Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 142. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, July 18, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
THE SHEEP AT GRANDPA'S FARM.
Of all the lovely things we do, my sister Maud and I,
In summer days, at grandpa's farm, where hills are green and high,
There's nothing that we like so well as being sent to keep,
All through the shady afternoon, a flock of milk-white sheep.
You see, each lambkin knows its name; and when we call aloud,
From every corner of the field the fleecy darlings crowd.
At twilight when the sun goes down, to let the stars outshine,
We bend for them some willow boughs, or dainty budding vine.
And grandma bids us give them salt; they think it quite a treat,
Just as we think of sugar-plums, or bonbons nice and sweet.
But when the frisky little ones eat quick and run away,
"Excuse them, please, they're very young," their mothers seem to say.
I wonder people think them dumb. I'm sure the wise old ewes
Could tell some things to giddy girls who have no wit to lose.
How patiently they pace along, and let the lambkins play,
And chase their shadows on the grass, and skip about all day.
One never sees them looking cross; and that's what grandpa meant--
That "silly" once, in older days, was pure and innocent.
And in the Good Book Maud and I together love to read
Of pastures green and waters still, where happy flocks may feed.
We know the Shepherd loves the lambs, and oft we pray to Him
At eve low kneeling by our beds, when all the earth is dim;
And when we wake and laugh and play, and when we go to sleep,
We trust that He will keep us safe, as we have kept the sheep.
DARE'S CRUISE;
OR, THE DORY THAT FOUND ITS WAY HOME.
BY ELIOT McCORMICK.
"What a pretty boy!"
Dare laughed and blushed as she jammed down the tiller of her little
dory to let the larger boat, from which the remark had come, pass by.
"That ain't a boy," she heard a rude voice reply; "that's that Peters
girl from Star Island."
Dare's laugh died out, and the flush turned into an angry red. The first
speaker she did not know. It was a girl--a little younger than herself,
Dare thought--with a frank, pleasant face and winning voice. But the
other was a familiar foe, who had tormented Dare for ten years. Tom
Suydam, she verily believed, was the most hateful boy that ever lived.
Because he was a rich man's son, and boarded at the hotel every summer,
while she was a fisherman's daughter who lived on the beach, he seemed
to feel at liberty to tease and annoy her in every possible way. When
she was a little girl he had amused himself by destroying her castles in
the sand; and now that she was thirteen years old, and did not build
sand castles, he would make uncomplimentary remarks loud enough for her
to overhear. Dare almost hated Tom Suydam.
It was not surprising that she should be mistaken for a boy. Her short
clustering hair, firm mouth, and ruddy complexion gave her face a boyish
look, while the sailor hat, and blue flannel waist open sailorwise at
the throat, added to the illusion. The costume was nothing more than a
girl's bathing suit; but Dare found it convenient for boating, and not
in the way when the boat capsized, as had once or twice happened,
notwithstanding her good seamanship, and she had to swim. She could sail
a boat, Captain Peters proudly declared, better than any boy around the
Shoals, and there wasn't a trick of the wind she did not know. In this
respect, at any rate, Dare felt a sense of superiority over Tom Suydam.
He might be richer, and know more, but he couldn't manage even a
row-boat. Dare wondered, as she looked back over her shoulder, and saw
the little skiff driving ahead under the fresh southeasterly breeze, how
the sweet-faced, gentle-voiced girl who was his companion would trust
herself to his care, and how, indeed, she could go with him at all. Dare
knew that Tom had no sisters. "She must be his cousin," the girl
concluded, as she hauled over the sail on the other tack.
Dare was going back to the Island, having taken her father over to
Portsmouth on his way to Boston. The wind was against her, and she had
had to beat down the river, and was now going on a long tack to the
north. It was not a steady wind, but a fitful gusty blow that warned
Dare to keep her hand on the tiller and her eye on the sail. She knew
precisely how much wind the boat would take, and she knew too that one's
calculations might be upset by an unexpected puff. She looked up at the
sky critically, and decided that the wind was shifting. There were
clouds in the west indicating a thunder-storm. "It will blow me straight
to the Shoals," Dare reflected, bringing the boat a little closer to the
wind. The slight change of direction brought into view Tom Suydam's
skiff, which, as she looked, seemed to have put about, and to be running
on the same tack as herself. Tom had no doubt seen the clouds, and was
making for home. It was now a race between the two boats, at a distance
of perhaps half a mile apart.
Meanwhile, with every instant the sky darkened and the wind grew fresh.
Dare took a reef in the sail, and kept the halyards free, so that she
could drop it at the slightest warning. The other boat, however, kept on
under a full head of canvas. Was Tom Suydam crazy? Dare wondered. She
had hardly framed the thought before a gust struck his boat, and laid it
so far over on its side that the mast seemed to touch the water. It
righted, however, while Tom, evidently uncertain what to do, hauled the
sail over, and attempted to run on the opposite tack. For an instant the
sail napped in the wind; then it suddenly filled, and for a second time
careened until Dare never expected to see it come up again.
"They'll surely be drowned!" she cried, letting out her own sail another
point, while she steered the dory so as to intercept the other's course.
The skiff had righted once more, but was lurching wildly, and
threatening to capsize with every gust.
"Drop your sail!" she cried, excitedly; but at that instant the skiff
lay over again, and Dare saw that this time it would not come up. Dare
had already skillfully brought her boat up within a few yards of the
skiff, and dropping her sail, she now steered it close enough to take in
Tom and the girl, who, though, in the water, had succeeded in clinging
to the wreck.
"Well!" she exclaimed, when the two were safely on board, "Tom Suydam, I
should think you had lost all the little sense you ever had."
For once Tom was humbled.
"Oh, I say, Dare," he cried, "don't hit a fellow when he's down. Just
look after my cousin Mollie, won't you? She's all broke up. I'll sail
the boat for you," he added.
Dare gave him a warning look. "You go sit in the bow," she said. "When I
ask you to sail a boat for me, I guess you'll know it. There's nothing
to be afraid of now," she said, re-assuringly, turning to Tom's cousin,
who was shivering with fear and cold. "Only I wonder you ever went out
with him. He doesn't even know how to row. Take my coat," she said,
producing a heavy jacket from a locker underneath the seat. "I sha'n't
need it, and you're just soaked through."
The impulsive little stranger threw her arms around Dare's neck and
kissed her.
"You're a dear," she said. "I thought so the minute I laid eyes on
you--only I supposed you were a boy."
Dare laughed.
"I heard what you said," she replied, softly. "Now if you will sit here
with me at the stern, it will trim the boat, and we can make for home."
But the wind, with the uncertainty of a thunder-storm, had shifted
further to the north, and it was apparent even to Mollie that they were
being driven far away from the Shoals.
"Why don't you hoist your sail," cried Tom, from his seat in the bow,
"and steer for the Island? You'll go to Boston if you keep on this way."
Just then a fresh squall drove the boat ahead with such force that the
water broke over the bow, and Tom was for the time suppressed.
Fortunately the dory was stanch and seaworthy. It rode the waves
lightly, and so long as Dare could keep it before the wind she had no
fears of its capsizing. But every breath of wind carried them further
away from home. Presently the rain began to fall; and then Mollie, that
Dare might not be wet, insisted upon covering her shoulders with the
jacket also.
"But I never take cold," Dare protested. "I'm wet through half the time
when I'm out in the dory, and don't know what it is to be sick."
"But I sha'n't feel right unless you take part of it," the other
declared. "I'll sit close to you, dear, like this, and there'll be
enough for both of us."
So Dare did not resist. It was a new experience for her to be
affectionately treated, and she did not need the jacket to make her feel
warm. As Mollie's arm crept round her waist, and the girl's little head
rested on her shoulder, she felt that something had come to her which
all her life had lacked. Leaning over, she kissed the upturned forehead.
"You're not frightened, dear?" she asked.
Just then a sharp flash of lightning forked across the sky, followed
almost immediately by a deafening peal of thunder. Mollie hid her face
in Dare's dress.
"Oh yes, I am," she cried; "I'm awfully frightened. Do you think the
boat can stand it, Dare? Do you think we will ever get home?"
Dare looked out toward the horizon. The rain was falling even more
heavily; the wind was blowing steadily from the north, and the darkness
was shutting down. It was an angry-looking night, and Dare had to fight
hard to shake off a thrill of terror from herself.
"There's no danger, dear," she said, bravely. "I've been out in a
heavier blow than this, and so long as we can keep her before the wind
we're all right. Only I'm afraid, Mollie, we'll have to spend the night
out here. But you needn't mind that. You needn't even be hungry, for
I've got some biscuit and a can of water in the locker; and in the
morning we'll run in somewhere down the coast, or, if the wind has
changed, come straight home. I wouldn't dare put up the sail until after
the storm is over," she added.
They ate the biscuits and drank the water; and then, as the night grew
darker and darker, and finally shut out all surrounding objects, Dare
insisted that Tom and Mollie should go to sleep. Tom could lie down in
the bow, using one of the seat cushions for a pillow, and Mollie in the
stern, resting her head in Dare's lap. Dare would watch, she said. Tom,
who was quite used up by exposure and fear, at once accepted the
suggestion; and Mollie, after some persuasion, also consented to it,
though she insisted that Dare should keep the jacket for herself. Before
she lay down she hesitated a moment.
"May I say my prayers?" she asked, softly.
Dare bent over her and took the little folded hands in her own.
"Say them for me too," she whispered.
So Mollie said her prayers; and then, while the wind roared and the boat
rocked and the rain fell, she went peacefully to sleep, covered by the
jacket which, without her knowing it, Dare had taken off and transferred
to Mollie's thinly clad shoulders. For a long time Dare watched the
quiet little form, resting one hand protectingly on the child's wavy
hair, while with the other she held the tiller and kept the boat still
before the wind. By-and-by, however, the clouds broke and the wind
veered. The water gradually calmed, the boat rocked less and less, and
Dare too had fallen asleep.
* * * * *
Early the next morning Mrs. Peters came to the door of the little
cottage on Star Island, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked out
over the sea. It promised to be a fair day. The storm had cleared off in
the night, and a fresh breeze was blowing from the southwest. Nothing,
however, could be seen of the dory, and as the dory ought to have been
home the afternoon before, Mrs. Peters began to be a little worried. She
had not worried until now, because Dare could not be expected to come
home in a storm. The child had no doubt put into Kittery Point, and
staid all night with the Grays, as she had done before under like
circumstances. But in that case she ought to be coming home now. Mrs.
Peters looked toward the little cove where the dory was accustomed to
lie; and to her great surprise discovered a mast-head rising above the
intervening rocks. The mast was not rocking, as it would be if the dory
were in the water. The boat must be drawn up on the beach. But who had
done that? Had Dare come home in the night? With a quick beating at her
heart, Mrs. Peters ran over the rocks down toward the beach. There was
the dory sure enough. How had it got there, and who was in it?
Dare was in it for one. Her head, from which the hat had fallen off,
rested on the gunwale; her eyes were closed in sleep; and though the
position must have been very uncomfortable, her lips were parted in a
half-smile. On her lap rested the head of another girl, whom Mrs. Peters
did not know, but who was also sleeping, while a boy reposed in the bow.
What did it all mean? With an unusual display of feeling, Mrs. Peters
leaned over and kissed Dare.
The girl opened her eyes.
"Is it time to get up?" she asked, dreamily.
"I should think it was," said Mrs. Peters, briskly. "And what I want to
know is how you got here."
Dare looked around in bewildered surprise. "Why, we must have drifted,"
she exclaimed. "We were miles away from here last night. Mollie dear,"
she cried, leaning over and kissing the head that rested in her lap,
"it's morning, and we've got home."
Mollie sprang up, rubbing her eyes. "Why did you let me sleep so long?"
she cried, penitently. "I might have helped you with the sail."
Dare laughed. "I've been asleep myself all night," she confessed, "and
the dory found its own way home."
Nobody could ever understand by what peculiar conjunction of wind and
current the little boat had been carried on through the darkness to the
strip of sandy beach that formed its haven. "It wouldn't happen once in
a million times," Captain Peters exclaimed, when he was told the story;
while Mrs. Peters declared, with equal emphasis, that no one could make
her believe that it wasn't a providence. As for Mollie's father and
mother, they didn't care how it happened, so long as Mollie was safe;
and when they had satisfied themselves as to that, they began to look
about for ways in which to express their gratitude to Dare. And though
Dare declares that she does not want any thanks, and that it is pleasure
enough for her to know Mollie, it is quite likely that something will be
done for her benefit. For one thing, she is going to spend next winter
with Mollie, and go to school in New York--a prospect which delights
Mollie not less than it does Dare. "Only I'm afraid," Mollie remarks,
apprehensively, when they are discussing the arrangement, "that Tom
won't be civil."
And Dare, to whom Tom has already shown several awkward attentions,
answers, with a smile and a blush: "Oh, Tom is such a goose! But I think
he'll be civil, dear."
A BRAVE BOY.
Evvie Jerome is a little New York boy who is spending the summer at
Bath, Long Island. There is a beautiful shelving beach at this place,
and the children have good times there wading in the surf, digging in
the sand, and building mimic bridges and forts with snowy clam shells.
On Friday, July 7, a merry group was playing on the shore as usual, when
suddenly there was a scream of fright and horror. A great wave had come
rolling in, and had caught and carried out of sight a sweet little girl.
There was not a man within reach. The ladies were paralyzed with fear.
The bright head had gone down under the dark waters.
But there was a little boy there who had the heart and courage of a man,
though he was only seven years old. He had what many men have not--the
sense to see what ought to be done, and the will to do it quickly.
Evvie Jerome caught hold of the life-rope, and by wading and swimming
reached the place where the little girl had gone under.
The spectators watching the young hero saw him dive. Up he came,
dragging the child with him. Clinging to her with one hand, and to the
friendly rope with the other, he brought her, half-drowned but safe, to
her mother's arms.
All honor, says HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, to so noble a boy.
[Illustration: THE YOUNG BAGGAGE-SMASHER.]
HARRY MILLER'S STURGEON.
BY BENJAMIN KARR.
Thirty-four years ago, boys who lived on the shores of Lake Champlain
were very fond of catching the big sturgeons that abounded in its clear
waters. Not more so, perhaps, than boys would be now if fine fish were
as plenty and as easily captured; but then other sports were not so
common in that day, and fishing had much less competition. Often six or
seven would go out together with long seines, and some famous catches
they used to make.
One spring day several lads about eighteen years old hauled in a
splendid sturgeon, whose good nature and intelligence won him quite a
local fame, and whose story ought to have been written long ago.
He was such a fine handsome fellow that Harry Miller, a kind-hearted boy
who was fond of pets, determined to take him home and try to tame him.
The rest of the party were all willing to give up their share in the
prize, so the big captive's fate was settled then and there. Harry took
him to his home at Cedar Point, near Port Henry, and put him in a box
which he had sunk in the water, and fastened to a landing at the edge of
the lake.
The box was about eight feet wide and thirteen feet long, so that a
sturgeon could have plenty of room, even if he was over three and a half
feet long, and weighed about one hundred and fifteen pounds, as this one
did. Harry was careful that there should be plenty of chance for the
fresh lake water to flow all through this novel aquarium, so that it was
always fresh and pure. He also made a door which could be securely
locked, so that he could take his pet out when he wished, and yet be
sure that no one would steal him.
The next thing was a name, and commonplace Tom was chosen, just as it
might be for a horse or a dog. It did not take Tom long to learn his
name, and as he had all the worms, meat, and kitchen scraps he could
eat, and was always treated kindly, he soon grew very tame and fat. He
was ready whenever any one came to feed him, and when his master
playfully patted his sides, he would roll over just as roguishly as a
pet puss might.
A Frenchman who lived near Harry Miller's home was wonderfully skillful
in training animals, and he persuaded Harry to let him see what he could
do with Tom. He found a most docile pupil, and succeeded amazingly, to
Harry's intense delight. After several weeks, he considered his task
accomplished, and returned his charge to his young owner.
Tom was now ready to do something practical in return for his master's
kindness; in fact, he had become a real "sea-horse," well broken to
harness, or rather to rope, for that is all he needed to pull a boat.
A heavy ring was fastened through the thick cartilage just behind the
dorsal or back fin, and a stout rope was snapped into this ring when Tom
was "hitched up," just as a rein often is into a bit.
The other end of the rope was held or made fast in the boat, so that all
one had to do to have a fine ride was to attend to the steering. A long
pole did duty for reins, and a slap on the water either side of Tom
would turn him in the opposite direction.
If he grew lazy, as he sometimes did, a sharp splash just behind would
quicken him up. There was never any trouble about getting home after a
ride. Just as soon as Tom had a chance to turn around, he would start
straight for his box, and swim with all his might until he was once more
snugly housed.
While Tom was being trained, he was allowed only about six feet of rope,
but after Harry felt sure that he could trust his pet, he let him go
twenty or thirty feet from the boat, and instead of short rides he used
to stay out as long as three or four hours.
Just think, boys, of going fishing with a fish to do the sculling!
Naturally Tom was kept quite busy towing fishing parties, and he worked
all the better when he had plenty to do. A vacation of two or three days
would make him behave like a colt the next time he went out.
At first he would rush off at a great rate, drawing two men in a
good-sized boat nearly as fast as one could row, but he would soon cool
down until he hardly wanted to stir at all.
Work every day was what Tom needed to make him willing and steady, and
if he had it he was a model of good behavior.
Of course a great many other boys thought it would be fine to have a
trained fish, and many sturgeons were caught and petted, but all in
vain. None of them could be induced to work, and Harry Miller's Tom
remained without a rival, the pride of his master, and the envy of other
boys.
Most of the sturgeons which boys tried to train killed themselves by
staying too long under water when they were taken out into the lake, and
others pined away and died before any progress could be made.
For three years Tom did his young master good and faithful service, but
at last he changed owners, and nothing is known of his history from the
time he was sold. Harry was forced to part with his pet because the
Millers moved away from the lake, but the twenty-five dollars he
received was a poor recompense to him for the loss of such an
accomplished fish.
But though he never heard of him again, he has always cherished his
memory.
Mr. Harry Miller is now a middle-aged gentleman, living in the town of
Warren, Pennsylvania, where he often entertains his young friends with
the story of his wonderful sturgeon Tom, every word of which is strictly
true.
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," ETC.
CHAPTER XVI.
A LOST MONKEY.
When they reached the kitchen, the sounds which came from the hen-house
told plainly that the party they were in search of had not ceased his
work because the household had been alarmed. The snapping of wood could
be heard, and if Aunt Olive had not been thoroughly aroused before, she
was then, for laths were being broken, and one of her choicest broods of
ducks was secured only by such frail barrier against either two or four
legged thieves.
"Stop them quick, or all the ducks will be out," she screamed; and, thus
urged, Uncle Daniel made a bold stand.
"Get behind me, and hold your hand over the light," he whispered; and
then he shouted, as he brought the gun up to his shoulder in a very
threatening manner, "Come out here, and give yourselves up at once."
There was no answer made to this peremptory command, and, strangely
enough, the work of destruction was continued as vigorously as if Uncle
Daniel and his broken gun were a thousand miles away, instead of on the
spot and ready for action.
"Come away from there instantly, and save yourself any further trouble,"
shouted Uncle Daniel, in a louder voice, stamping his foot, while Aunt
Olive brandished the fire-shovel to give emphasis to his words.
There was silence for a moment, as if the burglar had stopped to
consider the matter, and then the work was continued with greater energy
than before.
"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Uncle Daniel, as he brought the butt of his
gun down on his own foot with such force that he was obliged to give
immediate attention to the wounded member.
Toby had always had a wholesome dread of a gun; but his fear became
greater than ever when he saw how much mischief could be done with one
as near a total wreck as that was, for Uncle Daniel had seated himself
on the grass, regardless of the dew, and was hugging his foot as if he
feared he should lose it.
Even though her husband was wounded, Aunt Olive could not stop to offer
any aid while her precious ducks were in such peril, as the breaking of
the laths proved them to be; and she started forward alone and unarmed,
save with the shovel, until a loud quacking indicated that the robber
had made at least one prisoner. Dropping the shovel, but still clinging
to the candle, Aunt Olive seized the gun, and dragging it along by the
muzzle, she cried:
"I'll shoot you if you don't let them ducks alone, and go right straight
away from here!"
The loud quacking of another duck proved that she had not alarmed the
burglar; and as she was now quite near the bold robber, by holding her
candle above her head she could discern in the darkness what looked like
a boy, with a duck tightly clutched in each hand.
"It's only a boy," she cried to Uncle Daniel, who had given over
attending to his foot, and was coming up; and then, as she ran toward
the thief, she cried, "Put down them ducks, you little rascal, or I will
whip you soundly!"
The boy did not put the ducks down, nor did he stay for the whipping;
but, with both the noisy prizes held in one hand, he began to climb the
hen-house in a manner surprising in one so small.
By this time both Toby and Uncle Daniel were on the spot, and the former
saw that the supposed boy was using a long tail in his work of climbing
the hen-house.
"It's Mr. Stubbs's brother; don't shoot him!" he cried, forgetting, in
his excitement, that the gun was dangerous only when dropped on one's
foot; and then he too tried to climb upon the hen-house.
"The monkey?" cried Uncle Daniel, as he felt on his forehead for his
spectacles, to enable him to see better. Aunt Olive made use of almost
the same words; but instead of feeling for her spectacles, she ran
toward the building, as if she fancied it to be the easiest thing in the
world to catch a mischievous monkey.
Toby knew, if Aunt Olive did not, that it would be the work of some time
to catch Mr. Stubbs's brother, and that no threats would induce him to
come down. Therefore he put forth all his energies in the vain hope of
overtaking him.
Although the monkey was encumbered by the two ducks he had stolen, he
could climb twice as fast as Toby could, and Aunt Olive realized the
fact very soon.
"Scare him till he drops the ducks," she cried to Toby; and then, to do
her portion of the "scaring," she brandished the fire-shovel, and cried
"shoo!" in a very energetic manner.
Uncle Daniel waved his arms, and shouted, "Come down! come down!" as he
ran from one side of the building to the other; but the only reply to
his shout was the quacking of the half-strangled ducks.
"Catch him, Toby, catch him, before he kills the ducks!" cried Aunt
Olive, in an agony of fear lest these particular inmates of her
poultry-yard should be killed.
"That's what I'm tryin' to do," panted Toby, as he chased Mr. Stubbs's
brother from one end of the roof to the other, without even a chance of
catching him.
The quacking of the ducks was growing fainter every moment, and knowing
that something must be done at once, Uncle Daniel hunted around until he
found a long pole, with which he struck at the monkey.
This had the desired effect, for Mr. Stubbs's brother was so nearly hit
two or three times that he dropped the almost dead ducks, curled his
tail over his back, and leaped to the ground. He alighted so near Aunt
Olive that she uttered a loud shriek, nearly falling backward over the
wood-pile; but the monkey was out of sight in an instant, going in the
direction of the road.
As his pet disappeared in the darkness, Toby scrambled down from the
roof of the building and started in pursuit; but before he had gone far
he heard Uncle Daniel calling to him, while at the same time he realized
that pursuit would be useless under the circumstances.
"He's run away, an' I won't ever find him again," he said, in so
mournful a tone that Uncle Daniel knew the tears were very near his
eyelids.
"He won't go very far, Toby boy," said Uncle Daniel, consolingly, "and
you can soon find him after the sun rises."
"He'll be more'n seven miles off by that time," said Toby, as he choked
back his sobs, and tried to speak firmly.
"I don't know much about the nature of monkeys," replied Uncle Daniel,
speaking very slowly; "but I am inclined to the belief that he will
remain near here, since he has come to consider this his home. But it
will be daylight in less than an hour, and then you can start after him.
I will drive the cows to the pasture, so that you will have nothing to
delay you."
Aunt Olive had caught up the ducks as soon as Mr. Stubbs's brother had
dropped them, and believing it was yet possible to save their lives, she
had started toward the house for the purpose of applying some remedies.
"It's so near morning that I sha'n't go to bed again," she said; "and
I'll get you something to eat, and put up a lunch for you, so you can
stay out until you find him."
This offer on Aunt Olive's part seemed doubly kind, since the monkey had
done so much mischief among her pets, and Toby realized that it would be
ungrateful in him to complain, more especially as Uncle Daniel and Aunt
Olive were willing to do all in their power to enable him to catch the
fugitive.
"I'll mend the cluck pen," he said, resolutely putting from his mind the
thought of Mr. Stubbs's brother, who he firmly believed was trudging up
the road in the direction taken by the circus when it left town.
Uncle Daniel thought it would be just as well to remain up also, and he
dragged the wreck of the gun into the house, putting it carefully away
lest some one should be injured by it, before he commenced to build the
fire.
Mr. Stubbs's brother had labored industriously when he set about
reducing the cluck pen to kindling-wood; and although Toby worked as
fast as possible, it was nearly time for the sun to rise before he
finished the job of repairing it.
By that time Aunt Olive had a nice breakfast ready for him, and a
generous lunch done up neatly in paper.
Abner had not wakened, therefore Toby was obliged to go away without
knowing whether he was better or worse; but Aunt Olive told him that she
thought he need have no fear regarding the invalid, for she felt certain
he would be much better when he awoke.
Toby ate his breakfast very hurriedly, and then started down the road in
the direction of his partners' homes, for he thought there would be a
better chance of capturing the runaway if four or five boys set out in
pursuit than if he went out alone.
Fully two hours were spent in arousing his partners, explaining what had
happened, and waiting for them to get their breakfast; but at the end of
that time every one of the circus managers was ready for the search.
There was a decided difference of opinion among them as to which
direction they should take, some believing the monkey had gone one way,
and some another, and the only plan by which the matter could be settled
was to divide the force into two parties.
Bob, Reddy, and Ben formed one division, and they started into the woods
in a nearly straight line from Uncle Daniel's house. Toby, Joe, and
Leander, making up the other party, went up the road. Toby insisted on
this course because he was sure that Mr. Stubbs's brother would attempt
to follow the circus of which he had once been a member, although so
many weeks had elapsed since it had passed along there.
Leander was of the opinion that they ought to have borrowed a dog, with
which to track the monkey more easily, and even offered to go back to
get one; but Toby thought that would be a waste of valuable time, more
especially as it was by no means certain that Leander could procure the
dog if he did go back.
Joe thought each inch of the road should be examined with a view to
finding traces of the monkey; but that plan was given up in a very few
moments after it was tried, for the good reason that the boys could not
distinguish even their own footprints, the road was beaten so hard. They
could only walk straight ahead, hoping to come up with the fugitive, or
to hear some news of him.
[Illustration: THE BOYS INQUIRING FOR MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.]
At each house on the road they stopped to ask if a stray monkey had been
seen; but they could hear nothing encouraging until they had walked
nearly three miles, and were just beginning to think it would have been
wiser to remain with the party who went into the woods.
At last, however, a farmer told them that he had seen an animal come up
the main road, just about sunrise, and that it had gone up through his
field into an oak grove. He had had no idea at the time that it was a
monkey, and had intended to take his gun and go in search of it as soon
as he could spare the time.
Toby trembled as the man said this, for Mr. Stubbs's death was too vivid
in his mind for him to think without a shudder of any one going in
search of this monkey with a gun. He started for the grove at full
speed, fearing that some one with more time at his disposal had seen his
pet, and might even now be in pursuit of him.
Of course the boys did not know certainly that the animal the farmer had
seen was Mr. Stubbs's brother, but all were quite sure it was; and
before they had been in the oak grove ten minutes they saw the monkey
himself, hanging by his tail and one paw from the branch of a tree.
Toby was so delighted at seeing his pet safe and alive that he set up a
great shout; and the monkey, thus warned that boys who would chain him
down to the drudgery of a circus ring were on his track, started off at
full speed, scolding furiously as he went.
To catch a monkey in the woods was even a harder task than to "scrape"
him from the tent, or to capture him on the roof of the hen-house; but
he must be caught, and the three boys started after him, fully aware of
the difficult task before them.
To Mr. Stubbs's brother this flight and pursuit was simply the wildest
kind of a frolic, and he fairly screamed with delight as he leaped from
one tree to another, sometimes allowing them to touch him, and then
starting off, at full speed until nearly out of sight.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
AMUSING "HIS HIGHNESS."
BY MARY D. BRINE.
His little Highness sits in state
Upon his rightful throne,
And from his kingly brow all sign
Of royal care has flown.
His little Highness smiles at us
Who kneel before him there,
The while we kiss his gracious hand
And bonny face so fair.
His little Highness, it is plain,
His subjects should amuse;
And of all entertainments, pray
Which will his Highness choose?
There's "This wee pig to market went,"
Played with his royal toes;
And "Trot, trot, trot, on mother's knee,
To Boston baby goes";
And "Patty-cake, O baker's man!"
Played with the dimpled hands;
And many another game like that
Which baby understands.
But best of all his Majesty
His mother's kiss prefers;
For though we dearly love our king,
There is no love like hers.
So in her arms she clasps him tight,
He and his dignity.
He's only baby, after all,
And sleepy as can be.
His throne into a cradle turns--
'Tis mother's knee, you know--
And presently to slumber-land
His Majesty will go.
CATCHING BUTTERFLIES.
BY HELEN S. CONANT.
The boy or girl who wishes to form a valuable and pretty collection of
butterflies must set about it in the right way. The first thing is to
prepare a net. The brass rings with handles sold by all dealers in
sportsmen's goods for landing-nets for fish will answer the purpose, but
any ingenious boy can make his own frame. Get a smooth, light hoop about
fifteen inches in diameter. If you can not find one small enough, make
it from a barrel hoop. Bind the hoop firmly to a rod about three feet
long. Now go to mamma and ask her to cut out a round piece of mosquito
netting about three-quarters of a yard in diameter, and fasten it to the
hoop. Now the net is ready.
[Illustration]
The permanent case for your specimens must be a neat shallow box of some
pretty wood, with a glass cover. Thin pieces of cork should be glued on
the bottom at intervals, according to the size of your butterflies, upon
these the insects are mounted by a slender pin which runs through the
body. When the case is full, it should be sealed air-tight, for if there
is the finest crack, moths will get in and ruin your collection.
You can not take your case to the fields, so you must have some small
paper boxes in which you can mount your specimens until the wings are
dry, and they are ready to place in the case.
The best thing for a youthful naturalist to use to kill the butterfly is
ether. As it evaporates very quickly, it does not injure the color or
texture of the beautiful insect, and it ends the life of the butterfly
instantly, and without giving pain. There are other things often used by
naturalists, such as cyanide of potassium, but they are dangerous
chemicals for little folks to handle, and we recommend ether as being
safe, and sure to kill the butterfly.
Now swing your net over your shoulder, take the ether which should be in
a bottle with a glass stopper to prevent evaporation, the box for
mounting specimens, and some fine pins, and let us start out in search
of butterflies. We will go first for some of the large ones that fly
about the fields and by the road-side.
Down in the old lane by the stone wall is a great clump of milkweed
(_Asclepias syriaca_), and in June there were some big black, white, and
yellow caterpillars crawling about among the leaves. Two weeks ago they
changed into green chrysalides spotted with black and gold, and it is
time now to look for the great _Danias archippus_ butterflies, which
will come out of the chrysalides in these hot July days. Yes, there is
one now perched on the Asclepias, its large wings opening and shutting
in the sun. Go softly, for it is a shy fellow. A quick throw of the net,
and--off goes the butterfly sailing away across the sunny field. Hurry
over the wall and give chase after it. The boy who would intrap a
butterfly must follow where it leads, and stop neither for walls,
ditches, nor swamps, or the prize will be lost. There are few
butterflies so strong on the wing as the Archippus. But it is worn out
at last, and stops to rest for an instant on a field lily--a fatal
instant for the butterfly, for now the net descends skillfully, and the
great insect is fluttering in its meshes. Gather the net carefully in
your hand so that the creature will have no room to flutter and break
its wings. Now pour a very little ether on its head--two drops are
enough--and it lies motionless. As the Archippus is a very strong
fellow--you have already, perhaps, felt the tight grip of its tiny feet
on your finger--it may be necessary to repeat the dose of ether, but for
ordinary butterflies one dose is sufficient.
Take the dead insect in your hand, touching the wings as little as
possible, as the delicate down is easily injured, and passing a pin
through its body, fasten it in the bottom of your box. Open the wings
carefully, and arrange them at once while they are soft and flexible. A
pin fastened between the wings, not through them, will hold them in
place until they are dry.
Examine the Archippus carefully, for it is a very beautiful creature.
Its wings expand over four inches. They are tawny orange veined with
black, and with a black border ornamented with rows of white dots. On
the front border of the fore-wings are several yellow and white spots.
The under side of the wings is deep yellow, veined and bordered the same
as the upper side. Be very careful not to injure the antennas, or
feelers, which project from the head; they are very delicate and easily
broken. But do not be discouraged if your first attempt to mount and
arrange a butterfly is unsuccessful. The first butterfly will no doubt
be a forlorn-looking creature, its wings twisted and broken. Persevere,
and your fingers will soon become skillful, and you will arrange the
wings as neatly as an experienced naturalist could do it.
[Illustration]
The dark butterfly in the background of the engraving is an Archippus,
and the large one in front, with bands crossing its wings, and with
little tails on its hind-wings, is the _Papilio turnus_--a brilliant
yellow butterfly marked with black and blue. The latter is usually found
in old apple orchards. It leaves the chrysalis early in June, which is
the best time to capture it, as the specimens found fluttering about
late in the season are too faded and dilapidated to be valuable in a
collection. But there is another very beautiful member of this same
family called _Papilio asterias_, which may be found in country gardens
all through the month of July. It is usually fluttering over
sweet-scented phlox and parley beds, because it is on these plants that
it deposits its eggs, from which the caterpillar, commonly known as the
parley worm, is hatched. The _papilio asterias_ is a large butterfly,
with black velvety wings, dotted with yellow on the margin. The
hind-wings are tailed like those of the _Papilio turnus_, and ornamented
with seven blue spots between two rows of yellow spots, and at the hind
angle with an orange-colored eye with a black centre.
There are two pretty butterflies of the genus Nymphalis, which are found
all through the summer. The _Nymphalis disippe_ is very similar in color
and markings to the great Archippus, but it is much smaller, as its
wings expand only about three inches. Look for it near willows and
poplars, for it is on those trees that its caterpillar lives and forms
its chrysalis.
Its sister, the _Nymphalis ephestion_, is a creature entirely different
in appearance. The caterpillars and chrysalides of both are similar,
but, except in size and form of the wings, the gorgeous orange and black
Disippe bears no resemblance to the Ephestion in its suit of dark navy
blue with black and white trimmings.
Another beautiful butterfly is the _Argynnis idalia_. Its hind-wings are
blue-black, with two rows of cream-colored and orange spots, while the
fore-wings, which expand over three inches, are tawny-orange spotted
with black. The under side of its wings, like those of nearly all
butterflies of the genus Argynnis, is ornamented with silvery spots in a
black border. The Idalia loves grassy fields and way-side flowers, and
is not difficult to capture.
The tiny butterfly with bluish-brown and copper-colored wings ornamented
with black, which is found in great numbers all through the summer
fluttering over the grass and white clover by the road-side, is the
_Lycæna americana_; and the small yellow butterfly with black markings
on its wings, which flies in such quantities over clover fields that a
single throw of the net will often intrap a dozen, is the _Colias
philodice_. These two are the most common of our small butterflies,
although there are many more you will find in your rambles through woods
and fields. There are the skippers (_Hesperiadæ_), of which there are
said to be more than eighty varieties, that fly near the ground with a
jerking motion, as if they were skipping instead of flying from flower
to flower. A peculiarity of the skipper is that when at rest it erects
only the fore-wings, the hind pair remaining horizontal like those of a
moth.
During the latter part of summer a family of delicate brown butterflies
may be seen in the shady woods fluttering about beds of fern and moss.
They, are called Hipparchians, and are the only butterflies which love
shade better than sunshine. Their wings are very fragile, and the net
should be thrown over them as gently as possible, as they are broken and
ruined by careless handling. The _Hipparchia alope_ is one of the
largest of this pretty family. Its brown wings expand a little over two
inches. Near the margin of the fore-wings is a broad yellow band in
which are two round black spots with a blue centre. The _Hipparchia
eurytris_ is a delicate little beauty. It is smaller than the Alope, and
each of its little pale brown wings is ornamented with two black spots
with a tiny lead-colored centre.
Through the summer and autumn there are so many butterflies fluttering
away their short lives in the sunshine that a description of them all
would fill many pages of YOUNG PEOPLE. But catch all the different kinds
you can find, and preserve them carefully; and if you have no good
illustrated text-book in the country, you can obtain one next winter,
and spend many long evenings in classifying your collection, and
studying the habits of these pretty inhabitants of the fields and
woods.
[Illustration: A SWEET KISS FROM DOLLY.]
TOM FAIRWEATHER GOES TO BASSORAH, THE HOME OF SINDBAD THE SAILOR.
BY LIEUTENANT E. W. STURDY.
Tom awoke late one morning, to his disappointment, because the night
before his father had told him that the next day they would anchor off
the Shat-el-Arab River. He sprang on deck eagerly. "Land! Land!" had an
ever-fresh fascination for him.
But where was the land? He gazed about him in surprise. The ship was
anchored, by all the signs, but anchored apparently in mid-ocean.
Directly ahead of them, however, was a black buoy, which, as Tom knew,
was not an ordinary feature of mid-ocean scenery.
Tom pointed out this buoy to his father. "What a queer place for a buoy,
father!"
"Not at all. It is put there to mark the middle of the river channel.
But I see what you mean. You don't realize that is the mouth of a river.
Water, water everywhere, and no land in view, eh? Nevertheless this is
the Shat-el-Arab River, which we now propose to ascend. Here comes the
pilot."
Do you remember, Young People, that the Shat-el-Arab is at the head of
the Persian Gulf? Tom realized this distinctly, as they had been
steaming up this Gulf for the past week. But could that be indeed a
river-mouth?
It was not until they were under way, and had been running along for an
hour, that the river narrowed sufficiently for its banks to become
visible. At this point it might fairly be termed a magnificent river,
with a depth of from thirty to forty feet, whereas at its bar, off which
they had first anchored, there was but eleven or twelve feet of water.
Yes, a splendid river all the way along its splendid course of a hundred
and fifty miles, to the place where the Euphrates and Tigris mingle
their floods with its own.
But Tom's ship stops short of this point, at Bassorah, with which city
Tom had most vivid associations, for was it not from here that Sindbad
the Sailor had set forth on his wonderful voyages?
It was late in the afternoon when they neared the shore, but not too
late to distinctly note the character of the place. It was very much
better built, and with more of an air of civilization about it, than
other Eastern towns Tom had seen lately. The buildings were, some of
them, of brick, with glass windows facing the outer world. In short,
Bassorah gave evidence on its face of being a prosperous city.
"It is a great grain dépôt," one of the officers said to another. "Those
high buildings are grain warehouses."
"Yes, and they are almost always well stocked with grain," Captain
Fairweather remarked. "A perpetual contest is going on between the grain
merchants and the rats in consequence. The warehouses are in a constant
state of siege by the rats trying to get in. Every now and then the rats
win the day. They undermine the foundations, and over goes a warehouse."
"How I wish they'd do it while we are here!" cried Tom, fervently.
"Perhaps they may," returned Tom's especial Lieutenant, in an
encouraging tone.
The next morning Captain Fairweather made up a party, of which Tom was
one, to visit the shore. He pulled to the creek leading to the town, and
then embarked in a long narrow native boat. Tom inspected it curiously
when he had taken his seat.
"They call this boat a bellem," said his father. "It is hewn out of a
tree. Something like canoe-riding, isn't it?"
Two lithe, active Arabs shoved the bellem forward with long bamboos,
which they thrust against the bottom or the banks of the creek--or
perhaps I might better say canal.
When they left the bellem, one of the boatmen went with them as a guide
through the town, and first of all through the bazars.
The bazars were well-built structures, vaulted over with brick. But they
were dismally dark, being lighted only by very small windows at the top.
A large trade in grain was in progress. They saw thousands of tons of
wheat in open spaces, the heaps being covered over with mats.
"Do they only trade in grain here?" Tom asked.
"No, but the season for the grain trade comes first; then comes the wool
trade, and later on the trade in dates. First one thing and then
another."
As they walked out, Mr. Jollytarre said to the guide: "What dirty
streets! Do you ever sweep them?"
"When the Pasha he come," replied the boatman.
"How they do smell!" said Tom, sniffing the air.
"And they will go on smelling," said the Captain, "until some fine day
the plague comes and makes a clean sweep of the town. The only clean
sweep it ever gets, some one has said."
"The plague!" cried Tom, in horror.