[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 66. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, February 1, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
KITTY'S FIRST PIE.
Baked in a patty-pan,
Flaky and light,
Done to a turn,
And seasoned just right,
By a recipe taken
From mother's big book,
And some words of advice
Thrown in by the cook,
Is Kitty's first pie.
She made it herself,
Did little Miss Kit,
Without the least help,
Not one tiny bit.
But in eating it she'll have
Assistance enough;
For there's Bertha her sister,
And little dog Buff,
And dear Mrs. Purr
(Who's a cat, as you know),
And all the sweet dolls
Sitting up in a row,
Each waiting her turn
For a piece of the pie;
And all the young people
Besides you and I
Would, if asked, take a bit
Of Kitty's first pie.
Of course 'twill go round,
For it's round as a wheel,
Though I doubt if for all
It would make a full meal.
But I'm sure there's enough
For each one to taste,
And pass an opinion
On the mince and the paste
Of Kitty's first pie.
HAKON AND RAGON.
A TRUE INCIDENT OF THE ORCADES.
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
Oh, how the wild north winds stormed loud in the Pentland Firth,
Beating the shores of the Orcades Isles, all white with foam!
Oh, 'mid the shuddering cold and frost, was life aught worth?
Yes, for they saw through the blackness the lights of Home.
Hakon and Ragon alone were left of the gallant crew
That had sailed to the arctic seas more than a year ago.
Some had perished of hunger, and some where great winds blew:
Only they two on the ship, sinking so surely below.
But when the morning dawned, and the ship broke slowly apart,
They saw men launching the life-boat. Ah, would it come too late!
Naught was left but a three-foot spar. Each saw, with a sinking heart,
It would keep but one afloat. Then Hakon said, sadly: "My mate,
"Thou hast a wife and lasses and lads, and I am only one.
Good-by! I'll give thee a chance, Ragon. God bless thee, mate!
Good-by!"
And down he sank with a smiling face, his duty bravely done.
Little he cared for fame: he'd found a noble way to die.
Then, when the tide beat inland, and Hakon came to his place,
All the little Orcades town brought back the hero's clay,
And bore him to Ragon's cottage with loving tears and grace.
Many were there to weep for him, many were there to pray.
The dominie kissed his brave cold hand, and said, "Hakon, well done!
Mothers, I bid you tell your sons how Hakon lived and died.
Nay, do not weep; this sailor boy a noble crown has won:
He rests in God, and in our hearts his memory shall abide."
And in that "Court of Peace" that lies in Stromness old and gray
There is a spot where, spite of cold, the long green grasses wave,
Where youths and maidens wander, and little children play.
Ask them its charm, they'll answer you, "Why, this is Hakon's grave!"
THE RAISING OF THE OBELISK.
BY E. MASON.
It was a beautiful day, and ever since early morning people had been
pouring into the great square in front of St. Peter's, at Rome, and now
at noon the square was filled with a silent crowd, the neighboring
balconies with groups, silent too, and all gazing intently in the same
direction. Not at the Pope, who, in his robes, and attended by his
suite, was conspicuous in one of the balconies, nor at the strange sight
at the four corners of the square--four empty gibbets which rose
threateningly against the blue sky--but at the centre, where were a
number of workmen, with machinery, grouped about the obelisk.
This huge mass of stone had hitherto defied all efforts made by
different architects to raise it to its pedestal; many lives had been
lost in the attempts, much money and time wasted; and the Pope had at
last declared that the next architect who should volunteer for the task
would, if unsuccessful, be severely punished. There was one, however,
Fontana, who felt confident that he could raise the obelisk, and well
knew, if he did succeed, he should have an assured career before him;
so, carefully making his preparations, he applied to the Pope for
permission, only stipulating that, in order to insure success, there
must be perfect quiet during the operation. This was why the gibbets
stood at the corners, the Pope having officially announced that, as
unbroken stillness must be preserved, and the workmen not disturbed by
cries or acclamations from the excited spectators, any one who made a
noise or spoke during the time set apart for the raising should be
hanged; and with this wholesome terror before their eyes, it was
believed the crowd would not be tempted to disobey the order.
All were intent on the one thing, and watched anxiously the workmen, as
cautiously they heaved the ropes, and slowly the mighty obelisk began to
move, then gradually to assume a more erect position, and finally hung
suspended in mid-air, needing but one more effort, when it would stand
on its pedestal, its lofty spire pointing heavenward.
But, alas! the strained, overwrought ropes seemed able to bear no more;
already tense with the enormous weight, they were slowly beginning to
separate. It was a moment of breathless suspense; the mighty crowd stood
motionless, scarce daring to breathe, so great was their anxiety; and
the wretched Fontana, foreseeing the overthrow of all his hopes of fame
and wealth, and his destruction in the downfall, now imminent, of the
ponderous column, in his despair hid his face in his hands. Suddenly a
voice broke the death-like silence. It uttered but one word--"Aqua"
(water); but no word ever sounded sweeter or brought more hope than did
that to Fontana, whose energy revived. With a gesture he pointed to the
fountains in the square, and the crowd aiding the workmen, they dashed
the water over the smoking, quivering ropes; the final haul was given,
and the obelisk stood firm and straight on its pedestal.
One long, heart-felt acclamation broke from the throng, and the lately
wretched Fontana saw himself in one brief moment rescued from the depths
of despair. The acclamations ceased, and the Pope, commanding silence,
ordered the workman who had disobeyed the decree of silence to be
brought before him, and asked what reason he had to give why the
forewarned punishment should not be executed upon him. The poor fellow
pleaded the benefit which the pronouncing of the one word had caused,
and the Pope not only graciously admitted the plea, but bade him ask any
favor, and it should be granted.
With humility, the workman asked only for the privilege of selling palms
on Palm-Sunday in the great square of St. Peter's; and if we only knew
his name, which unfortunately was not thought worthy of being recorded,
we could tell, when in Rome on Palm-Sunday, if his descendants still
enjoy the grant given by the Pope.
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER VIII.
CAPTURE OF THE MONKEYS.
The boy tried to rise to his feet, but his head whirled so, and he felt
so dizzy and sick from the effects of his fall, that he was obliged to
sit down again until he should feel able to stand. Meanwhile the crowd
around the wagon paid no attention to him, and he lay there quietly
enough, until he heard the hateful voice of Mr. Lord, asking if his boy
was hurt.
The sound of this voice affected Toby very much as the chills and fever
affect any one, and he shook so with fear, and his heart beat so loudly,
that he thought Mr. Lord must know where he was by the sound. Seeing
that his employer did not come directly toward him, the thought flashed
upon his mind that now would be a good chance for him to run away, and
he acted upon it at once. He rolled himself over in the mud until he
reached a low growth of fir-trees that skirted the road, and when once
he was beneath their friendly shade, he arose to his feet, and walked
swiftly toward the woods, following the same direction that the monkeys
had taken.
He no longer felt dizzy and sick; the fear of Mr. Lord had taken all
that from him, and made him as strong as he ever was in his life.
He had walked rapidly for some distance, and was nearly beyond the sound
of the voices in the road, when he was startled by seeing quite a
procession of men emerge from the trees, coming directly toward him.
He could not understand the meaning of this strange company, and it
frightened him so that he attempted to hide behind a tree, in the hope
that they might pass without seeing him. But no sooner had he secreted
himself than a strange, shrill chattering came from the foremost of the
group, and in an instant Toby was out from his place of concealment.
He had recognized the peculiar sound as that of the old monkey who had
left him a few moments previous, and he knew now what he did not know
before, owing to the darkness. The new-comers were the monkeys that had
escaped from the cage, and had been overtaken and compelled to come back
by the old monkey, who seemed to have the most perfect control over
them.
The old fellow was leading the band, and each one had clasped hands with
the others, which gave the whole crowd a most comical appearance, as
they came up to Toby, half hopping, half walking upright, and all
chattering and screaming like a crowd of children out on a holiday.
Toby stepped toward the noisy crowd, held out his hand gravely to the
old monkey, and said, in tones of heart-felt sorrow:
"I felt awful bad because I thought you had gone off an' left me, when
you only went off to find the other fellows. You're awful good, Mr.
Stubbs; an' now, instead of runnin' away as I was goin' to do, we'll all
go back together."
The old monkey had grasped Toby's extended hand with his disengaged paw,
and, clinging firmly to it, the entire crowd followed, without breaking
the line, chattering and scolding at the most furious rate, while every
now and then Mr. Stubbs would look back and scream something, which
would cause the confusion to cease for an instant.
It was really a comical sight, but Toby seemed to think it the most
natural thing in the world that they should follow him in this manner,
and he chattered to the old monkey quite as fast as any of the others
were doing. He told him very gravely all that he knew about the
accident, explained why it was that he conceived the idea of running
away, and really believed that Mr. Stubbs understood every word he was
saying.
Very shortly after Toby had started to run away, the proprietor of the
circus drove up to the scene of the disaster, and, after seeing that the
wagon was being rapidly fixed up so that it could be hauled to the next
town, he ordered that search should be made for the monkeys. It was very
important that they should be captured at once, and he appeared to think
more of the loss of the animals than of the damage done the wagon.
While the men were forming some plan for the search, so that in case of
a capture they could let each other know, the noise made by Toby and his
party was heard, and the men stood still to learn what it meant.
[Illustration: BRINGING BACK THE RUNAWAYS.]
The entire party, who were waiting to learn the reason of the confusion,
burst into shouts of laughter as Toby and his companions walked into the
circle of light formed by the glare of the lanterns, and the merriment
was by no means abated at Toby's serious demeanor. The wagon was now
standing upright, with the door open, and Toby led his companions
directly to it, gravely motioning them to enter.
The old monkey, instead of obeying, stepped back by Toby's side, and
screamed to the others in such a manner that they all entered the cage,
leaving him on the outside with the boy.
Toby motioned him to get in too, but he clung to his hand, and scolded
so furiously, that it was quite apparent he had no idea of leaving his
companion. One of the men stepped up, and was about to force him into
the wagon, when the proprietor ordered him to stop.
"What boy is that?" he asked.
"Job Lord's new boy," said some one in the crowd.
The man asked Toby how it was that he had succeeded in capturing all the
runaways, and the boy said, gravely:
"Mr. Stubbs an' I are good friends, an' when he saw the others runnin'
away, he just stopped 'em, an' brought 'em back to me. I wish you'd let
Mr. Stubbs ride with me; we like each other a good deal."
"You can do just what you please with Mr. Stubbs, as you call him. I
expected to lose half the monkeys in that cage, and you have brought
back every one. This monkey shall be yours, and you may put him in the
cage whenever you want to, or take him with you, just as you choose, for
he belongs entirely to you."
Toby's joy knew no bounds; he put his arm around the monkey's neck, and
the monkey clung firmly to him, until even Job Lord was touched at the
evidence of affection between the two.
While the wagon was being repaired, Toby and the monkey stood hand in
hand watching the work go on, and those in the cage scolded and raved
because they had been induced to return to captivity. After a while the
old monkey seated himself on Toby's arm, and cuddled close up to him,
uttering now and then a contented sort of a little squeak as the boy
talked to him.
That night Mr. Stubbs slept in Toby's arms in the band wagon, and both
boy and monkey appeared very well contented with their lot, which a
short time previous had seemed so hard.
When Toby awakened to his second day's work with the circus, his monkey
friend was seated by his side, gravely exploring his pockets, and all
the boy's treasures were spread out on the floor of the wagon by his
side. Toby tried to remonstrate with him on this breach of confidence,
but Mr. Stubbs was more in the mood for sport than for grave
conversation, and the more Toby talked, the more mischievous did he
become, until the boy gathered up his little store of treasures, took
the monkey by the paw, and walked him toward the cage from which he had
escaped on the previous night.
"Now, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, speaking in an injured tone, "you must go
in here, and stay till I have got more time to fool with you."
He opened the door of the cage, and the monkey struggled as well as he
was able, until Toby was obliged to exert all his strength to put him
in.
When once the door was fastened upon him, Toby tried to impress upon his
monkey friend's mind the importance of being more sedate, and he was
convinced that the words had sunk deep into Mr. Stubbs's heart, for, by
the time he had concluded, the old monkey was seated in the corner of
the cage, looking up from under his shaggy eyebrows in the most
reproachful manner possible.
Toby felt sorry that he had spoken so harshly, and was about to make
amends for his severity, when Mr. Lord's gruff voice recalled him to a
realizing sense that his time was not his own, and he commenced his
day's work with a lighter heart than he had had since he stole away from
Uncle Daniel and Guilford.
This day was not very much different from the preceding one so far as
the manner of Mr. Lord and his partner toward the boy was concerned;
they seemed to have the same idea that he was doing only about half as
much work as he ought to, and both united in swearing at and cursing
him quite as much as possible.
So far as his relations with other members of the company were
concerned, Toby stood in a much better position than he did before.
Those who had witnessed the scene told the others how Toby had led in
the monkeys on the night previous, and nearly every member of the
company had a kind word for the little fellow, whose head could hardly
be seen above the counter of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs's booth.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
HOW TO BUILD A SAIL-BOAT.
BY F. S. C.
As a matter of course, your ice-boat has been built, rigged, and ironed;
and after a variety of mishaps you are fully able to manage her under
sail. A locomotive has been raced with, perhaps, and beaten; Bill B. and
Charlie A. have the marks still on their shins where the bowsprit stay
or runner plank ran against them. A heavy fall of snow or the ice-men
will spoil your sailing; no doubt it has come to pass, and you are left
out in the cold, with nothing to do but blow your fingers, and blame the
snow and the ice-men. After flying along at the rate of a mile a minute
in, you might say, unlimited space on a gigantic pair of skates, it is
rather a hard matter to be obliged to come down to an ordinary pair,
with but a small pond to skate on, at a speed of, say, six miles an
hour, and the wind in your favor, too.
But it won't do to brood over your troubles, and lay the blame on the
ice-men or the snow.
Why can't you build another boat for the next sailing season, and let
your ice-boat go for a little while? You are still on good terms with
your friend the carpenter? and you haven't bothered the life out of the
blacksmith with the iron-work of your ice-boat? You must call them to
your aid again, and also make friends with the painter.
With your experience in boat-building, you ought to make something nice
this time. Suppose you try to build a flat-bottomed sail-boat, large
enough to hold you and several of your friends. A sail-boat is much
harder to build than any that you have yet tried; but that is no reason
why you can't do it.
In the first place, you want two pine boards for the sides, twelve feet
long, twenty inches wide, and one inch thick, well seasoned, and free
from knots or checks. Cut as shown in Fig. 1, using divisions 1, 2, 3,
4, 5 to guide you. You must be careful about your measurements, or you
will have a leaky boat.
Get a piece of oak for the dead-wood, or stem, eighteen inches long,
four inches deep, and six inches thick. Follow the measurements
carefully, and take particular notice of the difference between the top
and bottom in Fig. 3. The keelson is made of white pine, nine feet long
by seven inches deep and five and a half inches wide. Get the curve of
the bottom from the side; it commences at the dotted line on Fig. 1,
thence aft to section marked 4. You must allow, however, for the
mortising in the back of the dead-wood, as shown in the side elevation,
Fig. 6. Cut four boards, following the patterns marked 1, 2, 3, 4, Fig.
5; these are intended to mould your boat on. No. 5 is the stern, which
is to be made of oak one inch thick, and is a fixture. The others are to
be removed just as soon as the bottom is nailed on. Fasten the sides to
the dead-wood with good-sized brass screws. Then put the moulds in their
respective positions, as marked in plan Fig. 2; bend and nail the sides
to them. Screw the stern-piece in place, and turn the boat over, and
with plane and straight-edge prepare for putting on the bottom. Use
white pine seven-eighths of an inch thick. Fasten with galvanized nails,
making the joints as tight as possible.
Cut an opening in the keelson for the centre-board trunk, as shown in
Figs. 2 and 4, then nail in position from the bottom. Saw through the
bottom board into the keelson, for your trunk comes through, and is
flush with the bottom of the boat. Be careful that the ends of the
boards are nailed to the keelson at the opening. Take out the moulds,
and put inside a ribbon of oak one by three inches. Screw to the sides
and bottom. This, you will find, stiffens the sides very much. Also put
in ribs of oak one inch square, mortised into the ribbon, and cut off
flush with the top of the side, twenty inches apart. These are not
absolutely necessary, but will give your craft additional strength. You
might get in a heavy storm, you know, or experience severe head-winds.
Thwarts of pine one and three-quarter inches thick are to be placed in
next, with the exception of the one amidships. These serve the place of
moulds, and keep the sides in place, to be held in position by oak
strips underneath them. Screw them to the sides, and the thwarts to
them. The forward one serves as mast step, and the after one as support
for the rudder-post. Your deck beams are made of oak one inch thick and
two inches deep, three forward and one aft. These beams must be cut with
curved tops so as to make a crown for your deck, that it may shed water.
The stern piece shows the height of the crown aft. Forward of the
cockpit it ought to be two inches above the side, then a gradual sweep
to the stern. The deck may now be put on, and planed flush with the
side. Put an oak ribbon one by three inches on the outside, flush with
the top of the deck. Fasten to the sides with brass screws. The lower
edge of the ribbon might have a bead cut on it. It makes a finish, you
know.
Make the centre-board trunk of pine twenty inches wide, one and
three-quarter inches thick, and five feet long; ends one and a half by
two inches, fastened in by brass screws; the trunk to be rabbeted, and
fitted into the keelson, and running through flush with the bottom. Make
the centre-board of yellow pine four feet six inches long, one and a
quarter inches thick, and two feet wide, dowelled with galvanized rods.
This will stiffen and weight it at the same time. Fasten in the trunk
with a pin at the lower end forward. Don't put your deck on before your
trunk is in, just because the deck is spoken of first. Speaking of that,
you must strengthen the narrow part of the deck with brackets, as shown
in Fig. 4.
[Illustration: PLANS OF A SAIL-BOAT.]
Now for the blacksmith. Make the rudder-post of iron three-quarters of
an inch in diameter, running through gas-pipe, and fastened to the deck
and the bottom with collars. (Fig. 7 gives details.) A steel pin through
the rudder-post keeps it from falling through. This rests on the collar.
The stay irons are screwed to the sides and inside of the oak ribbon;
the traveller is fastened to the inside of the stern. Don't forget to
put an iron ring on it before it is fastened down. That finishes the
iron-work.
Your hull is now done, with the exception of a few minor details. The
combing of the cockpit is to be made of half-inch oak three inches high.
Nail to the edge of the deck inside. The bitt for the bowsprit to be
stepped in runs through the deck and into the keelson. Calk the seams
with oakum and white lead, and give the hull a priming coat of paint.
Then go ahead and get out your spars. Take the measurements from the
side elevation at the bottom of the page. Make the spars of yellow pine.
Running rigging, three-eighth-inch Manila rope; standing rigging,
half-inch Manila rope. Brass rings on masts; smaller ones on jib-stay.
Sails of yacht drill. Two rows of reefing points. Jib-sheets to run
through eyelets, then aft to cleats near the stern. Make a spreader for
the topmast-stays three feet long; good stiff wire three-sixteenths of
an inch will do. Turn an eye at either end, and run stay through it.
Paint the hull black, inside drab, oak ribbon dark red, and beading
yellow. If you like, you may put on a water-line. Varnish spars,
combing, and deck. As for the latter, you had better paint that buff.
OUR NINE-POUNDER.
BY GEORGE H. COOMER.
While I belonged to the whaling bark _Hector_, cruising in the Gulf of
Guinea, and occasionally touching upon the coast, there would now and
then come to our knowledge some incident connected with the slave-trade,
and more than once our curiosity was excited by the sight of suspicious
vessels.
We learned, among other things, that the most notorious craft of the
slaver fleet was a Brazilian brig called the _Dom Pedro_, having a crew
of seventy men, with a pivot twenty-four-pounder and four carronades.
Time after time this brig had been chased by the English cruisers, yet
always escaped; and it was very evident that she must have poured golden
fortunes into the hands of a number of unscrupulous individuals at Rio
Janeiro.
Of such matters we often conversed in the forecastle, while the
proximity of the African coast tended to vivify our conceptions of the
secret and dreadful traffic of which we had heard and read so much.
Among our foremast hands were two colored men, both hailing from the New
England sea-port where the bark belonged, and as well known there as the
captain himself, although they had originally been slaves at the South.
Recognized as "Black Abe" and "Yellow Jack," they ranked with the best
of the _Hector_'s crew; able, willing, and full of jollity. The idiom of
the plantation still clung to them, but for years they had followed the
sea, and each had a wife and family in our village.
It was with a marked abhorrence that the two blacks would advert to the
villainous business of the coast, as if dreaming of some possible but
very improbable contingency by which they themselves might yet be
consigned to the ghastly hold of a slaver. Of course they could
entertain no serious apprehension of the kind, yet the passing thought
was natural; and more than once, under the shadow of some sultry African
headland, or in view of a vessel of mysterious character, the simple
fellows were teased by their white shipmates with good-natured jokes in
this direction.
But how little did any of the bark's company imagine the episode which
was in reality at hand!
The _Hector_ having made a somewhat fortunate cruise wanted at length
but one or two whales. In quest of these she ran up the Bight of Benin;
and here, close in with the coast, we presently raised a large school.
Our three boats were lowered, and we commenced a long and weary chase,
the wildness of the game making it almost impossible to arrive within
striking distance.
The general direction of the pursuit being to windward, the bark could
follow us only by short tacks, so that, after a time, her topmasts alone
were visible above the horizon; and at sunset, the atmosphere having
become somewhat hazy, she was wholly out of sight. Nor from the mate's
boat, in which I was, could we discern either of the two others, so
widely had the chase scattered the three consorts.
About five miles off, however, was a vessel of some kind, nearly or
quite becalmed, which might be a merchantman, a whaler, a man-of-war, or
perhaps something of more questionable character.
"I guess," said Mr. Gale, the mate, "that the old man and Mr. Orne have
pulled back to the bark. At all events, we may as well give it up first
as last, for it's--"
"There she blows!" called Yellow Jack, looking off to starboard. And
"There she blows!" said Black Abe, as a second spout ascended, close to
the first; for the two colored men were both of our boat's crew.
The whales, three in number, which had come to the surface not a quarter
of a mile off, may have made a portion of the dispersed school we had
pursued. This time they appeared unsuspicious, and we approached very
near them. Our oars had been laid aside, and we had taken silently to
our paddles, all of us standing carefully up, and each plying his
noiseless implement.
Suddenly there was a rushing sound close beside us, a cataract of water
tumbled against the boat, and a fourth whale, shooting his square head
twenty feet high, "breached," as the sailors call the movement, not ten
yards from our gunwale. Impelled toward us by his momentum, he fell with
his under-jaw just grazing the side of our poor little craft.
Confused, or, as whalemen call it, "galleyed," by the accident of his
position, the monster, instead of turning away from us, started straight
on, overturning and crushing the boat, and leaving us in the water, his
three hitherto motionless companions gliding off almost as rapidly as
himself.
It was one of those accidents to which whalemen are always liable, and
which no watchfulness can avert.
Six in number, we clung to the wreck of the boat, confident that the
_Hector_ would pick us up in the morning, should not the unknown vessel,
which was still in sight, anticipate her in so doing.
As it grew dark, however, the stranger, who seemed to have scarcely any
wind, and so but very gradually neared us, was lost to view. Presently a
very faint concussion broke the evening air, and we knew that the
_Hector_, perhaps some twelve or fifteen miles off, had fired her
nine-pounder to make us aware of her position. Probably Captain
Phillips, our commander, and Mr. Orne, the second mate, had long since
returned to the vessel, where our own absence must cause some anxiety.
Twice after this during the night the signal was repeated. At length the
day broke, and not more than a mile off we saw the becalmed stranger of
the previous evening, with a light breeze just beginning to fill his
sails.
As he came up within a cable's length of us, we were surprised at the
number of his crew; and it was with a kind of startled curiosity that,
as his vessel--a large, rakish, full-rigged brig--rolled lazily in the
groundswell, we caught glimpses of a heavy cannon mounted amidships on
her deck, so high that it could be fired over her low bulwarks.
She might have run directly for us, and taken us on board by means of
lines, but her captain preferred rather to lower a boat. None of us
liked the appearance of things, and all glanced instinctively at Black
Abe and Yellow Jack.
From the mingled tongues upon the brig's deck, in several of which we
were hailed, we judged her crew to be composed chiefly of Spaniards and
Portuguese, with a sprinkling of English or Americans.
The boat was manned with armed sailors, and as she came up to us, one of
her hands, who acted as spokesman in English for the others, commanded
Jack and Abe to get on board of her. The poor terrified fellows refused;
but the ruffians pricked them with their bayonets, and threatened them
with instant death in case of further hesitation.
"We want nothing of the rest of you," said the hard-featured villain who
had first spoken; "your ship will pick you up by-and-by, and we can't be
bothered with saving a parcel of blubber-hunters; but we take _wool and
ivory_ wherever we can find them."
The feeble resistance of the two colored men was speedily overcome, and,
wounded and bleeding, they were dragged into the boat, Mr. Gale and the
rest of us expostulating vainly as we lay helpless on the floating
boards.
Poor Abe! poor Jack! we saw them forced up the gangway of the sharp,
saucy brig, and driven upon her deck. It was a spectacle at which Mr.
Gale shed tears of grief and rage, while the indignation of his
remaining crew equalled his own. We thought of the families of the
kidnapped men--the simple wives and the little dark children who would
be looking for the two stout colored tars when the _Hector_ should get
home.
"That brig," said the mate, "I think, is the _Dom Pedro_. I would rather
have lost all I shall make on this voyage than have had such a thing
happen. The miserable, cowardly villains!"
A few hours later a boat from the _Hector_ picked us up; but when we
reached our vessel, the slaver was out of sight. With a freshening
breeze, she had stood along the coast, the tall tree-tops of which were
barely discernible from aloft, and would doubtless enter some
neighboring inlet or river's mouth, where her living freight might be in
waiting.
For three days on board the _Hector_ little was talked of but our two
hapless shipmates and their wretched fate. In the mean while, however,
remaining upon the same cruising ground, we secured the amount of oil
required to fill the vessel.
The last of our blubber was boiled out in the night; and at daybreak
next morning we heard the report of guns, as if some vessel were pursued
and fired upon by another.
As the sky lighted up, we made out a brig under full sail, standing
directly toward us, and presently saw that she was chased by a ship. The
firing, however, had now ceased; probably from the fact that the
fugitive had widened the distance between herself and her pursuer. We
were standing easily along under short sail, and the two strangers were
rapidly coming up astern of us, each crowding all his canvas in the
exciting trial of speed.
"That's the villain," cried Mr. Gale, looking steadily through his
glass--"the very scoundrel that stole my men. But he'll get away, after
all. That British sloop of war can't sail with him--he's run her out of
gunshot already!"
All who had been in the mate's boat saw that the coming brig was indeed
the kidnapper of poor Jack and Abe. Her low black hull and symmetrical
spars were not to be mistaken.
Again the pursuing ship essayed two or three shots from her bow guns,
but the distance was evidently too great, and once more she ceased
firing. There could be no doubt that the piratical slaver would escape
her, and the excitement and chagrin of our own crew became intense.
The fleeing vessel passed within a furlong of us, and was soon ahead.
What a tempting mark she presented, with those long and tapering yards
and jaunty topmasts!
Captain Phillips was a man of quick impulses and determined resolution.
The scoundrels who had insulted him by stealing his men were close under
his eyes, and almost within pistol-shot. The ship of war in chase could
not cripple the brig by her distant fire. He glanced about the
_Hector_'s decks, and a bare possibility suggested itself.
"Get ready that nine-pounder!" he cried. "Mr. Orne, have up the powder.
You'll find three or four cannon-balls down there too. And now bear a
hand, for there's no time to lose."
Mr. Orne, taking with him a couple of the crew, ran below, and five
minutes later, the long nine--an old but somewhat handsome gun--stood
grimly ready for action, having within it a heavy charge of powder and
two well-fitting balls.
The _Hector_'s course was altered for the occasion, so that the gun
could be brought to bear on the brig from what is called a "swing port,"
and then all save the captain stepped back while he arranged his aim.
"When I give the word," he said to Mr. Gale, who held the match, "don't
lose a fraction of an instant--let her go at once."
How keenly he squinted along that trusty old gun! How carefully he
raised or depressed its breech! Now it was an inch too high, now an inch
too low.
"Ah! there! there!" he muttered; "no!--yes!--that's it!--just a
little!--just a frac-- _Let her go!_"
The gun almost parted its breech tackles with the recoil, as the charge
burst from the muzzle, tearing our nerves with its noise.
"I haven't hit her!" cried the captain, springing to the side, and
gazing almost wildly at the brig--"haven't touched her. Load up again!
Where's your powder? Load up, load up!"
"Hold on, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Gale. "Look! look! What's the matter with
her foretopmast? It's going, sir--it's going."
As he spoke, the foretopmast of the slaver leaned heavily to leeward;
then, like a falling tree by a river's brink, went swashing into the
water.
The game was up with the fast-sailing brig. Confounded by the disaster,
her crew attempted no revenge upon us, as they might have done, with
their pivot cannon; and in less than half an hour the _Dom Pedro_, as
she proved to be, was a prize to the pursuing sloop of war. Both our
nine-pound balls had taken effect aloft.
It was found that the Brazilian brig had on board no less than five
hundred slaves, among whom, to our great joy, were discovered Black Abe
and Yellow Jack. The captain of the British cruiser delivered over to us
our two shipmates; while with the rest of the blacks, the prisoners, and
the prize, he prepared to bear away for Sierra Leone, where the wretched
Africans would once more breathe the air of freedom.
How happy were Abe and Jack! How they laughed and cried, danced and
wept! And oh! the tales they told us of the miserable slave brig!
In two months thereafter we arrived home with a full ship; and when the
_Hector_ had been hauled in at the pier head, it did us all good to see
four little colored children, followed by their mothers, come running
down to the water-side to be folded in the arms of the warm-hearted
fellows who so short a time before must utterly have despaired of such a
meeting.
"Dar's de ole gun dat saved us," said Abe, to his little family,
indicating the nine-pounder.
"An' dar's de man dat aimed it," responded Jack, with a grateful look
toward Captain Phillips.
And so they went up the wharf.
THE NEWSBOYS' HOME,
AND HOW IT HELPED JOE.
BY F. E. FRYATT.
[Illustration]
"Here's yer five o'clock e-dishun, _Post_, _Express_, an'
_Commercial_--full account of Gen-er-ull Garfield on the tow-path!"
shouted three urchins, planting themselves directly before a portly old
gentleman who was slowly puffing up stairs to the elevated railway.
"Clear out, you little scamps!" grumbled the besieged, adding, more
amiably, as he caught sight of the youngest of the three, "give me a
_Post_, sonny, and change this quarter."
"Thankee, sur," said Joe Brown, the lucky competitor, diving into the
deepest of pockets for the needful coppers, then dashing pell-mell after
his comrades in pursuit of a probable customer.
"_Post_, _Express_, an' _Commercial_--full account of Gen-er-ull
Garfield!" still rang the cry an hour later, while in and out, up and
down and across the streets, darted the lithe, eager little fellows,
until the crowd began to thin out, the papers were nearly all sold, and
a distant bell reminded them that if they wanted their six-cent supper,
it was high time to be off for the Lodging-House.
Let us follow them as they hasten to the lofty brick building which
stands on the triangle formed by the meeting of New Chambers, Duane, and
North William streets. The great doors are wide open; we pass in with
Joe, his two comrades, and half a score of bustling, laughing lads,
mount two long flights of stone steps, and enter the large lecture or
school room on the second story, with its rows of desks and benches, and
the convenient lockers or closets against the walls.
[Illustration: BEING REGISTERED.]
One by one, in orderly fashion, the boys step within the iron railing,
state their names, ages, and parentage to the clerk, receive numbered
keys to their lockers, and pass on.
Here a lad locks up his bundle of unsold papers until after supper,
another his blacking-box and brushes, a third his hat and jacket; then
away for the lavatory, with its long ranges of foot and plunge baths,
and its shining basins under the bright copper faucets.
Business must be unusually brisk, or the demands of the "inner man"
unusually lively, if one may judge by the celerity with which the boys
appear, brushed and combed and ruddy-faced, for supper.
"Hurry up, Bill, and get yer ticket," cried Joe, passing up to the desk,
and depositing twelve cents for bed and supper, then taking his place at
the end of the line that was already on the move.
"Sixty, sixty-one, two, three, four," calls the Superintendent as the
boys file past, and the tramp of descending feet comes to us through the
open doorway.
[Illustration: AT SUPPER.]
By the time we reach the dining-room, with its expanse of polished
floors and high column-supported ceiling, seventy or eighty boys are
seated at long tables, which present an inviting appearance with their
white enamelled cloths, platters piled high with bread, and rows of
capacious bowls steaming with fragrant tea.
What a busy scene it is for the time! the bread mountains diminish like
snow before the sun, the tea fountains vanish like rain on thirsty soil,
and the young women attendants, in their neat dresses and aprons, pass
to and fro continually with their renewing bread trays and flagons of
tea and syrup.
The majority of the boys laugh and chatter like magpies, but here and
there sits a silent little news merchant, whose mind, absorbed with
visions of "extras," hurries him on to the wished-for future.
See, there they go, half a dozen of them, with quick steps and anxious
faces; they will notify the watchmen that they must keep late hours, and
pay the required trifle for retaining their locker keys beyond time. Up
to midnight their shrill cries will ring through the gas-lighted
thoroughfares of the great city, while many--or, indeed, most--of the
young readers of this paper are dreaming happy dreams in bed.
It is now nearly eight o'clock, supper is over, and the boys disperse
for the short evening left them before bed-time; for all must be
within-doors at half past nine, or pay a fine.
[Illustration: THE GYMNASIUM.]
Some of the boys go out for a walk, others, I am sorry to say, to spend
their earnings at the cheap theatres and shows of the city; but the
sensible ones drop their spare pennies or silver coins into the
odd-looking savings-bank near the door, and hasten up stairs to the
reading-room or the gymnasium. Let us follow some of them to the latter.
What a jolly place it is! One could have no end of fun with its
horizontal and parallel bars, its rings, ladders, and flying trapeze: it
is better than a circus.
There's a race for you already on that long ladder rising from one side
of the room, crossing over, and coming down on the other slantwise.
Johnnie Wilson has started at the north end, Billy Jones at the south
end. There they go, hand over hand! Now they meet overhead in the
middle. I declare, Billy's feet touch the floor first: he has beaten by
three rounds.
"Hurrah for Billy! three cheers for Billy Jones!" shout the boys who are
watching them.
Yonder three lads are trying their strength lifting iron weights in the
corner. Tough work they find it, and soon leave to take a look at a
comrade who hangs by his feet from a horizontal bar.
Now he swings back and forth before the little group, who are eager to
risk their necks in the wonderful experiment.
See! he lets go, and with a dexterous swing catches by his hands, and
drops safe and sound before his admirers.
This is nothing to what is going on yonder, where two boys are
performing prodigious feats on the flying trapeze, squirming and
twisting, and turning somersaults, hanging by their chins, then by their
toes, and then by each other, until the looker-on trembles and grows
dizzy.
Let us look for wee Joe Brown; he is not here, neither is he in the
reading-room below-stairs, where a dozen or more youngsters are amusing
themselves quietly, some reading story-books and illustrated papers,
others playing checkers or dominos.
I'll tell you where Joe is. He is one of the early birds. Since four
o'clock in the morning, when he went out for his daily papers, only when
he ate his simple meals, his busy little feet have paddled about the
great city, his childish voice has shrilled forth the familiar cry,
"_Sun_, _Herald_, an' _Tri-bune_, _Post_, '_Xpress_, an' _Commercial_,"
until, too sleepy to read, too weary for even the fascination of
watching the flying "trapezeists," he sought the solid comfort of the
dormitory.
[Illustration: THE DORMITORY.]
Look in at the long tiers of beds one above another, like berths in a
steam-boat. In number 69 you will find Joe sleeping the sleep of the
innocent and weary.
Would not the young people like to hear how Joe happens to be in the
Newsboys' Home? I'll tell you. It all came about through Lenny Williams,
who is a "call-boy" at one of the small theatres up town, and lives at
the Duane Street Lodging-House.
Very late one stormy night in midwinter, as he was coming home from his
work, he fancied he heard a child sobbing, and stopping, he discovered
by the feeble flickering light of a gas lamp a small figure crouching in
the low doorway of one of the old-fashioned shops of that quarter.
His heart gave a great bound of pity and sympathy for the poor homeless
little creature so tattered and forlorn. His own jacket was wet without,
but within it was dry and warm. To pull it off and place it around the
shoulders of the shivering child was but the work of an instant.
"Get up on your pins, little 'un, an' come along with me," said Lenny,
assisting him, and buttoning the jacket close under his throat.
With difficulty the poor child, whom you must have guessed before this
was Joe Brown, rose and limped along, for he was stiff with cold and
weak with hunger.
Before they reached the Lodging-House, Lenny won from him his pitiful
story--how, driven from home by the cruelty of his drunken father and
step-mother, he had wandered the streets from day to day, managing by
dint of begging and running errands, and sleeping in dark corners known
only to the wretched and homeless, to keep soul and body together while
the fine weather lasted.
A kind old apple woman only yesterday had given him a basket, and some
matches to sell; but then came the cold, pitiless rain, and nobody
wanted to buy anything; so he had strayed from street to street, until
he had lost his way in the dark, and sat down, utterly worn out and
famished, where Lenny found him.
"Yes, chicken," said Lenny, as he finished his sad story, "you'd hev
froze to death as sure as a gun. But cheer up; here we're home at last."
Never will Joe forget the glow and warmth of the "drying-room" into
which he was led. There were three other boys there hanging up their wet
clothes to dry.
And wasn't the bath warm and delightful into which they plunged him!
For a long time Joe could not understand why there should be a clean,
whole shirt, a jacket and trousers, socks and shoes, all ready for such
a poor miserable little stranger.
And the bowl of hot bread and milk, what a luxury it was!--surely he
must be in heaven, the place where all good, unhappy boys go when they
die. Perhaps he had really died, out in that pitiless storm, and was
there? He rubbed his eyes, and expected to see wings, and was
disappointed at not finding them.
The books of the institution tell how the seven-year-old child, deserted
by his inhuman parents, was taken within the sheltering doors of the
Lodging-House; but in another book the recording angel has written how a
simple "call-boy" on that dark night did the will of his heavenly
Master.
That night Joe had a blessed sleep in his little bed with its nice
sheets and downy "comfortables," so that when he woke the next morning
he was a new little man; but after breakfast he was happier than a king,
for the Superintendent loaned him a small sum of money to buy some
newspapers.
Two or three of the boys volunteered to teach him "lots" about selling
them; and they did, for before night he had sold two sets of morning and
evening papers.
A prouder, more independent little fellow than Joe can not be found
anywhere, because he not only earns his meals and lodging, and helps a
comrade occasionally, but every night drops pennies or nickels into
savings-box No. 90.
This he has been doing for some months; at the end of each he receives
ten per cent. interest.
Joe, being studious and ambitious, faithfully attends the evening
schools; he does not mean to grow up to be an ignorant, useless man;
besides, he must make the most of his time, for he indulges in the dream
of a happy home in the country, and though he hasn't told me, I am sure
he is saving up that money to buy a good stock of books to take with
him.
LITTLE BIDDY'S BIRTHDAY.
BY CHARA B. CONANT.
"Mother, can I have a birthday?"
"A birthday?" asked Mrs. Keaney, pausing in the midst of her washing,
and looking down, half bewildered, half amused, at her little daughter.
"Yes, mother. I _have_ birthdays, don't I, just the same as Mabel Ray?"
"Shure there's no mistake about that, darlint," laughed her mother,
resuming her work. "Eight years ago next week you came into this
throublesome world. That's two things we have in common wid the rich,
innyhow--the day of our birth, an' the day of our death."
"But, mother," persisted Biddy, her big blue eyes rounder still with
eagerness, "can't I have a party on my birthday? Mabel Ray had one last
week; Eliza told me so. An' she had ice-crame, an' cake wid raisins in
it, an' a wax doll what opens its eyes, an' lots o' children come to
play wid her. An', oh, mother--"
"Sakes alive, Biddy! what's got into you?" said her mother, gazing down
at her with a mingling of pride, amusement, and regret. No bonnier child
than Biddy could you find anywhere. Her complexion was a pure red and
white, her hair chestnut, falling in natural curls over her shoulders,
her mouth as sweet a rose-bud as Mabel Ray's.
"She's as pretty as inny lady's child of them all," thought her mother;
"an' as gintle an' good." But aloud she said, decidedly:
"Honey, you're talkin' nonsinse. I've hard work enough to kape us both
in bread an' mate, let alone clothes, widout givin' parties for you.
Ice-crame an' cake, indade! It's a nigger waiter you'll be wantin' nixt,
to be openin' the door for your stylish frinds," she went on, chuckling,
as she wrung out one of Mrs. Ray's embroidered white skirts.
"Oh, mother, I know you couldn't give me _such_ a party. But I thought I
might have just a few little frinds in to play wid me, an' we'd have
some crackers, an' some ginger cookies maybe; and thim two pinnies you
gave me would buy candy an' nuts. An' if--"
"An' who do you want to invite, may I ax?" said the mother, trying not
to laugh.