poor Ned was entirely forgotten. He had by this time made his house just
large enough to allow him to get inside. He said to himself, "I will try
it myself before Eva comes," and bending his head quite low, crept into
the hole.
The stooping position was very uncomfortable, and he thought, "I must
make my house higher inside," and moved slightly backward, intending to
get out. Suddenly he found himself unable to stir, and entirely
surrounded with darkness: his house had caved in, and the poor boy was
deeply buried in the snow.
The brave little fellow, although terribly frightened, began at once to
consider what was best for him to do. He thought there were three ways
in which he might get released from his imprisonment. He had seen the
clothes hanging on the lines; Jane would come out to take them down, and
when she did, he would call to her for help. If she didn't hear him,
then--oh, how well he remembered the hour!--mamma would be home at six
o'clock. He knew she always closed her blinds before lighting the gas;
he would call to her as loud as he could, and she might hear him. But he
began to wonder a little how long should he have to wait. If neither
Jane nor mamma heard him, he must then wait for papa, who would surely
not sit down to dinner without searching for his little son. He thought
of Eva, but didn't expect any assistance from her, because he knew when
she came to the door and didn't see him in the yard she would return
home.
Then he happened to remember what his teacher had told the class in
school that very day--that any one would soon smother to death unless he
could have fresh air to breathe, and he thought, "I shall soon use all
the air in here. If I could only make a little hole to let in some fresh
air from outside!" He felt very tightly packed in, his chin resting on
his knees, and his back almost bent double. He tried so hard to change
his position, but could at first only move backward and forward the
fingers of his right hand; this he continued to do until he could
slightly move his arm. He worked with it until at last he felt the cold
air blowing upon his hand. How cold it felt! but he kept it outside,
making as much motion with it as he could, hoping Jane would see it when
she came out for the clothes, and wondering what it was, would come to
his relief.
But he found it impossible to hold his little hand out long, for it
began to ache and grow stiff; so he pulled it in, and comforted himself
with the ray of light that came through the hole, and the thought of the
fresh air he now had to breathe.
He hadn't once called out loudly for help, as most boys would naturally
have done, for, as we have seen, he was thoughtful as well as brave, and
knew that if he cried out now, when no one was near, he might not have
any strength left to call to Jane when she came out, or to his mother
when she opened the window.
How slowly the time passed! The small ray of light was getting dim, his
courage began to fail, when the sound of an opening door came to his
ears. It must be Jane, he thought, and his heart beat faster with hope.
Out she came, singing loudly,
"'Now, Rory, be aisy,' sweet Kathleen would cry,
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,"
and poor little Ned's smothered voice was not heard as he called, "Jane!
Jane! come and help me; I'm under the snow!"
It seemed to him but a minute before all was still again; the clothes
were taken from the line, and Jane was back in her warm kitchen, without
a thought of suffering Ned.
One of his three hopes had failed, but Ned took courage. It must be
nearly six now, for hardly any light was coming in through the hole, and
mamma would soon open the window to close the blinds. How still he kept,
listening for every sound! and at last his heart gave a thump.
"Surely that was the window opening." Not a second did he lose. "Mamma!
mamma! I'm here under the snow; do come here!" he called, with all his
strength, over and over again. It is no wonder that the tears began to
fall thick and fast from Ned's eyes as the window closed, and the
dreadful still darkness was around him, and the hope of making mamma
hear him lost.
Now he had only to wait for papa, and our little hero stopped his sobs,
fearing he might lose one sound of those expected welcome steps. He
would try to be as patient as possible, not a doubt entering his mind of
papa's finding him.
Mrs. Bancroft had come home, and after taking off her cloak and bonnet,
as usual closed her blinds, entirely unconscious of the little voice
appealing to her for help. She thought her boy was sitting in the
library learning his lesson, or was perhaps listening to one of Jane's
Irish stories in the kitchen, Jane being very fond of him: she had been
his nurse when he was a baby. Yet mamma was rather surprised that Ned
had not run up stairs to see her after the long afternoon's absence.
She went down stairs to meet Mr. Bancroft, whom she heard opening the
front door; they walked together into the library, papa saying, "Where's
Ned?"
"He must be in the kitchen," said Mrs. Bancroft. "I've not seen him
since I came home at six o'clock."
Mr. Bancroft went into the hall, calling aloud, "Ned, where are you?"
How joyfully would Ned have answered could he have heard papa's dear
cheerful voice!
There was no response, and Mrs. Bancroft rang the library bell. "Jane,
send Master Ned up stairs," she said, as Jane made her appearance.
"Sure I've not seen him the whole afternoon, ma'am."
Mrs. Bancroft looked at her husband with an alarmed face, saying, "Where
can the child be? He never staid out so late before."
After searching every room in the house, they went to the front door,
looking in vain up and down the street. Mr. Bancroft then went to the
houses of several neighbors whose little boys had often played with Ned,
but none had seen him since school-time.
The parents were now truly frightened, for Ned had never been in the
habit of going anywhere without permission; but now they thought he must
have strayed away, and some accident befallen him.
"Oh, Edward," said Mrs. Bancroft, the tears falling from her eyes, "what
shall we do to find our boy?"
Dreading to alarm her, Mr. Bancroft didn't mention his fears, but with a
heavy heart put on his hat, and again went into the street, his wife
returning to the library convulsed with sobs.
Where could he go but to the nearest station-house, thought Ned's
anxious father, and started thither; but when he reached the corner of
the street he turned round again, disliking the idea of going far from
the house where it was most natural to see the boy.
"I will go back and examine his playthings. He has always been an
orderly child. I can easily tell whether he has used any of them this
afternoon."
Once more he entered the door, and went directly to Ned's room. The
spelling-book was in its place, but his overcoat and hat were not to be
found. The box of playthings was next examined. It was open, showing Ned
had been there, and his little shovel was missing.
Why he immediately went into the yard, Mr. Bancroft could afterward
never tell. It must have been a good fairy that led him to the back
door, where he stood a few seconds looking out into the darkness,
longing for a sight of the little face which always welcomed him home.
It must have been the same fairy that moved him to walk to the back of
the yard, where a black spot in the snow attracted his attention. His
heart gave a leap: it was Ned's shovel. And what was that faint moaning
sound that came to his ears? Was Eva in any distress in the next yard?
He listened.
"Papa! oh, papa! I'm here, under the snow!"
"Ned, my boy, where are you?"
"Here, papa, under the snow."
With the same little shovel the father now worked with all his might,
cheering his child by the continued sound of his voice, saying, "Papa
will take you out in a minute. Be a brave boy. Papa will soon get you."
Mrs. Bancroft, who was waiting in-doors, heard, as she thought, persons
talking in the yard, and opened the library window, when her husband
called to her: "Send some one here to help me! Be quick; Ned is here
under the snow."
Jane overheard, and rushed out with her coal shovel, and began to dig
with the strength and energy of a man, and crying, "Me darlint, me
darlint, is it here ye are?"
When at last the brave little fellow felt the loving arms of his father
tight about him, he simply whispered, "Oh, papa, I'm so glad you came!"
Can any of my young readers imagine with what happiness both father and
mother kissed and hugged their cold and stiff little darling? They
carried him with gentle hands into the house, and hurriedly sent Jane
for the doctor, as poor Ned was now quite exhausted.
When old Dr. Gray looked down at the child he said little, but with a
serious face administered stimulants, and with his own hands assisted in
rubbing back life into the almost frozen body of our young hero.
If Ned had been many minutes longer buried in the snow, this story could
never have had such a cheerful ending.
AN HONEST MINER.
If you go into a mining district in Cornwall, England, you will see, not
far from the mine works, rows of neat little cottages; most of them are
extremely clean in the interior, and here the miners may be found seated
at comfortable fires, frequently reading, or in the summer evenings
working in their little gardens or in the potato fields. Frequently they
become experienced floriculturists, and at the flower shows that occur
annually in several of the Cornish towns they often carry off the
prizes.
A pleasing anecdote is recorded of the honesty of a poor Cornish miner.
There lived at St. Ives a lady named Prudence Worth, whose charity was
remarkable. A miner living at Camborne had his goods seized for rent,
which he could not pay. He had heard of the many good deeds done by
"Madam" Worth, as she was usually called, and he determined to apply to
her for assistance. He said:
"Madam, I am come to you in great trouble. My goods are seized for rent,
and they will be sold if I can not get the money immediately."
"Where do you live?" inquired Mrs. Worth.
"In Camborne, and I work in Stray Park Mine."
"I know nothing of you," observed the lady, "and you may be a drunkard,
or an impostor."
"Madam," replied the miner, with energy, "as I live, I am neither; and
if you will lend me the money, I will return it in four months."
The money was lent, the period of four months elapsed, and, true to his
promise, the poor miner, notwithstanding that bad luck had attended him,
had managed to get the amount borrowed together, and set off on foot
with it. Arriving at Hayle River, he found the tide coming up, but to
save a journey of three miles round by St. Erith Bridge, he resolved to
cross the water, which appeared to him shallow enough for this purpose.
The poor fellow had, however, miscalculated the depth, and was drowned.
When the body was brought to shore, his wife said that he had left home
with three guineas in his pocket for Madam Worth. Search was made in his
pockets, and no money was found, but some one observed that his right
hand was firmly clinched. It was opened, and found to contain the three
guineas.
[Illustration]
BABY.
BY K. M. M.
What are you looking at, Baby dear,
With your wide-open serious eyes,
That were made from the depths of heaven's own blue,
Stolen away from the skies?
What do you think of this great wide world
That you gaze on with such surprise?
I should like to know, if you only could tell,
You look so grave and so wise.
The professor himself, who has studied for years,
Has not half so sage an air
As this baby of ours when he sits all alone
In the lap of the great arm-chair.
And what are you talking of, all by yourself,
In those words which none of us know?--
We forget so soon the language of heaven,
In this work-a-day world below.
But teach us those accents strange and sweet
That you've learned from the angels above,
For we must become like this little child
E'er we enter God's kingdom of love.
KNITTED SCARF.
[Illustration: Fig. 1--KNITTED SCARF. [SEE FIG. 2.]]
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--DETAIL OF SCARF, FIG. 1.]
Little girls who like to knit will be glad to know how to make this
pretty scarf. It is knitted with two threads, one of white and the other
of chinchilla zephyr worsted, and wooden needles, crosswise, in rounds
going back and forth. Strands of worsted are knotted in the ends for
fringe. Begin the scarf with a thread of white and a thread of
chinchilla worsted, cast on 27 st. (stitch), and knit as follows: 1st
round.--(Slip the first st. of each round, and carry the working thread
to the wrong side, slipping it through between both needles; the last
st. is always knit off plain with both threads, catching them together.
This will not be referred to further.) Lay the chinchilla worsted on the
needle from the front to the wrong side, knit the next st. plain with
the white thread, * carry the chinchilla thread underneath the needle
and over the white thread to the front, lay the white thread on the
needle from the front to the wrong side, purl the next st. with the
chinchilla worsted, lay the latter on the needle from the front to the
wrong side, carry the white thread underneath the chinchilla thread to
the next st., and knit this plain, and repeat from *. 2d round.--Lay the
chinchilla thread on the needle from the front to the wrong side, purl
the next st. which appears purled on this side, together with the thread
thrown over, with the white thread, * lay the white thread on the needle
from the front to the wrong side, carry the chinchilla thread underneath
the white thread to the next st., and knit this plain together with the
thread thrown over, carry the white thread from the wrong side to the
front underneath the needle, and over the chinchilla thread, lay the
latter on the needle from the front to the wrong side, purl the next st.
together with the thread thrown over, with white worsted, and repeat
from *. 3d and 4th rounds.--Like the 1st and 2d rounds, but in the 3d
round always purl the st. which appear purled on the working side, and
knit plain those which look as if knit plain. Repeat always the 1st to
4th rounds, transposing the design (see Fig. 2). Finally, cast off the
st. loosely with both threads.
BISHOP HATTO.
The story goes that there once lived in Germany, in a handsome, spacious
palace, a selfish, fat old Bishop. His table was always spread with the
choicest dainties, and he drank in abundance wine of the very best; he
slept long and soundly, and looked so comfortable and happy and fat that
the people whispered to each other, "How grand it must be to be a
Bishop!"
One summer, in the neighborhood where the Bishop lived, the rain came
down in such torrents, and continued so long, that the grain was utterly
ruined, and when autumn arrived, there was none to be gathered. "What
shall we do," said the poor fathers and mothers, "when the long winter
comes, and we have no food to give our children?"
Winter arrived, bringing the cold winds and the snow and the frost. The
little ones begged for bread, and the poor mothers were compelled to say
the bread was all gone.
"Let us go to the Bishop," at last said the poor pining creatures.
"Surely he will help us. He has far more food than he needs, and it is
useless our starving here when he has plenty."
Very soon from his palace window the Bishop saw numbers of the poor
people flocking to his gates, and he thought to himself: "So they want
my corn; but they shall not have it; and the sooner they find out their
mistake, the better." So he sent them all away. The next day others
came. Still the Bishop refused, but still the people persevered in
calling out for food at his gates.
At last, wearied with their cries, but still unmoved by their pitiable
condition, the Bishop announced that on a certain day his large barn
should be open for any one to enter who chose, and that when the place
was full, as much food should be given them as would last all the
winter.
At last the day came, and for a time forgetting their hunger, the women
and children, as well as the men, both old and young, crowded up to the
barn door.
The Bishop watched them, with a smile on his deceitful old face, until
the place was quite full; then he fastened the door securely, and
actually set fire to the barn, and burned it to the ground. As he
listened to the cries of agony, he said to himself, "How much better it
will be for the country when all these _rats_," as he called the poor
sufferers, "are killed, because while they were living they only
consumed the corn!"
Having done this, he went to his palace, and sat down to his dainty
supper, chuckling to himself to think how cleverly he had disposed of
the "rats."
The next morning, however, his face wore a different expression, when
his eye fell upon the spot where the night before had hung a likeness of
himself. There was the frame, but the picture had gone: it had been
eaten by the rats.
At this the wicked Bishop was frightened. He thought of the poor dying
people he had spoken of as rats the day before, and he turned cold and
trembled. As he stood shivering, a man from the farm ran up in terror,
exclaiming that the rats had eaten all the corn that had been stored in
the granaries.
Scarcely had the man finished speaking when another messenger arrived,
pale with fear, and bringing tidings more terrible still. He said ten
thousand rats were coming fast to the palace, and told the Bishop to fly
for his life, adding a prayer that his master might be forgiven for the
crime he had committed the day before.
"The rats shall not find me," said Bishop Hatto, for that was his name.
"I will go shut myself up in my strong tower on the Rhine. No rats can
reach me there; the walls are high, and the stream around is so strong
the rats would soon be washed away if they attempted to cross the
water."
So off he started, crossed the Rhine, and shut himself up in his tower.
He fastened every window securely, locked and barred the doors, and gave
strict injunctions that no one should be allowed to leave the tower or
to enter it. Hoping that all danger was over, he lay down, closed his
eyes, and tried to sleep. But it was all in vain; he still shook with
fear. Then, all at once, a shrill scream startled him. On opening his
eyes he saw the cat on his pillow. She too was terrified, and her eyes
glared, for she knew the rats were close upon them.
Up jumped the Bishop, and from his barred window he saw the black cloud
of rats swiftly approaching. They had crossed the deep current, and were
marching in such a direct line toward his hiding-place that they might
have been taken for a well-marshalled army. Not by dozens or scores, but
by thousands and thousands, the creatures were seen. Never before had
there been such a sight.
"Down on his knees the Bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder, drawing near,
The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.
"And in at the windows, and in at the door,
And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,
And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at once to the Bishop they go.
"They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the Bishop's bones.
They gnawed the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him."
Such was the horrible fate of Bishop Hatto; and whether it be perfectly
true or not, it is a striking illustration of the folly, as well as the
cruelty, of selfishness.
[Illustration: FUN IN THE WOODS.]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
FULTON WELLS, CALIFORNIA.
I am assistant teacher here in Little Lake district. I have a class
of seven boys, among whom I am dividing the year's subscription of
YOUNG PEOPLE. The "Parrot Story" I read aloud in school, and am now
doing the same with the "Brave Swiss Boy." I read a chapter in the
morning, and those who are tardy lose the story till they can
borrow the paper. Every number is sewed, and the leaves neatly cut,
and the boys are much pleased with the charming little paper and
the beautiful stories. The story about the "Flower that Grew in a
Cellar" left them hushed and thoughtful for several minutes
afterward. The puzzles and "Wiggles" are all discussed, but none of
the boys dare send answers for fear they "wouldn't be right." A
great California owl flew into the school-room the other night
through the top of a lowered window, and staid all day perched up
over our heads, with his great soft dark eyes shut, and his chin
comfortably settled in his beautiful feathers. We have made
"Tombolas," and they are very funny. We are so glad you are
publishing this paper; it is just what we needed.
JENNIE R. BUSH.
* * * * *
PORTLAND, OREGON, _January 21_.
My brother Henry and I have just picked a bunch of willow "pussies"
for our mamma.
CLARA TEAL.
* * * * *
PALMYRA, MISSOURI.
I am six years old. I see a good many little girls write letters to
YOUNG PEOPLE. I like the paper first-rate, and so does brother
Will. He is a big boy thirteen years old, and can skate. We are
having a very warm winter here in Missouri, and not much ice.
GERTIE COURTRIGHT.
* * * * *
GALT, CALIFORNIA, _February 4_.
The other day we had a snow-storm. It was the first time I ever saw
snow. We have a large garden, and there are a great many birds in
it. Last summer there was a bird's nest in the ivy, and now the
little birds which were born there are coming back. We have
beautiful flowers in California, but I would like to see some of
the Eastern flowers. I am eight years old.
GENEVIEVE.
* * * * *
SAG HARBOR, LONG ISLAND.
I am ten years old, and am visiting my grandma. She lives by the
sea-shore. We had a hard snow-storm the other day, and the tide
came nearly up to the seats of our boat-house, and the next day it
was away down to the eel-grass. My aunt teaches school in the
village, and the tide was up to the railroad track, so she had to
ride home. What makes the tide so high and then so low? Grandma
says the day it was so high the wind was east, and the next day it
was west, and it blew very hard.
BERTHA A. F.
* * * * *
BRIDGEPORT, CONNECTICUT.
I could not tell you how happy YOUNG PEOPLE makes my brother and
me. We can not wait for the week to go by. We haven't any pets
except our little brother Maxwell, who is three years old. He is so
funny and full of mischief that we would rather have him than all
the other pets in the world. He talks as funny as the baby that
wanted Daisy to come back, but my brother Jimmie and I can always
understand every word he says, even when mamma can not. He is
almost three years old.
PAUL S.
* * * * *
JAMAICA PLAIN, MASSACHUSETTS.
I am nine years old. I have a cat. She is three years old. There is
a strange cat comes in our cellar. I gave her some milk, and she
would not drink it. She runs away from me. I have a tool-box, and
have been making some easels to-day.
ARTHUR N. B.
* * * * *
SCRANTON, PENNSYLVANIA.
There are a great many coal mines near where I live. Six little
girls, including myself, went down in one of them once with the
superintendent, who explained to us how they mined coal. We girls
each took a miner's pick and knocked off a piece of coal, so that
we could say we had mined some ourselves. I take YOUNG PEOPLE, and
I like it ever so much.
M. H. A.
* * * * *
PROVINCETOWN, MASSACHUSETTS.
I have a cunning little kitten, and its name is Pinafore. It will
eat ice-cream as fast as I can give it to it. We have had lots of
snow here, and I go out sliding 'most all the time when I am not in
school.
ABBIE C. PUTNAM.
* * * * *
LEWISBURG, PENNSYLVANIA.
When I read Harry P. H.'s letter about his kitten that eats
peanuts, I thought I would tell you about a dog I know. His name is
Sport, and he lives at my grandfather's farm, not far from here. As
soon as he sees me he runs toward me, and wags his tail, and jumps
up and down. He follows me everywhere. I give him corn and apples
to eat, and he jumps to take them from my fingers. When he is very
hungry he will always eat corn and apples. Do all dogs like such
things?
W. A. LEWIS.
* * * * *
FORT PREBLE, PORTLAND, MAINE.
I live in a fort by the sea-shore. Our post takes HARPER'S WEEKLY,
and I read the YOUNG PEOPLE, which comes with it. We have splendid
boating and fishing. We catch cod-fish, mackerel, cunners, and
lobsters. We catch the lobsters in nets. I have two pet pigeons,
and two kittens exactly alike. Their names are Spunk and Pluck.
Spunk will run up my knee when I hold out a piece of meat.
CAMPBELL P. HAMILTON.
* * * * *
WEST TROY, NEW YORK.