[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 73. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, March 22, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE LUCK OF THE HORSESHOE.--DRAWN BY W. R. YEAGER.]
TOMMY TUCKER'S HORSESHOE.
BY MRS. FRANK McCARTHY.
Tommy Tucker lives on a "farm" in the city of New York, near the Central
Park. Some people make fun of Tommy's way of living, and call his place
the "sunken lots," and say his family are squatters; but it makes very
little difference to Tommy what remarks were made about his home or his
people, so long as they were happy. And they were happy for a very long
time, so happy that they didn't know what it was to be miserable, and it
makes a wonderful difference to be able to tell one from the other. Up
to the beginning of this winter they had the longest run of luck on
record in any family in that neighborhood. A long while since, a horse
had been turned out to die in a lot near the Tucker's. It wasn't such a
very old horse, but it was dreadfully sick, and something was the
matter with its windpipe, so that Mr. Tucker heard it wheezing away
while he was at work on the farm. He had a very kind heart, and always
did what he could for poor dumb creatures, as well as those that could
tell what was the matter with them; and what with kind treatment and a
wonderful skill Mr. Tucker had with animals, that horse came around so
that you'd hardly know it from a spirited charger of Mr. Croesus--a
gentleman who lives up in that neighborhood. It grew so strong that it
was able to drag a cart-load of vegetables down town to Mr. Tucker's
customers, and Mr. Tucker was able to put another lot or two under
cultivation. And if the lots were a little rough and sunken, it was very
pretty to see them full of "green things a-growing." Up to this last
winter there was almost always something to sell, and pretty soon after
Mr. Tucker cured his horse he got a cow. She wasn't a first-class cow
when Mr. Tucker first traded off some pigs for her, and gave some silver
to boot out of Mother Tucker's stocking. What little milk she had seemed
to be turned to gall, and even that couldn't be got from her until she
was tied to the side of the house; then she would have kicked the whole
mansion down if it hadn't been founded on a rock, like the wise man's
house Mr. Tucker read about in the Bible. Mr. Tucker and Tommy think
there are only two books worth reading in the whole world: one is the
Bible, and the other is _Robinson Crusoe_. Tommy hadn't minded depending
on his goats for milk, because it seemed so much like Crusoe's way of
living; but Mrs. Tucker and Tommy's three little brothers liked cow's
milk the best; for one thing, there was so much more of it, and Tommy's
three little brothers had such excellent appetites. For Mr. Tucker's
wisdom extended to the udders of the cow, and pretty soon she was almost
as good as an Alderney cow around the corner, so called, Mr. Tucker
said, because she belonged to an Alderman.
Tommy Tucker's family prospered exceedingly. The horse drew more and
more vegetables to market, the cow gave more and more milk, the hens
laid more and more eggs, and the cheery chink in Mother Tucker's
stocking became more and more musical to the ear, until the last winter
set in. Then the Tucker luck, which was proverbial in that neighborhood,
suddenly took an evil turn.
First, and worst, Mr. Tucker fell on the ice and broke his leg. You may
know it was a particular kind of ice that could bring Mr. Tucker down.
It was about a dozen layers thick, and very treacherous. The winter had
closed in some time before in a very unusual way. It was bitter cold,
day in and day out; the heavens opened, and the snow fell, and opened
again, and more snow came down, and kept on opening, and more snow kept
falling, until the familiar gullies were all filled up, and the country
around there grew white and level and changed, so that Tommy wondered
sometimes if the world had lost its reckoning, and stopped turning when
it reached the north pole.
And it gave Tommy a dreadful sickly feeling to know that his father's
leg _could_ break. It wasn't natural to see him lying on the bed in the
corner, when he had always been up and doing. Nothing ever seemed so far
gone that his father couldn't fetch it around, and it shook Tommy's
confidence considerably to see the obstinacy of that leg. Tommy had
always gone to bed before his father, and his father had always got up
before Tommy, so that it was a new experience to Tommy to see his father
down.
It took the heart out of all of them, and everything went wrong. It went
on freezing, snowing, and blowing outside; and do what Tommy could, the
live stock began to give out. That charity waif of a horse yielded to
the weakness in his windpipe again, and sprawled his legs and hung his
head in the most ungrateful way; the cow went dry; two of the best pigs
got frost-bitten, so that their squeal mingled with the melancholy
soughing of the north wind around the Tucker mansion; and the hens
wouldn't lay an egg for Mr. Tucker, though the doctor had particularly
ordered it.
And about that doctor: Tommy used to dread to see him come, for instead
of brightening things up, he made them gloomier. He took some of the
cheery chink out of Mother Tucker's stocking every time he came, and Mr.
Tucker seemed none the better for it, but lay with his face to the wall
for hours together, and wouldn't read any book in the Bible but Job; and
Tommy's three little brothers went on eating just the same as when milk
was plenty and times were good.
The music in Mother Tucker's stocking got away down to the toe; and one
morning, when Mr. Tucker had no appetite for anything, and Tommy's three
little brothers had an appetite for everything, even their mother's poor
share of what was left, Tommy saw the shadow of a big wolf called Hunger
prowling around the door-sill, and out he ran and down the road,
frightened, and sobbing as if his heart would break. He thought nothing
of the poor shivering brutes that were left to his care, or thought they
might as well all starve together. Luck was against them; there was no
use trying any more; when all at once, over in the middle of the road,
he saw through his blinding tears something round and shining. It wasn't
a gold piece, nor one of silver, but he plunged through a snow-bank and
over a ditch to get it. He dug it out of a chunk of ice, and cut his
hands and tore his finger-nails; and his honest little face took the
keen and hungry exultation of a miner's just then, though it was neither
silver nor gold, but an old battered-out horseshoe.
For all the music in Mother Tucker's stocking hadn't helped his father's
leg, but Tommy had heard say that a horseshoe honestly found was the
best bit of luck to stumble on in the world.
He warmed the cold bit of metal against his heart, and ran home with it
as fast as he could, never stopping until he reached his father's bed.
"Cheer up, Pop!" he cried. "See! Everything'll come right now. I've
found a horseshoe."
Poor Mr. Tucker turned to look at it with a sickly sort of smile, but
the hope that illumined his boy's face lent a feeble glow to his own.
"Heaven bless the boy!" he said. "I'm very weak, I suppose. But hang it
up where I can see it."
Mother Tucker fastened it to a beam over the foot of the bed, having the
good cry over it she'd been longing for, and out Tommy ran to see to the
live stock.
He rubbed that horse into such a glow that before he left him the wheeze
in his windpipe wasn't worth mentioning, and he held his head and legs
up in the style of Mr. Croesus' steed; then he fed the cow, and drove
the hens around to the manure heap, where they could keep warm in the
steaming side next the sun; and while he was hard at work he heard a
terrible racket up the road, and he thought it must be Mr. Croesus
himself shouting and screaming for dear life, while his charger was
flying along on the wings of the wind. Tommy dropped his pitchfork, and
got there just in time to feel the hot breath from the runaway's
nostrils, and make a spring for the bridle. They all went plunging along
together a bit, then came to a stand-still, trembling all over, all of
them. What was Tommy's delight to find that instead of Mr. Croesus, it
was only their old doctor! He trembled more than his horse, and puffed
like a grampus.
"Well done, sonny," he said. "I might have been in a worse plight than
your father, if it hadn't been for you. My horse never cut up such a
tantrum before."
Tommy knew what it was; it was the horseshoe. Something had to be done
to soften that doctor's heart. Tommy plucked up courage to beg of him to
take no more music from his mother's stocking, seeing it was away down
to the toe.
"Why, no, sonny," said the doctor; "I'll take none out, but I'll put
some in."
After that scare with the horse, nothing would do but Tommy must go
around with the doctor to take care of it, and the doctor made a bargain
with Tommy that paid him handsomely for three or four hours every day.
When Tommy reached home that night he found his father propped up in bed
making a supper off of new-laid eggs. His father said it was driving the
hens round on the sunny side of the farm, but Tommy stuck to it that it
was the horseshoe. After that it was like the house that Jack built. The
hens began to lay; Pop began to eat and get well, and read the Psalms
instead of Job; the cow had a pretty calf, and began to give lots of
milk; the winter began to break; and the doctor began telling the Tucker
family of a noble way of squatting out West that beat their way all to
nothing, and how there was lots of land out there considerably better
than the sunken lots, and how, instead of watching one lazy horse, that
wouldn't run away without there was a providence in it, Tommy might have
a whole drove of chargers like Mr. Croesus', and Mr. Tucker might
raise millions of bushels of golden grain, and he shouldn't wonder if
Tommy would be President yet, and his three little brothers feeding away
at a public crib that never gives out.
Tommy says it's all the horseshoe, but the doctor's made a sum of it in
this way:
PXP=P.
Pluck multiplied by Perseverance equals Prosperity. The doctor says the
example is to be followed in a general sort of way, but principally by
stopping a runaway horse when there's an old coward of a doctor behind
him.
SOMETHING ABOUT SHIPS.
BY LIEUTENANT J. A. LOCKWOOD.
After the hull of a ship is built, she is launched before her spars are
put in. This launching is usually done stern foremost; sometimes bow
foremost, and, in very narrow rivers, side foremost. The _Great Eastern_
was launched side foremost in the river Thames.
Under the general name of spars are included the masts, bowsprit, yards,
booms, and gaffs of a ship. It will not be necessary to inform the boys
who live near our seaports what masts and yards are; but perhaps some of
America's future admirals, who have yet to see their first ship, will be
interested in knowing that a mast is a stick perpendicular to the deck,
and yards are sticks to which sails are bent, and are at right angles
with the masts; the bowsprit is a stick projecting over the bow to carry
sail forward.
Each of the three masts of all but very small vessels consists of a
number of sticks one above another. The "heel" of the topmast comes a
little below the "head" of the lower mast, and is secured by a "cap," a
sort of iron band, and a bar, called a "fid." Above the topmast comes
the top-gallant-mast, and above that the royal-mast.
At the head of the lower mast of a ship is a platform called the "top."
Tops have usually holes in them, called the "lubbers' hole," large
enough to permit a man to crawl through. Jack, however, scorns to make
use of this hole, preferring to climb over outside by the
futtock-shrouds.
Vessels derive their names from the number of their masts and their rig.
While all vessels are often included under the general term _ships_,
more properly a ship has always three masts, and is square-rigged; that
is, she has tops and yards on all three of her masts. The three masts
are designated by the names fore, main, and mizzen.
A bark is square-rigged at her fore and main masts, but, unlike a ship,
at her mizzenmast has no top, and only fore-and-aft sails.
A brig has but two masts, both of which are square-rigged.
A schooner may have either two or three masts, but carries fore-and-aft
sails only.
A sloop has one mast, fore-and-aft rigged.
A vessel's masts are "stepped"--_i. e._, put in--by means of shears.
Shears consist of a couple of spars lashed together at one end and
spread apart at the other. They are raised to a nearly upright position,
and furnished with tackle for lifting masts in and out of ships.
After the masts are stepped and the bowsprit put in, the standing
rigging is "set up." The standing rigging consists of strong ropes,
called stays, to support the masts fore and aft, and other ropes, called
back-stays and shrouds, to lend support sideways. The shrouds on each
mast are connected by little ropes placed crosswise, called ratlines,
which the sailors use when ordered to "lay aloft." A good sailor is as
nimble as a cat on these ratlines.
The running rigging consists of the ropes used in handling the yards and
sails, and every rope has a distinguishing name. Halyards are ropes used
to hoist yards and sails. Braces are ropes used to swing the yards round
by.
To the beginner the names of ropes are apt to be very confusing. Old
salts are fond of spinning a yarn about a lad who wanted to go to sea,
until he heard that the fore-top-gallant-studding-sail-boom-tricing-line-
thimble-block-mousing was the name of about the smallest bit of rope on
board ship, when he at once concluded that, such being the case, he
could never expect to master the name of the largest rope, and
consequently decided to become a farmer.
A SONG OF APOLLO.
A LEGEND OF ANCIENT GREECE.
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
After the burning of Troy, to Argos there came
A soldier aged and weary:
Naught had he gained in the contest, treasure nor fame,
So now he lifted his lyre, and day after day
Stood in the streets or the market, and strove to play.
No one gave him a lepton, no one waited to hear
A song so ancient and simple;
Hungry and hopeless, he ceased: then a youth drew near--
A youth with a beautiful face--and he said, "Old man,
Now strike on thy lyre and sing, for I know thou can."
"O Greek," said old Akeratos, "I have lost the power,
With handling of swords and lances."
"Then here's a didrachmon--lend me thy lyre an hour;
Thou hold out the cap in thine hand, and I will play:
Surely these men that are deaf shall listen to-day."
Then, with a mighty hand sweeping the trembling strings,
Over the tumult and chatting,
Like the call of a clear sweet trumpet, the young voice rings;
For he sings of the taking of Troy, and the chords
Sound like the tramping of hoofs, and clashing of swords.
There, in the market of Argos, is Hector slain,
There, in their midst, is Achilles.
Breathless, they listen again and again,
Fill up the cap with coins, and shout in the crowded street,
"Strike up thy lyre once more, O Singer strange and sweet!"
Ah! then came magical notes, soft melodies low;
The air grew purple and amber,
Scented with honey, and spices, and roses a-blow:
And there in the glory sat Love--Mother and Queen--
And eyes grew misty with tears for days that had been.
Eyes grew misty, hearts grew tender, tender and free:
Every one gave to the soldier
Bracelets, and ring, and perfumes from over the sea.
Then said the Singer, "Now, soldier, gather thy store,
The hands that have fought for Greece need never beg more.
"Greeks, dwelling in Argos, this is a shameful sight--
A soldier wounded and begging."
The Singer grew splendid and godlike, and rose in unbearable light:
Then they knew it was Phoebus Apollo, and said,
"Never again in Argos shall the brave beg bread."
[Illustration: ACCIDENT ON A MOUNTAIN ROAD, INDIA.]
AN INCIDENT OF INDIAN TRAVEL.
Although there are about ten thousand miles of railroad in Hindostan,
the country is so vast, and in many portions of it so mountainous, that
much of the travelling is yet performed by old-fashioned methods. We see
one of them in the accompanying sketch, and perhaps our young readers
will think that there is sometimes as much danger attaching to the "old
slow coach" as to the swift-rushing iron horse. The conveyance in our
sketch is what is known as a "hill cart," a curious kind of vehicle,
with a seat before and behind covered with a leathern hood, hung very
low, and possessing two strong wheels. It is drawn by two ponies, whose
general pace is a hand-gallop.
The hill roads are narrow and uneven, with sharp curves bordering
unpleasantly close to the edge of the "khuds," or precipices, over one
of which the ponies in the sketch have taken a flying leap, having been
frightened into shying at the remnants of a previous accident on the
same spot.
At the best, the occupants of these hill carts have but a sorry time of
it. The cart having only two wheels, the pole is supported by a chain
fastened to a longitudinal bar across the backs of the animals, after
the manner of an old-fashioned curricle, this method of harnessing
causing a lurching, bumping motion, sometimes amounting to a perfect
series of jumps when passing over a rough bit of ground, the occupants
of the vehicle holding on by the rails to maintain their seats, from
which, however, they are perpetually being jerked.
There is sometimes a good deal of fun in getting these hill carts set in
motion for a start, the ponies generally having a will of their own, and
sometimes not agreeing; one is prepared to start, the other objects, so
he is thrashed by the driver; but to make things equal, so is the
willing fellow. This unjust infliction causes him to make such a sudden
and violent plunge that a trace breaks, which begets much hard language
and delay. However, the trace gets mended somehow, and then there is
another attempt to start. The cart is pushed on to the heels of the
ponies, of which proceeding they show their disapproval by a series of
most vigorous kicks. After an interval varying from five to fifteen
minutes, the driver, with assistance from behind, finally triumphs, and
the start is made, the balky animal having entirely altered his previous
views of resistance, and taken it into his head to run madly away with
himself, his quieter fellow, the cart, and its contents.
This scene is generally repeated at every stage with each fresh pair of
ponies, so the fun of the thing becomes before long rather tiresome.
[Illustration: GIVING THANKS.]
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER XV.
TOBY'S FRIENDS PRESENT HIM WITH A COSTUME.
During this time Toby's funds had accumulated rather slower than on the
first few days he was in the business, but he had saved eleven dollars,
and Mr. Lord had paid him five dollars of his salary, so that he had the
to him enormous sum of sixteen dollars, and he had about made up his
mind to make one effort for liberty, when the news came that he was to
ride in public.
He had, in fact, been ready to run away any time within the past week;
but, as if they had divined his intentions, both Mr. Castle and Mr. Lord
had kept a very strict watch over him, one or the other keeping him in
sight from the time he got through with his labors at night until they
saw him on the cart with old Ben.
[Illustration: ELLA AND TOBY.]
"I was just gettin' ready to run away," said Toby to Ella, on the day
Mr. Castle gave his decision as to their taking part in the performance,
and while they were walking out of the tent, "an' I shouldn't wonder now
if I got away to-night."
"Oh, Toby!" exclaimed the girl, as she looked reproachfully at him,
"after all the work we've had to get ready, you won't go off and leave
me before we've had a chance to see what the folks will say when they
see us together."
It was impossible for Toby to feel any delight at the idea of riding in
public, and he would have been willing to have taken one of Mr. Lord's
most severe whippings if he could have escaped from it; but he and Ella
had become such firm friends, and he had conceived such a boyish
admiration for her, that he felt as if he were willing to bear almost
anything for the sake of giving her pleasure. Therefore he said, after a
few moments' reflection: "Well, I won't go to-night, anyway, even if I
have the best chance that ever was. I'll stay one day more, anyhow, an'
perhaps I'll have to stay a good many."
"That's a nice boy," said Ella, positively, as Toby thus gave his
decision, "and I'll kiss you for it."
Before Toby fully realized what she was about, almost before he had
understood what she said, she had put her arms around his neck, and
given him a good sound kiss right on his freckled face.
Toby was surprised, astonished, and just a little bit ashamed. He had
never been kissed by a girl before, very seldom by any one, save the fat
lady, and he hardly knew what to do or say. He blushed until his face
was almost as red as his hair, and this color had the effect of making
his freckles stand out with startling distinctness. Then he looked
carefully around to see if any one had seen them.
"I never had a girl kiss me before," said Toby, hesitatingly, "an' you
see it made me feel kinder queer to have you do it out here where
everybody could see."
"Well, I kissed you because I like you very much, and because you are
going to stay and ride with me to-morrow," she said, positively; and
then she added, slyly, "I may kiss you again if you don't get a chance
to run away very soon."
"I wish it wasn't for Uncle Dan'l, an' the rest of the folks at home,
an' there wasn't any such men as Mr. Lord an' Mr. Castle, an' then I
don't know but I might want to stay with the circus, 'cause I like you
awful much."
And as he spoke Toby's heart grew very tender toward the only girl
friend he had ever known.
By this time they had reached the door of the tent, and as they stepped
outside, one of the drivers told them that Mr. Treat and his wife were
very anxious to see both of them in their tent.
"I don't believe I can go," said Toby, doubtfully, as he glanced toward
the booth, where Mr. Lord was busy in attending to customers, and
evidently waiting for Toby to relieve him, so that he could go to his
dinner; "I don't believe Mr. Lord will let me."
"Go and ask him," said Ella, eagerly. "We won't be gone but a minute."
Toby approached his employer with fear and trembling. He had never
before asked leave to be away from his work, even for a moment, and he
had no doubt but that his request would be refused with blows.
"Mr. Treat wants me to come in his tent for a minute; can I go?" he
asked, in a timid voice, and in such a low tone as to render it almost
inaudible.
Mr. Lord looked at him for an instant, and Toby was sure that he was
making up his mind whether to kick him, or catch him by the collar and
use the rubber cane on him. But he had no such intention, evidently, for
he said, in a voice unusually mild, "Yes, an' you needn't come to work
again until it's time to go into the tent."
Toby was almost alarmed at this unusual kindness, and it puzzled him so
much that he would have forgotten he had permission to go away if Ella
had not pulled him gently by the coat.
If he had heard a conversation between Mr. Lord and Mr. Castle that very
morning, he would have understood why it was that Mr. Lord had so
suddenly become kind. Mr. Castle had told Job that the boy had really
shown himself to be a good rider, and that in order to make him more
contented with his lot, and to keep him from running away, he must be
used more kindly, and perhaps be taken from the candy business
altogether, which latter advice Mr. Lord did not look upon with favor,
because of the large sales which the boy made.
When they reached the skeleton's tent, they found to their surprise that
no exhibition was being given at that hour, and Ella said, with some
concern, "How queer it is that the doors are not open. I do hope that
they are not sick."
Toby felt a queer sinking at his heart as the possibility suggested
itself that one or both of his kind friends might be ill; for they had
both been so kind and attentive to him that he had learned to love them
very dearly.
But the fears of both the children were dispelled when they tried to get
in at the door, and were met by the smiling skeleton himself, who said,
as he threw the canvas aside as far as if he were admitting his own
enormous Lilly:
"Come in, my friends, come in. I have had the exhibition closed for one
hour, in order that I might show my appreciation of my friend Mr.
Tyler."
Toby looked around in some alarm, fearing that Mr. Treat's friendship
was about to be displayed in one of his state dinners, which he had
learned to fear rather than enjoy. But as he saw no preparations for
dinner, he breathed more freely, and wondered what all this ceremony
could possibly mean.
Neither he nor Ella was long left in doubt, for as soon as they had
entered, Mrs. Treat waddled from behind the screen which served them as
a dressing-room, with a bundle in her arms, which she handed to her
husband.
He took it, and quickly mounting the platform, leaving Ella and Toby
below, he commenced to speak, with very many flourishes of his thin
arms:
"My friends," he began, as he looked down upon his audience of three,
who were listening in the following attitudes: Ella and Toby were
standing upon the ground at the foot of the platform, looking up with
wide-open, staring eyes, and his fleshy wife was seated on a bench,
which had evidently been placed in such a position below the speaker's
stand that she could hear and see all that was going on without the
fatigue of standing up, which, for one of her size, was really very hard
work--"my friends," repeated the skeleton, as he held his bundle in
front of him with one hand and gesticulated with the other, "we all of
us know that to-morrow our esteemed and worthy friend Mr. Toby Tyler
makes his first appearance in any ring, and we all of us believe that he
will soon become a bright and shining light in the profession which he
is so soon to enter."
The speaker was here interrupted by loud applause from his wife, and he
profited by the opportunity to wipe a stray drop of perspiration from
his fleshless face. Then, as the fat lady ceased the exertion of
clapping her hands, he continued:
"Knowing that our friend Mr. Tyler was being instructed, preparatory to
dazzling the public with his talents, my wife and I began to prepare for
him some slight testimonial of our esteem, and being informed by Mr.
Castle some days ago of the day on which he was to make his first
appearance before the public, we were enabled to complete our little
gift in time for the great and important event."
Here the skeleton paused to take a breath, and Toby began to grow most
uncomfortably red in the face. Such praise made him feel very awkward.
"I hold in this bundle," continued Mr. Treat, as he waved the package on
high, "a costume for our bold and worthy equestrian, and a sash to match
for his beautiful and accomplished companion. In presenting these little
tokens, my wife (who has embroidered every inch of the velvet herself)
and I feel proud to know that when the great and auspicious occasion
occurs to-morrow, the worthy Mr. Tyler will step into the ring in a
costume which we have prepared expressly for him, and thus, when he does
himself honor by his performance, and earns the applause of the
multitude, he will be doing honor and earning applause for the work of
our hands--my wife Lilly and myself. Take them, my boy, and when you
array yourself in them to-morrow, you will remember that the only Living
Skeleton and the wonder of the nineteenth century, in the shape of the
Mammoth Lady, are present in their works if not in their persons."
As he finished speaking, Mr. Treat handed the bundle to Toby, and then
joined in the applause which was being given by Mrs. Treat and Ella.
Toby unrolled the package, and found that it contained a circus rider's
costume of pink tights and blue velvet trunks, collar and cuffs
embroidered in white, and plentifully spangled with silver. In addition
was a wide blue sash for Ella, embroidered to correspond with Toby's
costume.
The little fellow was both delighted with the gift and at a loss to know
what to say in response. He looked at the costume over and over again,
and the tears of gratitude, that these friends should have been so good
to him, came into his eyes. He saw, however, that they were expecting
him to say something in reply, and laying the gift on the platform, he
said to the skeleton and his wife:
"You've been so good to me ever since I've been with the circus that I
wish I was big enough to say somethin' more than that I'm much obliged,
but I can't. One of these days, when I'm a man, I'll show you how much I
like you, an' then you won't be sorry that you was good to such a poor
little runaway boy as I am."
Here the skeleton broke in with such loud applause, and so many cries of
"Hear! hear!" that Toby grew still more confused, and forgot entirely
what he was intending to say next.
"I want you to know how much obliged I am," he said, after some
hesitation, "an' when I wear 'em I'll ride just the best I know how,
even if I don't want to, an' you sha'n't be sorry that you gave them to
me."
As Toby concluded, he made a funny little awkward bow, and then seemed
to be trying to hide himself behind a chair from the applause which was
given so generously.
"Bless your dear little heart!" said the fat lady, after the confusion
had somewhat subsided. "I know you will do your best, anyway, and I'm
glad to know that you're going to make your first appearance in
something that Samuel and I made for you."
Ella was quite as well pleased with her sash as Toby was with his
costume, and thanked Mr. and Mrs. Treat in a pretty little way that made
Toby wish he could say anything half so nicely.
The hour which the skeleton had devoted for the purpose of the
presentation and accompanying speeches having elapsed, it was necessary
that Ella and Toby should go, and that the doors of the exhibition be
opened at once, in order to give any of the public an opportunity of
seeing what the placards announced as two of the greatest curiosities on
the face of the globe.
That day, while Toby performed his arduous labors, his heart was very
light, for the evidences which the skeleton and his wife had given of
their regard for him were very gratifying. He determined that he would
do his very best to please so long as he was with the circus, and then,
when he got a chance to run away, he would do so, but not until he had
said good-by to Mr. and Mrs. Treat, and thanked them again for their
interest in him.
When he had finished his work in the tent that night, Mr. Lord said to
him, as he patted him on the back in the most fatherly fashion, and as
if he had never spoken a harsh word to him, "You can't come in here to
sell candy now that you are one of the performers, my boy; an' if I can
find another boy to-morrow, you won't have to work in the booth any
longer, an' your salary of a dollar a week will go on just the same,
even if you don't have anything to do but to ride."
This was a bit of news that was as welcome to Toby as it was unexpected,
and he felt more happy then than he had for the ten weeks that he had
been travelling under Mr. Lord's cruel mastership.
But there was one thing that night that rather dampened his joy, and
that was that he noticed that Mr. Lord was unusually careful to watch
him, not even allowing him to go outside the tent without following. He
saw at once that if he was to have a more easy time, his chances for
running away were greatly diminished, and no number of beautiful
costumes would have made him content to stay with the circus one moment
longer than was absolutely necessary.
That night he told old Ben of the events of the day, and expressed the
hope that he might acquit himself creditably when he made his first
appearance on the following day.
Ben sat thoughtfully for some time, and then, making all the
preparations which Toby knew so well signified a long bit of advice, he
said, "Toby, my boy, I've been with a circus, man an' boy, nigh to forty
years, an' I've seen lots of youngsters start in just as you're goin' to
start in to-morrow; but the most of them petered out because they got to
knowin' more'n them that learned 'em did. Now you remember what I say,
an' you'll find it good advice: Whatever business you get into, don't
think you know all about it before you've begun. Remember that you can
always learn somethin', no matter how old you are, an' keep your eyes
an' ears open, an' your tongue between your teeth, an' you'll amount to
somethin', or my name hain't Ben."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
AN ITALIAN SCHOOL.
A PAPER FOR GIRLS.
BY F. E. FRYATT.
If the young readers of this paper had only known of it in time, some of
them might have heard six hundred little Italian children sing the
"Carnival of Venice" in the merriest and most charming fashion possible,
and they would not have had to go to Italy either.
It was sung in English, a little broken, but very sweet, in one of those
out-of-the-way places that many New York and other children have never
heard of; so I mean to tell them all about it.
The Italian school is in a very poor neighborhood. You may stand in its
porch, and, unless you look up at the blue sky, see nothing pleasant
whatever; in one direction, that awful prison-house, the "Tombs," meets
the eye; in another, a crooked, shabby street in which dwell half the
organ-grinders and monkeys of New York; and everywhere else, miserable,
rickety dwellings.
[Illustration: DRESSED IN HER BEST.]
Inside, however, the school building is so spacious, cheerful, and neat
that it seems almost, if not quite, a palace to the scores of little
folks who spend their days there, for most of them come from homes so
wretched and dreary that it makes one shudder to hear of them.
Imagine a great square room lighted by three long windows; at one end a
dozen sewing-machines (for, remember, this is an industrial school,
where children work as well as study); in the middle several long low
tables, benches, and the teacher's desk; by the side of the wall another
long table, piled with bundles and boxes, and at the lower end of the
apartment a tall dresser or closet--and you will see the work-room as I
saw it.
Thirty or more little girls are seated at their tasks. Let me introduce
you to some of them.
This one, is Jacquelina Magi, a young Neapolitan. What a pretty picture
she makes in the sunshine, with her red bodice, massive ear-rings, and
that gay kerchief fastened by a quaint brooch!
Only a year or two ago Jacquelina was a barefooted peasant child, and
followed her fisherman father to the beach every morning to watch him
draw his seine in the beautiful bay of Naples; she remembers gathering
the lovely shells, and playing with the long tresses of sea-weed, but
thinks she is happier here: is not that strange?
[Illustration: ROSA FLORIO.]
Near her sits Rosa Florio, and beyond her Rosa Casetti, or Rosa Dimple,
as the teacher calls her, both working like little bees to finish the
blue shirts for which they will receive their pay to-night.
Jacquelina is a pretty brown-eyed girl of eleven, but Rosa Dimple looks
positively plain until she laughs; then her great gray eyes light up,
and two of the prettiest dimples in the world nestle in her soft round
cheeks. All the girls I have mentioned come from the villages or islands
in the province and bay of Naples; so does that odd, old-fashioned
little maid with her hair done up in a knot at the back of her head.
Carmella is her proper name, but the children all call her Carmellouche,
she is so full of mischief, and is such a tease.
Her long dress and narrow white apron, and the white kerchief folded so
primly around her neck, give her a queer womanly little look that makes
one laugh quite as much as her naughty though good-humored pranks.
The Neapolitan children cling together, playing and working
harmoniously, though of course they quarrel at times; still, they defend
each other so hotly that the little Genoese are quite afraid of them at
first.
The North Italian children are much more grave and quiet. Here are a
number engaged in a very pleasant employment. You would be greatly
interested could you see them. They are the lace-weavers of the school.
Two years ago a lady who can make all sorts of laces heard of these poor
young children, and knowing how well little fingers are suited to
weaving, kindly lent her own cushions and bobbins for their use, and
came down and gave them lessons every week.
Some of the girls, especially the Genoese, were delighted to enter the
class, and although they could not work rapidly--that takes considerable
practice--they learned very soon to form flowers and leaves for
"duchesse" lace.
One little girl was very anxious to enter too, but no one encouraged
her; so of course she had nothing to work with. What do you think she
did? Give it up? No; being a small genius in her way, she made herself a
cushion no larger than a breakfast plate, and cut out a number of little
bobbins from pieces of rough wood; then with ordinary spool cotton
actually contrived to weave three different stitches.
Luigina Gardella--that is the little genius's name--can now work
seventy or eighty bobbins at a time. What do you think of that?
I must tell you also how ambitious another child was. Little Angevini
Brizzolari desired to "learn lace" too, but was obliged every day to
help her mother at the fruit stand; so she would come in the morning for
her lesson, and then carry away her cushion and bobbins, and when she
was not busy selling bananas and oranges, there she sat weaving lace in
the street.
[Illustration: LACE-MAKERS.]
Little Agostina Valente, bending over her cushion so earnestly, engaged
in giving her sister a lesson, has been more fortunate, and is now an
expert weaver, frequently working more than one hundred bobbins for a
single pattern.
The Valentes were born in one of the mountain villages just outside the
beautiful city of Genoa. Their mother will tell you, with sparkling
eyes, how, dressed in her best homespun blue and red linen gown, with a
fine brooch fastening her yellow kerchief, she used to bring the babies
down to see the Carnival.
Neither Agostina nor Carlotta remembers the marble palaces and bell
towers, nor when they had the honor of bearing the white palms in the
procession on Palm-Sunday, for their memory extends no further than the
time when they were in the "big ship crossing the great water."
Look at Agostina. What a quaint, motherly little figure she seems as she
weaves! Her face is not pretty, but her great brown eyes are lovely, and
there is a sweet gentleness in her expression as she directs her sister.
Listen:
"You go wrong, Carlotta. Dis is de way--one, two, three, four; twist as
you go. Now pull your bobbins down."
"One, two, three, four," patiently repeats Carlotta; "twist as you go."
"One, two, three, four; twist as you go. Now, den, pull de bobbins dis
way. Dis is for cloth stitch," explains the small teacher. "Now put your
pin in dere, Carlotta."
Let us examine Agostina's work. She is weaving a beautiful lambrequin in
duchesse lace.
The pattern, traced out on pink muslin, lies smoothly over the large
round padded cushion. What a regiment of pins showing their bright
heads! And, dear me! here are no less than seventy-two bobbins, each
carrying a separate thread. I am sure, if you or I tried to work with
so many, we would get them in a precious tangle very soon.
Already more than a yard is woven, and that is no little work when you
remember it is over a foot wide. Roses and sprays of leaves joined
together by a fine net--work called "brides," and a border with a pearl
edge, form the pattern. The little weaver has had more than one stitch
to learn. She will tell you about the cloth stitch, in which you must
count four; the bar stitch, three; the half stitch; the picot for the
edges; and the guipure dot to fill in the centre of the roses.
But here are other little folks, at this long low table, hard at work.
Really, some of them are not more than five years old. One would think
they could do nothing but play. They can, though, for they are the
flower-makers.
[Illustration: A LITTLE FLOWER-MAKER.]
Before each lies a pile of brightly colored flower petals, and a small
paste pot and brush.
Nannina is making yellow violets, Bianca, white ones, and Pepita, blue.
See how deftly their little fingers run the stamens through the centres,
touch them lightly with the paste-brushes, then wrap the stems, and
fasten them!
Already little clusters are forming, and by four o'clock, when school
begins down stairs, there will be ever so many bunches of colored
violets such as one sees in the windows of the large millinery shops;
but who would think such wee hands could put them together so neatly?
It is now a quarter to four. The teacher bids the young folks put away
their work, to be ready for school.
"School at four o'clock!" I hear some little girl exclaim.
It does seem late, but then it is an afternoon, or rather an evening,
school. For the last half hour the little ones have been pouring into
the large school-rooms below, and now the little machine-workers, the
lace-weavers, and flower-makers go down to join them.
[Illustration: THE INFANT CLASS.]
In one of the rooms, called the nursery, are sitting about one hundred
of the drollest and queerest little boys and girls to be found in our
great city; most of them are mere babies of three and four years of age;
but they look very solemn as they gaze intently on the young teacher,
repeating A B C after her.
I wish you could see some of the funny little jackets and trousers, and
the curly heads in their bright kerchiefs. Poor little ones, they think
they are real down-right scholars; but the truth is, they are only kept
there to be out of harm's way, while their bigger brothers and sisters
are learning reading, writing, arithmetic, and geography in the other
rooms, as boys and girls do in the primary departments of the public
schools.
My young readers know all about that; so I will hasten to tell them
about the greatest event that has ever happened in the school--the
celebration of its twenty-fifth birthday, or anniversary.
Not very long ago I went to see these little Italian folks, and found
them in a great flutter of excitement. All their regular work was put
aside, and each girl was working as busily as possible on a white apron,
which she was trimming either with ruffling, pretty edging, or
embroidery.
Such a whispering, and running back and forth to consult each other!
They were so happy they kept humming snatches of song, until at last the
teacher said, very kindly, "Sing away, children, one of your pretty
peasant songs." So, merrily enough, the little lasses struck up,
"Ladis, Ladis, che le malata
Per me mangia polenta"--
a song of a young girl who was too ill to eat her "polenta," a favorite
dish among the Italian peasantry.
In another room more notes of preparation were sounding. A committee of
girls were opening a number of paper boxes with such gestures and
exclamations of delight that I could not but peep in to see what was
inside of them myself; and there were the loveliest-- Well, you will
know what when I tell you about the festival. Boys mounted on tall
ladders were arranging flags on the walls, and hanging up garlands of
greens and flowers, while, below, their companions were taking the heads
from several barrels filled with good things, which were handed over to
another company of workers to be placed in paper bags.
[Illustration: AT THE FESTIVAL.]
To make a long story shorter, the next evening at about seven o'clock I
went with some friends to the festival. Nearly three hundred children
had already arrived, and tramp, tramp, they kept coming up the broad
stairs, their heavy little boots making a brave noise. In half an hour
the long benches which rose in tiers nearly to the ceiling across the
lower end of the room were filled. The gas was not yet fully turned on,
but by its dim light I saw the six hundred little heads, and heard--dear
me! a flock of crows in a forest could not make such a chatter, I am
sure.
But, oh! what a pretty sight it was when the light was turned on, and we
saw all the bright coloring of blue ribbons and scarfs and scarlet
kerchiefs, the pretty white aprons, and, what was sweeter, dancing eyes
and cheeks dimpled with smiling!
After singing a few songs, the children settled down to allow the
president of the society to speak.
I am afraid, as far as the scholars were concerned, his remarks were
lost, for almost all the wee boys and girls on the lowest tiers fell
fast asleep, and many of the bigger ones only kept their eyes open by
fixing them on the long tables at either side of the wall. If what they
saw there could not keep them awake, nothing could, for there stood toy
villages, menageries of animals, tin ships, locomotives, wagons,
whirligigs, and regiments of soldiers. Then there were not less than
three hundred real wax dolls, looking as if out on a promenade in their
silks, satins, and velvets. Think of it, girls--they had real, true
golden hair, arranged in the prettiest curls and braids, and even banged
over their foreheads, besides having necklaces and ear-rings that shone
like diamonds.
Even these and the coming six hundred bags of candies and fruit could
not keep them quite awake, for they kept "nid-nid-nodding" until the
piano and violin sounded for the "Carnival of Venice." Then you should
have heard how the young voices broke forth with,
"Awake! awake! fair Venice now is smiling,
For now has come the Carnival so gay,"
and how they rose and fell softly in the sweet "Tra-la-la" chorus at the
end of each verse.
At last, after a grand chorus in Italian, which woke them thoroughly,
down they trotted from the benches, passing in single file, and giving
us a fine chance to look at their gala attire.
What droll little women they looked, with their prim braids knotted
behind their heads, and fastened with gilt pins; their brilliant
kerchiefs, tight waists, neat aprons, and long skirts gathered full over
circular bustles, and nearly reaching the floor!
Under the tight, old-fashioned waists of the womanly dresses beat
childish hearts; so you may imagine how the dolls were clasped in loving
embraces, and such raptures ensued as made candies and oranges a
secondary consideration.
As for the trumpet-blowing, the rattle of tin soldiers, and the general
snapping and cracking on the boys' side, I simply put my fingers in my
ears when I only think of it.
MUCH TOO HIGH.
BY MARGARET EYTINGE.
"Time for your catkins to fly," said the Wind to a Willow-tree that
stood just outside of a great city.
You don't know what catkins are? Well, I will try to tell you. The seeds
of certain kinds of trees, growing on long slender stems, in little
scales overlapping each other, each one tipped with the tiniest of
feathers, and the whole somewhat resembling a very small cat's tail. And
when they are quite ripe, the Wind comes along and carries them away,
dropping them here and there, as he journeys on, to take their chances,
which are as one in a thousand, of finding homes and becoming trees.
"Take them," said the Willow, and flung them upon his wings, and away he
went into the city, letting some fall in the middle of the streets,
where they were soon trampled beneath the hoofs of the horses; and some
on the sidewalks, where the twittering sparrows found and ate them; and
some in the parks and gardens, where a few were fortunate enough to sink
into the ground, and the rest perished when came the autumn cold; and
one--the last it was--he carried to a bustling noisy square in the heart
of the city, on one side of which a tall house, once a fashionable
dwelling, but now divided into offices for business men, stood a story
and a half higher than its humbler neighbors.
Before this house grew a fine oak, more than a century old, the only
tree that had been spared when the square (which had once been a famous
pleasure-ground filled with trees) became a business thoroughfare, and
it owed its safety to the fact that it had heard the bells ring out our
Declaration of Independence on the 4th of July, 1776.