[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1895. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 829. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A CARGO OF BURNING COAL.
BY AN OLD SHIPMASTER.
The reader may think that while coal must be a dirty cargo it is in
other respects an innocent one; but there is no shipmaster who does not
dread a long voyage with this kind of freight, for many a fine vessel
has been lost owing to the coal taking fire through spontaneous
combustion; therefore the greatest care is exercised in carrying it, and
whenever the weather will permit, the hatches are opened in order to
give the gases in the hold an opportunity to escape. The regular
coal-carriers are fitted with ventilators set in different parts of the
deck, and the holds of the vessels are kept pure and wholesome by
turning the gaping mouths of a number of the huge funnels so that the
wind will pour into and down them to the interior of the ship, and keep
up a circulation by escaping through other ventilators that are turned
in a contrary direction.
A good many years back, when I was an able young sea-man on board the
bark _Raleigh_, I had an experience that was both exciting and strange.
Our vessel was loaded with coal, and bound from Philadelphia to
Australia. The run down to the equator had been a slow but pleasant one,
owing not only to the mild, beautiful weather that we had held right
along since sailing, but because the _Raleigh_ had what was something of
a novelty in those days, in the way of an excellent and kindly set of
officers. We were what is called a "happy ship."
After reaching about the parallel of twenty degrees south we got a
stress of weather for over a week, in which several of our sails were
blown away and a number of our light spars were wrecked. All our
live-stock of pigs and chickens were drowned, owing to the flooding of
our decks, for we sat very low in the water.
On the day that we ran into pleasant weather again we started to take
off the hatches, when a gassy, choking smell poured out of the opening.
The cargo was on fire. There was only one thing to do--to replace the
hatches, bore holes through them, and pump streams of water into the
hold, endeavoring to drown the fire before it gained additional headway.
All hands were called to the task, and for twenty-four hours we worked
for our lives, the crew being divided into relief gangs so that the
deck-pumps might be kept constantly going.
Before another morning came, however, we knew that the ship was doomed,
for the decks grew hot under our feet, and through various crevices the
weakening, nauseating fumes of coal-gas poured, overpowering us at times
as we plied the pump-handles. The wind died away, leaving the ship
becalmed, and over and around her hung a sickly blue pall of vapor. Then
the order was given to provision the boats and desert the _Raleigh_. We
pulled a little way from the vessel and rested on our oars, watching the
noble ship. As long as she floated there we seemed to have something to
cling to on the wide desolate reach of waters.
Shortly afterward the mainmast swayed like a drunken man, then with an
awful crash it pitched over the side, dragging with it the
foretop-gallant mast and the mizzen-topmast. Through the broken deck a
column of winding sulphurous flame shot into the air. The pitch ran
wriggling out of the seams of the _Raleigh_'s planking, and fell hissing
in little showers into the water alongside as the vessel rolled
sluggishly on the swells. An hour later the bark was a mass of flames,
and we pulled away to escape from the heat.
There were two boats, the Captain commanding one and the chief mate the
other. Each had been provided with a chart and compass, and, in addition
to these instruments, the two officers had carried away their sextants
in order to navigate by the sun and stars. Into each boat had been
stowed food and water, which it was calculated would last about ten days
by putting all hands on short allowance; but it was hoped that before
the provisions were consumed we would either be picked up by a passing
vessel or successful in sailing to Rio Janeiro, distant from us
something less than six hundred miles. The Captain's boat being the
larger of the two carried the second mate, steward, cook, and eight
seamen, while the mate's boat held the carpenter and four seamen--myself
included among the latter.
The boats laid alongside of one another while the Captain and mate
decided upon the course to be steered; then we separated, made sail to
the southeast breeze that had set in, and stretched away into the
northwest, the Captain's boat in the lead. The wind gathered strength
from the southeast, giving us a following breeze for the port toward
which we were steering, and both boats made good weather of the moderate
sea then running, sweeping along at the rate of five knots to the hour.
All that afternoon the boats kept within sight of one another, and when
night fell not over a quarter of a mile divided us. With the first flush
of dawn we swept the expanse of waters, but nothing was to be seen. We
were alone. Every little while during the day that followed we would
scan the horizon, hoping to lift the long-boat's sail into view; but in
vain. We never saw her again, or heard tidings of the twelve brave souls
from whom we had parted only a few hours before. That she never reached
port is certain; but what her ultimate fate proved, no one knows.
It blew up a gale of wind that afternoon, and I heard the mate say that
the storm experienced during the week that was past had recurved, and
that we would get it worse than ever on its back track. To prevent the
boat from foundering, we unstepped the mast, made a span to it by
securing a length of rope to each end, and to the middle of this bridle
we bent the boat's painter. Then we dropped this sea-anchor over the
bows, and rode to it, the strain upon the painter keeping the head of
the boat to the seas that rolled down on us.
When night settled upon the deep it shut out one of the wildest sights
of ocean-lashed waters that I had ever seen; but the darkness only
intensified the terror, for in the blackness we would feel the frail
boat swung with dizzy velocity up and up and up on some mountainous sea,
as though she was never going to stop; then, while the great seething
crest was roaring in a thousand diabolical voices about us, she would
drop down, down, down with a motion that was like falling through space.
It might have been the middle of the night when, worn out from the labor
of bailing without intermission for many hours, I threw myself down in
the bows of the boat, and locking my arms around one of the thwarts to
keep from being pitched about, I fell into an exhausted sleep. I don't
know how long I slept, but I was brought to my senses by a sea bursting
into the boat, and I found my legs wedged under the seat as I sat half
suffocated on the flooring with the water up to my armpits. Looking aft,
I could see by the phosporescent glow of the breaking seas that no
shapes of men were visible against the background of sky. My companions
were gone.
The gunwale of the boat was within a few inches of the water, and it
needed only the spume of another wave falling in the boat to sink her.
There was no time for indulging in grief over the loss of my
shipmates--there was time only for work, and very little for that, if I
was to save my life. Tearing off my cap, I used it as a bailer and
worked desperately.
At last another morning came, and with it the gale broke; but I allowed
the boat to remain hove to during that day and following night, so as to
give the seas a chance to go down.
The second morning dawned clear and beautiful, with the ocean subsided
into long even swells, and the wind settled down again to the regular
trades. Most of the provisions had been ruined by the sea that had
filled the boat, but I found two water-tight tins filled with
pilot-bread that promised to supply my needs for some time to come. The
fresh water in the boat-breakers had kept sweet owing to the bungs being
in place.
I had opened one of the tins, and was sitting on a thwart making a
breakfast from its contents, when, happening to look astern, I made out,
not more than a mile away, the wreck of a small vessel. Everything about
the foremast was standing below the cross-trees, but only the splintered
stumps of her main and mizzen masts were to be seen above the deck,
while the spars themselves, together with their gear, were hanging in a
wild confusion over the side. I got in my drag, restepped the mast, set
the sail, and bore down upon the wreck. As I drew close to her I
expected to see some signs of her crew, for the vessel sat fairly high
in the water, and looked seaworthy enough to be navigated into port by
making sail upon the fore, and rigging up jury-masts on the two stumps
abaft--plenty of material for such to be found in the raffle alongside.
No evidence, however, of life showed itself when I rounded under the
stern, reading the name _Mercedes_ in large white letters. Letting fly
my sheet, I caught the leeward chain-plates, and jumping on board with
the painter, I secured the same to a belaying-pin, and looked about me.
I was at once sensible that there was some water in the hold by the
peculiar motion of the vessel as she rose and fell to the seas that
underran her; but at the same time it was apparent that there could not
be anything like a dangerous quantity, otherwise the plane of the deck
would have floated much closer to the surface of the sea. Without
regarding the nationality of the name, it was clear to me that the
vessel was either a Portuguese or Italian trader by the rainbow
character of her paint-work, the slovenliness of the rigging, that was
yet almost intact upon the fore, and, in spite of the drenching that she
had received, the unmistakable evidences of dirt everywhere. There were
no boats left, but whether they had been crushed in the wreck of the
masts or had received the crew of the barkentine--for such I saw had
been her rig--I could not tell.
Entering the cabin, I overhauled the four state-rooms it contained,
finding in three of them nothing but such odds and ends as are peculiar
to sailors' chests, and in the fourth room, which had been used as a
pantry, quite an assortment of boxes and barrels of provisions, although
there was proof that some of them had been broken into and rummaged
quite recently.
Then I went on deck again and lifted off one of the main hatch covers.
No cargo of any nature was to be seen, nothing but a mass of black oily
water washing from side to side. It was plain that the vessel was in
ballast, that she had sprung a leak in the last gale of wind, that her
crew had become frightened, had given her up for lost, and taken to the
boats. It was also clear that the leak had stopped itself in some
manner--possibly when the old tub had ceased straining after the sea
went down--and that if I could pump out the hull I might be able to put
her before the wind by making sail on the fore, and so, with the
favoring trade winds, let the _Mercedes_ drift along to the port dead
away to leeward.
A sailor is never idle long after laying out his work. First I emptied
my boat of its water-breakers and provisions, then let it tow astern.
Next I got an axe out of the boatswain's locker and chopped away the
rigging that held the broken spars to the bark, then when the vessel was
clear I squared the topsail-yard by the braces, ran aloft, cast off the
gaskets that held the sail, descended to the deck, where I sheeted home
the topsail as well as possible, and carried the halyards through a
leading block to the capstan, on which I hove away until I had lifted
the yard as high as my strength allowed. Next I ran up the jib, sheeted
it down, and raced aft to the wheel. I put the tiller up, and the old
bucket at once answered her helm. When I got her fairly before the wind
I lashed the wheel, and seeing that she would steer herself, with only a
little watching, I got to work at the pumps.
By the time night arrived I had sunk the water in the hold to half its
original depth. Then I settled away the topsail and let it hang. The jib
I left standing, knowing that it would help to keep the vessel out of
the trough, even if it did little or no good in the way of forcing the
bark ahead. The weather promised to continue clear and moderate, so I
built a fire in the galley range, brought a quantity of stores from the
pantry, and made a hearty meal. I "turned in all standing," as seamen
say when they go to bed without undressing, and slept long and heavily.
The next morning I again set my topsail, and scudded away to leeward
while I finished clearing the bark of water.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon. I had gone up on the little
top-gallant-forecastle to have a look at the _Mercedes_ ground-tackle,
when I made out, about two points on the bow, and less than a mile away,
a ship's boat filled with men. They had discovered the bark, for they
were pulling to get in her path. As soon as I appeared to them there was
a waving of hats and a confusion of cheers and calls. By the time that I
had settled away the topsail-halyards and pulled the jib down the boat
was alongside, and her late occupants were tumbling over the rail. The
first one to touch the deck was a fat little man, almost as swarthy as a
Malay, and twice as dirty, who wore enormous gold hoops in his ears, and
a dilapidated red fez upon a mop of greasy black hair. He rushed up to
me so wild with excitement that he kept hopping up and down like a
jumping-jack, while he smote his breast and screamed something in
Portuguese.
I shook my head and said, thumping my own breast, "No speakee
Portuguese; me American!"
At this he yelled, accompanying his words with such a tremendous smiting
of his poor ribs that I thought he would beat them in.
"Me speakee Americano! Me Capitano! Me Capitano this sheep! How you
come? me say!"
I saw how it was. I had picked up the crew of the _Mercedes_ three days
after they had abandoned the vessel to which they had just returned.
I held up my hand as a sign to the frantic, jabbering monkeys to keep
silence, then I explained partly by broken English and the rest by signs
how I had found the bark deserted, had pumped her out, and was trying to
reach the coast of South America in her. I ended by telling the Captain
that I was glad to see him, and to give him back his vessel.
He was so overpowered with gratitude and joy at such an unexpected and
happy ending to his troubles that he flung his dirty arms around my neck
and kissed my cheeks effusively in the fulness of his heart. I was an
honored guest on board the Captain's "sheep" from that time forth, and
several days later when, crippled and torn, the poor old _Mercedes_
staggered into the beautiful harbor of Rio Janeiro, and I took leave of
the uncouth but kindly and grateful sailor, he repeated his kissing act,
and forced into my hand a small bag of gold pieces, representing
probably all his savings, while he said,
"You take dees. Me love brave Americano sailor who save me sheep."
CARRIER-PIGEONS.
BY ANNE HELME.
In the middle of the square around which the _Herald_ building is built
in New York city is a carrier-pigeon house on a level with the roof. It
is a square house, large enough for a good-sized play-house, and has a
piazza, a porch fenced in with wire, where the birds can exercise until
they have learned enough to be allowed to fly around the city, for
pigeons require a great deal of exercise not only in flying, but in
walking. Just notice the next time you see a flock of pigeons when they
light on the ground, or on the roofs of buildings, how they walk up and
down for a long time.
Great care is taken with the pigeons. Their pedigree is kept and they
are all named. Then, too, a mark is stamped on their under wings, so
there shall be no mistake, and by this means they have often been
recovered and sent home when they have lost their bearings or have been
stolen. The man whose duty it is to attend to them takes a personal
interest in each and every bird.
[Illustration: THE INTERIOR OF THE PIGEONS' HOME.]
At night, when they come home, he looks to see that all are there, and
to prevent any strangers from mixing with his own particular flock.
Pigeons are very homelike in their tastes, and rarely does a day pass
that several strange birds do not join them. They are fed chiefly on
cracked corn, but they require more water than food--and water is
absolutely necessary to their health and happiness. The amount they
consume is almost incredible--more than double that of other birds.
Their home instinct, which is, of course, their distinguishing
characteristic, is very marvellous. So strongly developed is it that it
is impossible to keep the older birds away, and the gift of a pair of
old birds is a very thankless one, as they will inevitably fly home the
moment they are liberated, although they may be carried miles and miles
away, and in a covered basket. The birds chosen to carry the messages
from the yachts or steamers are sent down the Bay for several days, so
that they may prove how swiftly they can fly back, and each day are
liberated, and a record kept of the time they make in getting back to
the office.
When a newspaper tug starts down the bay for the yacht-races which are
taking place just now, one of the principal articles taken aboard is the
big basket filled with carrier-pigeons, and each bird has a brass band
on its foot. At different times during the race messages are written on
the thinnest of paper and made into small parcels. These are attached to
the band, and the birds thrown up into the air. A pair are usually sent
off together, as they fly better, it is thought, in that way.
For a moment they wheel about apparently dazed, poise themselves for
perhaps a second, and then fly straight for home.
On one of these races from half an hour to thirty-five minutes was the
longest time taken from the moment they were thrown into the air until
they arrived at their destination, and the messages were taken from
their feet. It was a beautiful sight, and a wondrous one, to see these
birds arrive. Curiously enough, in some instances they brought back with
them strange pigeons who had joined them on the trip, evidently much
interested to know the outcome of the yacht-race. The strange birds did
not stay at the cote after nightfall, and apparently felt themselves
quite out of place with pigeons of such intelligence.
It is now well proved that carrier-pigeons can be used to good purpose,
for the news of the yachts was by their aid conveyed much sooner to
headquarters than otherwise would have been possible, and the question
is now being discussed as to whether it will not be advisable for all
ocean steamships to carry them, so that if any vessel were disabled at
sea, and, as has often happened, met with no other steamer, by their
means word might be sent back to shore. An interesting article on this
very subject was published recently in one of the daily papers, giving
an account of an experiment that was tried and with great success. Five
thousand pigeons were put on board the _Manoubia_, sailing from Saint
Nazaire, and at distances varying from one hundred to five hundred miles
were liberated.
[Illustration: CARRIER-PIGEONS COMING TO THEIR COTE.]
The results were beyond the most sanguine hopes, for within a shorter
time than had been deemed possible they had all, almost without
exception, returned to their pigeon-houses.
It would not mean a great addition, either in money or care, to have
these birds on every ship that left the port, and certainly great good
might be done and endless anxiety saved in many instances, if
intelligence as to a disabled ship's whereabouts could reach her owners.
In order to make carrier-pigeons at home in any place they must be taken
there very young. Even birds six weeks old will make their way back to
the nest, the instant they are liberated, as distance is as nothing to
them. One pair sent out to Wilmington, Delaware, were kept shut up for
six weeks, fed and watered with the utmost care and regularity. The
seventh week they were set free, and at once disappeared. Their owner
telegraphed to their old home, and received an answer that the birds had
arrived there before his telegram was received.
One pair of the pigeons, which were named Annie Rooney and McGinty, were
given to a boy of eleven who lives in New York city. They were very
young when they were given to him, and he determined to train them so
that they would always make their home at his house. For six weeks he
kept them in his room in a mocking-bird cage, and was very careful about
the food and water. In the day-time he put the cage outside the window,
and when it rained covered it with a cloth, for pigeons, while they use
a great deal of water both to bathe in and to drink, do not like to be
out in the rain.
When six weeks were passed he opened the cage door and fastened it so
that the birds could go out. At first they were contented to poke their
heads out of the open door, but finally, after a great deal of
conversation (pigeons are great conversationalists), out they flew. They
seemed hardly to know the use of their wings at first, and circled
around in a dazed way, alighting on the top of a neighboring roof, where
they apparently had again a great deal to say to each other. For twenty
minutes they talked, then seemed to have made up their minds to try a
long flight, for with one graceful swoop into the air, off they flew.
Hours went by, and they did not return, and when it was nearly dark all
hope was abandoned; but suddenly there was a whir of wings, and Annie
Rooney came home. McGinty still was absent. Annie Rooney perched herself
on her roost, every feather rumpled up most disconsolately, while the
boy who owned them went to bed very low in his mind. At daylight next
morning he was awakened by such a cooing as he had never heard before.
Rushing to the window, there he saw McGinty, in the wildest excitement,
and with his head almost buried in the little dish which held the
drinking water.
From that day the cage was left outside, and the door taken off, so that
the birds might come and go as they chose.
Then, alas! began their troubles. So pleased were they with their little
journey into the world that they at once set out to explore the houses
near by, and every day a note was sent in from some neighbor to the
effect: "Extremely sorry, but your pigeons fly into my bedroom and knock
down all the ornaments." "Your birds insist upon walking up and down
under my bed, making most unearthly sounds; I am afraid of birds and
cannot stand having them in my house." "Again your birds have flown into
my windows, and are in the children's doll-house. They refuse to come
out, and make such a hideous noise as to alarm the children."
[Illustration: McGINTY, ANNIE ROONEY, AND A GUEST.]
These three notes were only samples of others, and after a family
conclave it was decided the pigeons must be sent away. Summer was coming
on, and it was finally concluded the country was the best place for
them.
Their owner took them in a covered basket to a farm on Long Island,
where they were put into a pigeon-house, and provided with water and
food. The next day they were apparently happy, so with many regrets they
were told good-by, and the boy returned to town.
It was a long journey--some hours--and it was rather a sad-faced youth
who mounted the steps and told his mother he had left his birds in the
country. It was then six o'clock in the evening. At ten minutes past six
there was a great fluttering of wings, and lo and behold, Annie Rooney
and McGinty had returned, and prouder and happier pigeons never were
seen.
ON BOARD THE ARK.
BY ALBERT LEE.
CHAPTER VII.
It seemed to Tommy as if the Gopher would never get enough. The little
boy had never before witnessed such voracity. By actual count he had
seen seventeen plates of soup vanish into his neighbor's system, and yet
there was no apparent ill effect. The Gopher threw each empty dish under
the table, so that the pile of crockery was now so high in front of his
chair that he could rest his feet on it.
"Really," said Tommy at last, "I never saw such a greedy thing as you in
all my life."
"I can't help it," answered the Gopher, complacently; "the eating
question is a most important one, and I'm afraid they'll all get up and
say dinner is over before I've had half enough."
"It seems to me that you have had more than enough. And, besides, I have
an aunt who says one should always arise from the table hungry."
"Never you mind that Ant," said the Gopher. "Ants don't count. They are
so little they can't hold anything, anyhow. As for getting up from the
table hungry, that is something I cannot understand. I always sit down
hungry: and it would never do to be hungry at both ends of the meal, now
would it?"
On reflection Tommy did not think it would, and as he had been more than
half inclined at the outset toward the Gopher's view of the case, they
soon agreed on this point. Then the little animal said,
"Thtsnawflyfnnyunsnt?"
"I can't understand you when you talk with your mouth full," replied
Tommy.
The Gopher made a great effort, and swallowed so hard that his eyes
fairly bulged. Then he said,
"That's an awfully funny one, isn't it?"
"What one?"
"The one next to you."
"Him?" said Tommy, pointing at the ex-Pirate.
"Um," continued the Gopher, nodding his head, for his mouth was full
again. "Ain't he?"
"He is a very nice gentleman," remarked Tommy, for lack of anything more
definite to say.
"What kind is he?" asked the Gopher.
"He's an ex-Pirate."
"A Pie Rat? Goodness, how he has changed!"
"Oh yes, he has changed," continued Tommy. "He is very good now. He has
entirely reformed."
"I should say he had. His form is entirely different. I knew a Pie Rat
once, but he was not at all like this one. _He_ does not look like a Pie
Rat at all."
"Oh yes he does!" exclaimed Tommy, eagerly, although he realized as soon
as he had spoken that he had never seen any real active pirate. But he
added, "He is all fixed up just like a real pirate."
"Well, he isn't," said the Gopher, dictatorially. "The Pie Rat I knew
looked like any other rat, but he only ate pie. Does this one eat pie?"
"Did you say rat?" asked Tommy.
"I said Pie Rat," answered the Gopher.
"Well, you don't want to let him hear you say rat. You must say
ex-Pirate; that means that he is not a pirate any more."
"That's just what I said," persisted the Gopher. "I said he did not look
like a Pie Rat, and so he is not a Pie Rat, and that's all there is to
it." Then he threw up his hands and shouted, "Oh my! look at that!"
Tommy glanced up toward the head of the table, and saw that the Lion was
helping himself to fully half of what had been placed before him.
"What a lot he takes!" remarked the little boy, in surprise.
"Always," said the Gopher. "But it's the Lion's share, and I suppose he
is entitled to it. I wish I was a Lion."
"I don't," said Tommy, hastily, for he felt that he much preferred a
small animal like the Gopher for a neighbor to a possible Lion.
"Well, I don't really believe I would like to be a Lion, after all," the
Gopher went on to say. "If I could make myself all over again, I should
be part Elephant, part Camel, and part Giraffe."
"What a funny-looking creature you would be!"
"Oh, I would not mind that. I don't care much about appearances. Eating
is what interests me."
"I should think so," commented Tommy.
"And then think of the advantages of such a combination," pursued the
Gopher. "If I were part Elephant I should be as big as any animal; and
if I were part Camel I should have four stomachs; and then I should want
a Giraffe's neck. Just think of how long things taste good in a
Giraffe's throat. Why, it's two yards long! And mine is only about half
an inch. How many times better does a piece of pie taste to a Giraffe
than it does to me?"
"I don't know," answered Tommy Toddles, very promptly.
"Well, I've figured it all out many a time," added the Gopher, "and I
can tell you. A throat two yards long is twice thirty-six inches long,
isn't it?"
"Yes."
"That's seventy-two inches. And if my throat is only half an inch long,
the Giraffe's throat is one hundred and forty-four times as long as
mine, and so the pie tastes one hundred and forty-four times as good."
[Illustration: THE LION CALLED THE ASSEMBLED MULTITUDE TO ORDER.]
Tommy marvelled at the Gopher's proficiency in arithmetic, but his mind
soon reverted to the question at hand, and he began to wonder how much
better pie would taste if his own neck was one hundred and forty-four
inches long. He was going to ask his neighbor for further information on
the subject, but when he turned around toward the Gopher he saw that the
little animal had in some way gotten possession of the soup-tureen, and
had thrust his head into it, and was almost drowning because he could
not get it out. And then, just as the ex-Pirate and Tommy had rescued
the Gopher from a soupy grave, the Lion arose at the head of the table,
and pounded loudly on the board and called the assembled multitude to
order.
When silence had spread over the room, the King of Beasts announced that
the Goat had eaten the passenger list and other important notices off
the bulletin board, and that it was thus impossible for him as
toast-master to know who was present and who was not, and so he could
not call on any one by name to make a speech. He added, however, that
any one who desired to make a speech might do so, or, instead of a
speech, any animal could sing a song or tell a story. Having made this
announcement, the Lion sat down again; and all the animals glared
frowningly upon the Goat, who stroked his whiskers nervously and looked
embarrassed, either because of these rebuking glances or possibly
because of the antediluvian ink on the passenger list.
"I feel awfully sorry for that Goat," whispered the Gopher to Tommy.
"Why don't you get up and make a speech then, and distract the general
attention?"
"I don't know any speech," answered the Gopher; "but I know a joke."
"Tell the joke," urged Tommy; and so the Gopher stood up in his chair,
and took off his pink sun-bonnet, and said he wanted to tell his joke.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A STORY OF CORN-BREAD AND CROWS.
BY DORA READ GOODALE.
Two sportsmen one morning, right dashing to view
In velvet and buckskin from helmet to shoe.
Were passing the field where the river runs by,
When they chanced in the distance a figure to spy--
Such a figure as farmers, from time out of ken,
Convinced that in clothes is the measure of men,
Have fashioned in spring-time of brushwood and hay
For the cheating of Solons more crafty than they.
"Sir Scarecrow; behold him!" the first hunter cries--
"What a marvel of rags which a Jew would despise!
Here's a fig for the bird that so witless appears
When he's lived among Yankees a good fifty years--
If the fowl really flies that his corn-bread would miss
For a wooden-legged, broken-backed puppet like this!
Come, choose a few nubbins to roast on the spot,
While I pepper his crown with a capful of shot."
Now the farmer that morning was tilling his soil,
Flushed, ragged, and sunbrowned, and grimy with toil,
When pausing a moment, as all farmers will,
He spied our two friends coming over the hill.
"Good land!" quoth the rustic, "a nice thing it is
Fer two city fellers to ketch me like this!"
Then, dropping his hoe, he exclaims with a grin,
"Young chaps, I'll be blessed ef I don't take you in!"
So, urging his slow wits to cope with the case,
He jerks his old hat down to cover his face,
Stretches limb like a windmill that spreads to the breeze,
Draws his fists up like turtles and stiffens his knees;
Yet a tremor of fun through the homespun appears
As the sound of that parley floats back to his ears,
And the honest ears burn as it calls up the words
Which declare that in plumes is the making of birds!
One moment the huntsman his target surveys,
While his laughing companion is gleaning the maize,
When that fetich of bumpkins, that burlesque in bran,
Starts, twitches, grows limber, shouts, moves--is a man;
"Git enough fer a roast, while ye're gittin'," drawls he.
"Ef I ain't quite the blockhead you tuk me to be.
W'y, it's nater sence Adam to run arter clo'es,
But _I'd go sort o' slow as to corn-bread an' crows_!"
HOW REDDY GAINED HIS COMMISSION.
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS, U.S.A.