceedingly careful not to cow
the spirit of a young and high-bred dog when little past puppyhood by
harsh words or chastisement. In fact, all dog teaching perfectly
illustrates the old phrase that "love is better than lashes."
After being taught to come at call, Jack should be schooled to lie down
on command. Stand beside him; put one hand on each side of his head
gently but firmly, then say, very quietly and clearly, "Jack, lie down;
lie down, Jack," at the same time, pressing steadily downward upon his
head. He will perhaps somewhat reluctantly crouch and settle upon the
ground. Place his fore-paws out in position before him, his nose lying
between them; allow him to remain thus a few seconds, if necessary
keeping your hands upon his head; follow this with a decisive "Get up,
Jack," which act he will probably perform of his own accord. If not, put
your hand gently under him, and raise him on all fours. Do not use your
whip in teaching a dog to lie down or rise.
Let us suppose that Jack's fourth acquirement is to be the familiar one
called "fetching and carrying." Speak the name of the article employed
as distinctly and frequently as possible during the lesson. Show it to
him in your hands, if, for example, it be a stick, a hat, or an
umbrella, saying several times over, chattily, "That is a stick, Jack;
see the stick." Open his mouth, and closing his jaw upon the stick, let
him learn how to hold it. After this, walk along a little distance, he
accompanying you with the stick. If he drops it, replace it. Be
exceedingly patient as to this particular misdemeanor. Then throw the
cane, stick, or hat to a point a few yards beyond. Go with Jack to it,
telling him what you are about, pick it up, put it in his mouth gently,
and return with him to the starting-place. Throw aside the article,
reward and encourage. Repeat this process ten times in the morning and
ten in the evening. The whip is not to be used in this lesson. When he
is older, and exhibits laziness, you may refer to it or get it, and,
with discretion, refresh his memory.
None of the foregoing first lessons must be repeated more than ten times
of a morning or evening; you will perplex and confuse him otherwise. One
must also be on guard for signs of this in the pet while teaching, and
give him ever the idea that you are disposed to meet him halfway in
such a difficulty.
Leaping over a cane, going to find and close an open door whence a
draught assails you, letter-carrying, and all more elaborate acts are to
be taught a dog on this same principle of talking about the feat to him,
and going and doing it with him in the first instances, then dividing
the matter between you, lastly seeing that he does it alone, rewarding
and punishing throughout. See to it that punishment be one or two cuts
with a whip, not too stinging, and that you drop the whip immediately
they are given. Never teach with whip in hand.
"Speaking" is a matter entirely of rewards. The whip is useless. You can
also readily get him to use a particular whimper when he is thirsty,
with a little tact and pains. Be absolutely truthful with Jack. Never
ask him if he wants to walk, to drink, to have his dinner, or anything
of the sort, unless you intend gratifying him at once.
Try and keep him at your side as much as possible during the day, and
talk to him--I had nearly said _with_ him--all you can. Before long you
will get to feeling that if you should happen to remark to any person
near you, "What a beautiful day!" you would not fall over in
astonishment to hear Jack or Carlo quietly lift up his great head, and
reply, "Yes, splendid; and I should like to take a walk with you."
[Illustration: A FIRST GLIMPSE INTO THE WORLD.]
BESSY'S FAIRY GODMOTHER.
BY JULIA K. HILDRETH.
Little Bessy believed in fairies, although her mother smiled and shook
her head when she asked, "Did _you_ ever see a fairy?"
At the time my story begins Bessy sat on the window-sill with a great
book open on her knee, straining her eyes to catch the last words of the
most delightful story she had ever read. It was all about fairy
godmothers, shoes filled with gold, and other wonderful things to be
found in such books.
As the light died out of the sky, and a soft purple mist settled down
upon the hill-tops, she sighed, and closed her book, for the story was
finished.
Bessy's father and mother were away from home, and she was alone that
evening. The sound of voices and the rattling of dishes came from the
kitchen. The crickets had begun their evening song; the lanes were
growing dim and mysterious. Bessy could imagine a fairy head peeping
from every tall flower by the garden gate, and the Queen of them all
seemed to bow to her from the tall white lily in the pansy bed.
Bessy thought if ever fairy appeared to mortal child, it would be on
such a night as this. And now, to crown all, just at the end of the lane
appeared a light, moving backward and forward. First it would bob down,
and then up quite high among the bushes.
At last Bessy could bear it no longer, and made up her mind to solve the
mystery. So she stepped out of the window on the porch, and then, softly
over the grass, for she was afraid Ann would hear her and call her back.
She said to herself, "If it _should_ be a fairy glow-worm lighting the
fairies to their dancing ground, Ann would frighten them away, she is so
big and heavy."
So down the path she went on tiptoe. Hardly daring to breathe, she
pushed open the gate, and looked down the lane.
Bessy thought the light had disappeared. But by-and-by it came again,
moving in the same strange manner. Although she trembled a great deal,
she went bravely on. It was only a short lane leading to the main road,
and shut in on one side by a large clump of trees. It was at the foot of
one of these trees that the light seemed to be standing now.
At first Bessy crept softly on, keeping it in sight. How dark it had
grown! The light shone from the bushes like a fallen star. When Bessy
was within a few feet of the light, she was astonished to see a face
peering out of the darkness, its eyes fixed on her with anything but a
pleasant expression. The light went out, and Bessy, wishing she was
safe at home, turned to scamper back, when a heavy hand was laid on her
shoulder, and the light flashed in her face.
She now saw it was a lantern carried by a very small and disagreeable
old woman dressed in black, and her head covered with a red
handkerchief. In one hand she held the lantern, and under her arm was a
crooked stick.
Now when Bessy saw the stick, she was sure it was a fairy godmother, for
the old woman was exactly like the description of the fairy in her new
book. The ugly black stick was her wand. So she whispered, timidly,
"Are you a fairy godmother?"
"A what?" growled the old woman.
"A fairy godmother," repeated Bessy.
"Oh, yes, yes; to be sure I'm a fairy. If you tell any one you saw me,
I'll bring bad luck on your house."
"Please, please don't," sobbed Bessy. "I'll never, never tell any one."
"Well, shut up, then," said the fairy, "and don't make such a noise."
Bessy was not frightened now, for she remembered that fairy godmothers
were always cross, and said hateful things just before they granted
three wishes. So she said, softly,
"Will you please give me three wishes, madam?"
"I'll give you three slaps if you don't get out right off," grumbled the
old fairy.
"Please, please," prayed Bessy. "I'll do anything you tell me if you
will give me three wishes."
"I don't believe you. You ain't got spunk enough."
"Oh yes, I have," said Bessy. "Try me."
"Where do you live?" asked the fairy.
"Just down the lane, close by."
"You do, do you? I didn't see no house," said the fairy, in a startled
voice.
"That's because mother and father are out, and there's no light in the
front room," replied Bessy.
"Are you all alone?" asked the fairy.
"No," replied Bessy; "Ann and Lucy are at home."
"Who's them?"
"Mamma's two servants."
"Any men at the house?"
"Not now," answered Bessy. "Mother took Peter to drive. They'll be back
soon, I think."
The old fairy turned out the light and sat down on the ground; then she
pulled Bessy down by her, and put her hand on the little girl's
shoulder. "Now remember," she began, "you promise never to tell
nobody."
"I promise true and sure I never will, if you'll give me three wishes
to-night."
But Bessy wondered if all fairies smelled so of tobacco.
"Will you do just what I tell you?" asked the fairy.
"Yes," said Bessy, nodding her head very hard, "I will."
"Let's hear your three wishes, then," growled the fairy.
"First, I want my shoes and papa's and mamma's filled with gold. Then I
want an invisible cap for myself, and then--"
"Now stop," interrupted the old fairy; "you've had four a'ready."
"No," answered Bessy, "that's only two. Papa's and mamma's and my shoes
filled with gold is one wish, you know."
"Well, go on."
"Let me see," pondered Bessy. "I guess you may give me happiness for the
rest of my life, and that's all."
"All right," returned the fairy godmother, "you'll find them waiting for
you at three in the morning, if you do what I tell you to."
"I'm ready," said Bessy.
"You just run home, and bring me the big key of the front door."
"But papa said I must not touch that. Besides, he would miss it, for he
always locks the door himself, and hangs the key up by the hat stand."
"I sha'n't keep it," said the fairy. "I'll give it right back. You see,
if I didn't know the size of the key-hole, I mightn't send a fairy small
enough to go through."
"Oh!" said Bessy.
"Is the door fastened any other way?" asked the old fairy.
"Yes," said Bessy; "a big bolt at the bottom, but it's broken. Papa said
he must send a man to fix it, but he didn't."
"All right. You run as fast as you can, and don't let any one see you,
or the spell will be broken. Remember."
"I know," replied Bessy; and she sprang up and flew down the lane,
through the gate, and up the steps. She could hear Ann and Lucy still
talking and laughing in the kitchen, but no one seemed to be thinking of
her; so she drew the key out softly, and ran back, thinking how
delighted her father and mother would be in the morning. Bessy found the
old fairy waiting in the same place.
[Illustration: "SHE SNATCHED THE KEY, AND SAID, 'I'LL BE BACK IN A
MOMENT.'"]
She snatched the key, and said, "I'll be back in a moment," and vanished
into the darkness. Bessy was almost wild with excitement, but she kept
as quiet as she could, and presently the fairy re-appeared.
Her first words astonished Bessy:
"Have you a dog?"
"Yes," answered Bessy, "but he's the best dog that ever lived. He never
bites any but bad people, and his name is Watch."
"What do you do with him at night?"
"Why, we let him run around the garden to keep away thieves."
"You do, do you? That's right," said the old fairy. "You just give him
this fairy meat; it will keep him from barking at the fairy I send, and
scaring her away."
"Yes, Madam Fairy," returned Bessy; "I'll remember, and I'll put my
shoes and papa's and mamma's all in a row by the door, and please tell
your fairy servant to fill them up to the brim with gold. Remember."