[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 56. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, November 23, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance
* * * * *
[Illustration: LITTLE SAMUEL.--[SEE NEXT PAGE.]]
THE BOYHOOD OF SAMUEL.
BY THE REV. BRADFORD K. PEIRCE, D.D.
A long time ago--more than three thousand years--a little boy was born
to a loving mother. She was a Jewess, and in those days it was the
custom to be called by only one name. Her name was Hannah, or Anna. She
lived with the father of her little boy in a mountain village six or
eight miles north of the city of Jerusalem.
Hannah was a tender-hearted woman, and as good as she was gentle. She
longed to have a little boy who might grow up and be trained to be a
teacher of the true God among the people around her, who were very
ignorant and wicked in those days. So she prayed, and God heard her
prayer. Upon the birth of the little fellow she named him Samuel, which
means _Asked of God_. So happy and grateful to God was this Jewish
mother that she wrote a wonderful song, which has been preserved all
these years, and may be still read in the Bible.
When her boy was two or three years old she carried him to the place
where the people of the country met to worship God, where was the great
tent called the Tabernacle, with its different coverings, of which we
are told in the second book of the Bible, and where the priest of God
and those that assisted him lived. Here she left him, with many warm
kisses and tears, that he might be taught by these religious men, and be
fitted to become in after-years a prophet or teacher of the true God.
His school had no vacations; but once a year regularly his mother came
to see him, bringing him a new, rich mantle as a gift of love, and a
proper robe for one who assisted in public worship, although a child, to
wear.
Every one saw that he was a remarkable boy. The old priest loved him as
a son. The blessed God in heaven also loves children, and knows how to
express His love to them so that they will understand it. He sometimes
intimates to them, when He is about to call them to some great work,
that they are by-and-by to become His ministers. Many a little fellow as
young as Samuel has felt in his mind, he hardly knew how or why, that he
would some time be a preacher of the Gospel.
When Samuel was about twelve years of age this wonderful thing happened
to him. He had a little room by himself within the great tent where the
people worshipped. The aged priest, whose name was Eli, had another
quite near to him. In the night, while the lamps were still burning in
the Tabernacle, and he had fallen asleep on his bed, he was suddenly
awaked by a voice calling him by name. He supposed, of course, it was
Eli calling, and he hurried to the old man's chamber, saying, as he
entered, "Here am I."
"I did not call you," said Eli; "go, lie down again."
He had hardly dropped into slumber once more, when the same voice awaked
him again: "Samuel, Samuel," it said.
He ran again to the room of Eli, and said, "Here am I; for thou didst
call me."
The old man thought, probably, that he was disturbed by terrifying
dreams, and said to him, "I called not, my son; lie down again."
A third time the voice called. It is wonderful that the lad was not
affrighted. But if one loves God and does right, there is nothing that
can harm him. The open-faced child of the Tabernacle, obeying without
hesitation, although answering twice in vain, hastened to the chamber of
Eli with his ready and filial response, "Here am I; for thou didst call
me."
The aged minister then knew that it was not a human voice, but the voice
of God. He said to the child, "Go, lie down, and if the voice is heard
again, say, 'Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth.'"
He went alone to his chamber and to his bed in the silence of the night,
and once more the voice came, so sweet and gentle as not to terrify him,
"Samuel, Samuel."
"Speak, Lord," he answered, as he sat up on his bed, "for Thy servant
heareth."
Then God gave him a message to his master, and to the people, and made
him at this early age a teacher and a prophet of the Lord.
It was just at this moment, when the boy sits up, solemnly, with his
eyes wide-opened, listening to the Divine voice, that the great English
painter Sir Joshua Reynolds, in his well-known picture, represents the
prophet-child. It is at this moment that his wondering and prayerful
face is caught by the artist in the beautiful picture which is given in
this paper.
God does not now speak audibly in the sleeping-rooms of little fellows;
but when they kneel, night by night, by their bedsides, and say, "Speak,
Lord, for Thy servant heareth," He comes into their minds and leads and
teaches them just as if He called them by name. There is no prayer goes
up to Heaven more readily heard or answered than the simple words of a
sincere, praying child.
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 53, November 2.]
THE BOY-GENERAL.
BY EDWARD CARY.
CHAPTER IV.
When the courier who brought the news that Lafayette had landed again in
Boston was introduced to the presence of General Washington, those who
were standing by saw tears of joy run down the cheeks of the veteran
soldier; and when Lafayette came to him, bearing the glad tidings that
ships and men and money were on their way from France to aid in the
common cause, the happiness of Washington was beyond words. And well it
might be. The help the French had sent the year before was of little
use. The country had again fallen into a weary and grumbling mood. The
army had shrunken until it was the mere ghost of an army. There was no
money in the Treasury. Washington wrote to Lafayette that he had not
enough cash at his disposal, or in the whole army, to pay one messenger
to ride fifty miles. And here came back the dearly loved friend from
France, whose zeal and talent had won from the French government
promises of the most generous help. No wonder that the brave American
commander welcomed Lafayette with a heart filled with gratitude and
love.
The young Marquis resumed his old place at the head of the advance guard
of chosen troops. He had brought back from France a thousand little
gifts for his old corps--badges for the soldiers, swords for the
officers, a bright new silken flag for each battalion--kindly proofs of
the affection with which he had constantly remembered them.
The French fleet, and an army under the Count de Rochambeau, followed
quickly after Lafayette, and great efforts were made to agree upon a
common plan for the campaign. Unluckily only a part of the fleet came at
first, and this part got shut up by a larger English fleet at Newport,
and was of little value, except that the English ships which were
watching it could not ravage the American coasts.
Just at this moment happened one of those little incidents which
sometimes have great effect. Washington had gone from near New York over
to Connecticut to hold a meeting with the French commanders. On his way
back he turned off his road to show to Lafayette the forts at West Point
on the Hudson River, of which he was quite proud, and which had been
laid out by an intimate friend of Lafayette's. Benedict Arnold, who was
in command at West Point, had just arranged to betray the post to the
English. Major André, an English officer, had been sent up to close the
bargain. On his way back to New York he was captured as a spy, and all
the papers on his person were sent to General Arnold, whose treason no
one suspected. Arnold received them a half-hour before he expected
General Washington. Had he not looked for Washington's arrival he could
have released André, and carried out his wicked plan. Instead, he fled
straightway to the British camp; so that Washington's love for
Lafayette, which made him wish to show him the forts at West Point, was,
in this curious fashion, a means of saving the American cause. Had the
British captured West Point, and cut off the Eastern from the Central
and Southern States, the Americans might easily have been subdued.
The year 1780 passed without any events of importance. But early in 1781
Washington sent Lafayette south into Virginia with a couple of thousand
men to capture an English garrison at Portsmouth, near the mouth of the
Chesapeake Bay. This he was to do with the help of a French fleet, which
was to arrive there at the same time. But an English fleet got ahead of
the French fleet, and beat it in a sea-battle off Cape Henry. Lafayette
was about to return, when Washington wrote him to stay and try to
protect the State of Virginia, which the British were about to overrun.
Lafayette staid, of course, but he had a hard time of it. His troops had
not expected to remain, and were inclined to desert and go home, the
more because they were very badly clothed. Lafayette borrowed $10,000 in
his own name, and got them new clothing and shoes. Then he issued an
order telling them that he was about to start on a dangerous business,
and any man who was afraid to go with him would be sent back. That put a
stop to desertion.
Meanwhile, Lord Cornwallis, the ablest General the British had in
America, made his appearance with an army much stronger than
Lafayette's. He was "a cool, active" man, and was bent on capturing the
young Frenchman. Lafayette drew back slowly before him, trying to
deceive him as to his real strength.
At last Cornwallis had pushed the little army of Americans away
northward to the foot of the mountains, and wrote to New York, "The boy
can not now escape me." But marching all night by a back road through
the woods, and leaving his baggage and tents and heavy guns behind him,
Lafayette appeared to the astonished eyes of the British commander in a
strong position, from which he could not be driven. Just at this point
Lafayette got some more men from Washington's camp and from Virginia,
and then commenced one of the most remarkable campaigns ever known.
Lafayette, still much weaker than Cornwallis, was so active, and
appeared so confident, that the English slowly withdrew toward the
coast. Always seeming anxious to fight, yet never risking a general
battle, Lafayette followed Cornwallis until he got him into the village
of Yorktown, between the York River and the James River. There the
British felt safe, thinking that they could at any time get to New York
by water, or with a few more men could sally out and drive Lafayette
from Virginia.
But Lafayette expected a French fleet off the coast, and contented
himself with carefully watching his enemy, and writing to Washington to
hasten south with his army and make the capture of the British certain.
At last the French fleet came, and poor Cornwallis, with all his skill
and courage, was surrounded. He could hardly believe his eyes, and tried
in one way and another to break through; but it was of no use. The
French landed in large force, and their commanders urged Lafayette to
take Yorktown by storm. They appealed to his love of fame. He had foiled
Cornwallis, and shut him up in Yorktown: he ought to have the glory of
his capture. But the humane young hero put aside this temptation, and
refused to waste his men's lives in a venture which might not succeed.
He knew that Cornwallis could not escape, and that when Washington
arrived with his army the British would have to surrender, with little
or no bloodshed--so admirably combined in his character were courage,
prudence, and kindness. At last Washington came, with Count de
Rochambeau and a large army, and Cornwallis on the 19th of October was
compelled to lay down his arms. And this practically ended the war,
although it was not until two years after that peace was declared, and
the United States were acknowledged to be free and independent.
Lafayette sailed for France on the 23d December, 1781. He had the proud
satisfaction of knowing that the greatest victory of the war which had
made a nation free had been due to the aid he had got from his own
country, and to the patience, fortitude, and genius with which he had
himself commanded in the last campaign.
From on board the ship on the eve of sailing he wrote to his beloved
Washington: "Adieu, my dear General. I know your heart so well that I am
sure that no distance can change your attachment for me. With the same
sincerity I assure you that my tenderness, my respect, my gratitude for
you are beyond all expression; that at the moment of quitting you I feel
more than ever the force of those bonds of friendship which bind me
forever to you; and that the dearest wish of my heart is to show you by
my zeal and my services how great are my respect and my affection."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
HOW CHINESE CHILDREN LOVE THEIR PARENTS.
In the Chow Dynasty (about three thousand years ago) there was a man
named Laou Lai-tsze. When he was seventy years of age he used to put on
bright and many-colored clothes, and then he would play about like a
child. Sometimes he would carry water into the hall, and pretend to
stumble, and fall flat on the ground; and then he would cry, and run up
to his parents' side to please the old people, and all to make them
forget, for a time at least, their own great age.
* * * * *
There was once a man named Han. When he was a boy he misbehaved himself
very often, and his mother used to beat him with a bamboo rod. One day
he cried after the beating, and his mother was greatly surprised, and
said, "I have beaten you many a time, and you have never cried before;
why do you cry to-day?"
"Oh, mother," he replied, "you used to _hurt_ me when you flogged me;
but now I weep because you are not strong enough to hurt me."
"It makes one weep," says the Chinese moralist, "even to read this
story." Who does not long to have the dear vanished hand back again, and
the still voice speaking again, if even to punish and reprove?
* * * * *
About eighteen hundred years ago there was a man named Ong, who, when a
child, lost his father, and lived alone with his mother. Civil war broke
out, and he carried his mother off on his back to escape the confusion.
Many a time, when he was out searching for some food for his mother, he
met the banditti, who seized him and threatened to drag him off. But he
wept, and told them of his old mother at home depending on him; and even
these rough robbers had not the heart to kill him.
* * * * *
About eighteen hundred years ago there was a man named Mao, who
entertained a friend, one Koh, and kept him to spend the night. Early on
the following morning Mao killed a fowl for breakfast, and Mr. Koh
flattered himself that it was for _him_. But no! it was for Mao's old
mother; and Mao and Koh sat down to nothing but greens and rice. When
Koh saw this he rose up from the table, bowed low to Mao, and said,
"Well done, illustrious man!"
[Illustration]
"HAPPY ORPHANS."
BY CORA A. D. WYCKOFF.
A hundred little chicks or more,
Downy, soft, and yellow,
Were peeping out their discontent
In voices far from mellow.
I looked around in wonderment--
No mothers were at hand
To gather 'neath their outstretched wings
The doleful little band;
And as I gazed, a small wee voice
From one chick seemed to say:
"Perhaps you think we like it,
This fine new-fangled way;
But it's very disagreeable,
For, strange as it may seem,
We never had a mother--
They hatched us out by steam;
"And they call us 'Happy Orphans,'
When we're ready all to weep,
For no answering cluck comes back to us,
Though we peep, and peep, and peep.
They say it's scientific,
And I've no doubt it is true,
But I would rather have a mother--
Now really wouldn't you!"
[Illustration]
[Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.]
WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON?
BY JOHN HABBERTON,
AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES."
CHAPTER XI.
THE TRIAL.
"What do you think was the counterfeiter's excuse for running away?"
asked Sam Wardwell of Canning Forbes, on meeting him at the Post-office,
to which both boys had been sent by their parents.
"I give it up," said Canning, who had not the slightest taste for
guessing.
"He said he would have come back and given himself up after court had
met and adjourned, but he didn't want to be tried now."
"He wanted to wait for some new evidence in his defense, perhaps,"
suggested Canning.
"New grandfather!" ejaculated Sam, very contemptuously. "He wanted to
stay in jail here, doing nothing, for the next six months, rather than
go to the Penitentiary and work hard. That's what my father says."
"Perhaps your father is right," said Canning; "but what does he think of
Paul?"
"What does he think?" answered Sam: "why, just what everybody else
thinks; he thinks Paul is the greatest boy that ever was, and he says he
wishes I would be just like him."
"Well, why don't you?" asked Canning.
"How can I?" said Sam, in an aggrieved tone. "I can't do just as I
please, as Paul can, and I haven't got any great mystery to keep me up,
as everybody knows Paul has."
"Didn't you ever have a great mystery?" asked Canning.
"Never but once," said Sam; "that was when I hooked a big package of
loaf-sugar out of father's store, and had to keep finding new places to
hide it in until it was eaten up."
"I suppose that mystery helped keep you up?" suggested Canning.
"Well, you see-- Oh, look! there comes father; I suppose he's wondering
why I don't bring his letters. Good-by;" and Sam got away from that very
provoking question as fast as possible.
As for the other boys, they simply sat on the sidewalk opposite old Mrs.
Battle's, and worshipped the house, from which their hero had not been
successfully coaxed to come out. In spite of Paul's caution to Benny,
and the promises that he received in return, the deputy had talked so
enthusiastically about Paul to all the men he met, that the story sped
about town that Paul had done as much toward recapturing the prisoner as
the officer had. This story might have been spoiled had Benny acted
according to the spirit of his promise, but the little fellow had been
so elated by the looks that people gave him, as he marched with Paul and
the counterfeiter through the street, that he could not bear to
deliberately rob himself of his fame, as of course he would do as soon
as Paul's story had been told. So Benny refused to be seen; he went to
bed very early, and before breakfast he had hidden himself in the unused
attic of his mother's cottage, where he nursed his glory until he felt
that he was simply starving for something to eat.
And all this while his fictitious valor was nowhere in the eyes of the
populace, for Mr. Morton himself had gone out immediately after
breakfast, and had himself given Paul's version of the affair to every
one, besides giving Benny a fair share of the credit for the
tender-heartedness displayed by the two boys toward the captive, so that
when Benny finally entered the world again he found he had lost some
hours of praise to which he was honestly entitled. As for Paul, the
teacher begged every one to say nothing at all to him about it. The boy
was somewhat peculiar, he said; the affair had made a very painful
impression upon him, and any one who really admired him could best prove
it by treating him just as before, and not reminding him in any way of
Laketon's most famous day.
Mr. Morton had not yet decided whether to open his school again, and the
boys, although they would have been sorry to have him go away from
Laketon, hoped he would not decide before court opened, for now that the
counterfeiter had been mixed up in some way with two of their own
number, the boys with one accord determined that they would have to
attend the trial; indeed, it seemed to some of them that the trial could
not go on without them, for did they not know the two boys who had
helped bring the prisoner back from the woods? They thought they did.
When the day for the trial came, and the Sheriff opened the court-room,
the doors of which had been kept locked because of the immense crowd
that threatened to fill the house in advance of the hour for the
session, he was surprised to find seventeen boys in the front seats of
the gallery. On questioning them, he learned that most of them had
entered through a window before sunrise, and that two had slept in the
gallery all night. He was about to remove the entire party, but the boys
begged so hard to be allowed to remain, and they reminded him so
earnestly that they all were particular friends of Paul, that the
Sheriff, who once had been a boy himself, relented and let them remain.
It was about six in the afternoon, according to the boys, but only a
quarter before ten by the court-house clock, when the front doors were
opened and the crowd poured in. Within the next five minutes any boy in
that front gallery row could have sold his seat for a dollar, but not a
boy flinched from what he considered a public duty, although every one
knew just what to do with a dollar if he could get it. Soon the lawyers
flocked in by the Judge's door, and grouped themselves about the table
inside the rail, and at five minutes before ten his honor the Judge
entered and took his seat. Then the Sheriff allowed Mr. Morton and Paul
to enter by the Judge's door, because they were unable to get through
the crowd in front. At sight of Paul the whole front row of the gallery
burst into a storm of hand-clapping.
The Judge rapped vigorously with his little mallet, and exclaimed, "Mr.
Sheriff, preserve order. The court is now open."
[Illustration: THE SHERIFF ENFORCES ORDER.]
The Sheriff, first giving chairs in the lawyers' circle to Paul and the
teacher, because there were no other seats vacant, went down in front of
the gallery, and shouted to the boys that if they made any more
disturbance he would throw them all out of the window and break their
heads on the pavement below.
No lighter threat would have been of any avail, for a more restless set
of boys than they were during the next half-hour never was seen. It
seemed to them that the trial never would begin; lawyers talked to the
Judge about all sorts of things, and the Judge looked over papers as
leisurely as if time were eternity; but finally his honor said,
"Mr. Sheriff, bring in John Doe."
Every one in the front row of the gallery stood up, two or three minutes
later, as Ned Johnston, who sat where he could look through the open
door by which the Judge had entered, signaled that the prisoner was
coming. Many other people stood up when the Sheriff and the prisoner
entered, for all were curious to have a good look at the man whom but
few of them had seen. The Sheriff placed John Doe in the prisoners' box,
where, to the great disgust of the boys, only the back of a head and two
shoulders could be seen from the gallery. His honor nodded at the clerk,
and the clerk arose, cleared his throat, and said,
"John Doe, stand up."
The prisoner obeyed; and as his head was slightly turned, so as to face
the clerk, the boys had a fair view of it. It did not seem a bad face;
indeed, it was rather handsome and pleasing, although there was a steady
twitching of the lips that prevented its looking exactly the same from
first to last.
"John Doe," said the clerk, turning over some of the sheets of a very
bulky document he held in his hand, "a Grand Jury appointed by this
Court has found a true bill of indictment against you for passing
counterfeit money, to wit, a five-dollar note purporting to have been
issued by the Founders' National Bank of Mechanics' Valley, State of
Pennsylvania, the same note having been offered in payment for goods
purchased from Samuel Wardwell, a merchant doing business in this town
of Laketon, and for passing similar bills upon other persons herein
resident. Are you guilty or not guilty?"
"Guilty," answered the prisoner.
A sensation ran through the house, and at least half a dozen of the
fifty or more citizens who had hoped to be drawn on the jury whispered
to their neighbors that it was a shameful trick to appeal to the Judge's
sympathy, and get off with a light sentence; but they hoped that his
honor would not be taken in by any such hypocritical nonsense.
"John Doe," said his honor, solemnly, "I have been informed by an old
acquaintance of yours of your entire history. You are well born and well
bred; you had promising prospects in life, and a family that you should
have been proud of. But you gambled; you fell from bad to worse; and a
bullet aimed at you by an officer of the law, in the discharge of his
duty, struck and killed your loving, suffering wife. Such of your family
as remains to you would honor any one, even the highest man in the land,
and I am assured that you are sincerely desirous of forsaking evil
courses and devoting your life to this--family. Old friends, classmates
of yours, who are held in high respect wherever they are known, are
ready and willing to assist you to regain your lost manhood; so in
consideration of your plea, your professions of penitence, and the
responsibilities which your misdeeds have increased instead of lessened,
I sentence you to confinement in the county jail for the shortest period
allowed by the law covering your offense, to wit, six months. Sheriff,
remove the prisoner."
The prisoner bowed to the Judge, and then looked toward Mr. Morton and
Paul. He tried hard to preserve his composure as the Sheriff led him
through the lawyers' circle and toward the Judge's door, but somehow his
eyes filled with tears. Perhaps this was the reason that Paul, in spite
of Mr. Morton's hand on his arm, sprang from his chair, threw his arms
around the prisoner's neck, and exclaimed,
[Illustration: "FATHER!"]
"Father!"
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE SCHOOL-BOY'S VISION.
BY MARY D. BRINE.
There's the bell for "recess over," time for stupid books again;
But how _can_ a fellow study with Thanksgiving on his brain?
When I read of Turks and Turkey, little heed to them I pay,
While my mind is full of visions of the near Thanksgiving-day.
I can only hear the "gobble" of a turkey, fat and nice,
Which, my grandpa writes, is waiting to be _gobbled_ in a trice,
Just as soon as Sis and I and all the family are able
To be off and spend Thanksgiving round the dear old farm-house table.
_That's_ a study, now, of Turkey that a fellow likes, I'm sure,
But put it in geography, and that I can't endure;
It has a different flavor somehow on the dear old farm,
And "cramming" then or "stuffing" never does one any harm.
Now there's a class in spelling: Bobby White has tripped on "skates,"
And that's something _I_ don't do. I remember how my mates
And I went off together, with our skates upon our feet,
For a race across the mill-pond, and 'twas only _I_ who beat.
Oh, Thanksgiving-day is jolly on the dear old farm, and so
It knocks study in the head for a week before we go;
And I pity any fellow, be he black, or white, or brown,
Whose grandpapa and grandma are not living--_out of town_.
Well, I s'pose I _ought_ to study while my book before me lies,
But it's hard upon a fellow now to have to shut his eyes
Upon such charming visions. Did you speak, sir? can I tell
Where Turkey is? Oh yes, sir, I have learned _that_ lesson well.
[Illustration: THIS IS NOT INTENDED TO SHOW HOW OUR PRECIOUS BOY LOOKED
AFTER HIS THANKSGIVING DINNER, BUT HOW HE SAID HE FELT.]
AN ANCIENT WEDDING.
A Frankish noble named Sigismer, who lived A.D. 600, was to marry a
Visigothic princess. A Roman soldier saw their wedding, and gave the
following description of it in a letter to a friend:
"As you are so fond of beholding war and armor, it would have been a
great pleasure for you if you had seen the royal youth Sigismer dressed
as a bridegroom, according to the custom of his people, walking to his
father-in-law's house. His horse was decorated with brilliant housings,
and other horses went before and behind him all glittering with precious
stones. The bridegroom, however, did not ride, for it was considered
more becoming that he should go on foot among his comrades, dressed in
bright purple, with ornaments of red gold and white silk, while his
hair, complexion, and skin were in keeping with these ornaments. But the
appearance of his comrades was formidable even in peace: their feet up
to the ankles were incased in rough boots, above which their shins,
knees, and thighs were bare. Besides these, they wore a short
tight-fitting tunic of many colors, which did not reach down to the
knees. The sleeves reached only to the elbows, the bright green tunic
contrasting sharply with the ruddy limbs. Their swords were suspended by
straps from their shoulders, and stuck close to their fur-clad hips. The
same dress which serves them for ornament serves also for defense. In
the right hand they carried barbed lances and battle-axes, which can
also be used as missiles; and in the left a shield, with a snow-white
rim and yellow boss. This shield is evidence of the wealth of its owner,
as well as of the skill of its maker. Altogether everything was so
arranged that the whole seemed to be not merely a bridal procession, but
a military one also."
HOW TO BUILD AN ICE-BOAT.
It is now time, boys, to house your canvas canoe, and put your miniature
sloop and steam-yacht out of commission. No doubt you have become quite
nautical in your habits the past season, and it seems a pity that you
should be obliged to give up being a jolly tar, with your blue shirt and
tarpaulin, just because the weather is a little cooler, and the wind
inclined to be rather fresh.
But there is no necessity for becoming a thorough landlubber. Why not
have a boat for the winter--an ice-boat; not one in miniature, but one
that you can sail in yourself? The construction is simple enough. With a
few tools, the aid of your friends the carpenter and blacksmith, and
last, but not least, a little ingenuity, you may continue to scud over
the "briny," and not forget all your nauticalities.
[Illustration: WORKING PLANS FOR AN ICE-BOAT.]
Perhaps you remember that model ice-boat at the Centennial, the _Whiff_.
Yours need not be as large nor as elaborate, but it will serve your
purpose. The principal parts of the hull consist of eight pieces in all,
and straight at that, viz., keel, runner plank, mast bench, two side
boards, and three runners. That certainly don't look like a great
undertaking. Now look at the drawings on the plate, and see what is to
be done, and then how to do it. As in all boats, the keel (K) comes
first, made of white pine, twelve feet long, one and three-quarter
inches thick, and four inches deep; runner plank (RP), of pine, seven
feet in length, six inches wide, and one and a half inches thick; mast
bench (MB), three feet long, six inches wide, and one inch thick; side
boards (SB), seven feet long, three inches deep, and one inch thick.
Runners and rudder to be made of ash, the former two feet long, five
inches deep, and one inch thick; the latter twenty-one inches long, four
and a half inches deep, and one inch thick. Let your carpenter get the
timber for you, and see that it is all well-seasoned, free from knots
and checks, and straight-grained.
When you have all your pieces nicely planed, be careful to follow your
dimensions, lengths, etc., and don't saw off an inch too much. Now for
the keel and bowsprit. Measure off from the right-hand end of the keel
four feet six inches on the under edge; then cut to the right hand with
draw-knife down to two inches; finish with plane. There's your bowsprit.
On the upper edge of the keel, five feet from the end of the bowsprit,
cut a place for the mast bench one inch deep and six inches wide. Go to
work on your runners and chocks (for inside of runners) with draw-knife
and key-hole saw. All your pieces being cut out, the next thing is
putting them together. Place the keel on the centre of the runner plank,
and mark with a pencil; then turn it over, and nail the RP to the keel.
This is simply to hold it in place until you get your mast bench and
side boards bolted to the runner plank. Use quarter-inch bolts six
inches long for this. Fig. 1 shows detail, cross section of side board,
and longitudinal section of RP and MB. The plan gives the position of
the bolt holes. Screw bolts up firmly, the nuts on the under side of the
RP. Put a couple of two-inch screws through the MB to the keel.
Now for the stern. Bend a piece of inch stuff from the ends of the SB,
and nail it firmly to keel and SB. You will notice the end of the keel
projects a little. If you find this hard to do when the wood is dry,
steam it; or if not that, just saw off a bit of your keel, and make the
stern straight across. It does look a little more ship-shape, though, to
have a curve in the stern. Turn the boat over, and nail the flooring
(F), of half-inch stuff, firmly to SB and K. Your boat is now good and
stiff; but, remember, don't attempt to turn your hull over before you've
got the side boards fastened to the stern piece, and that again to the
keel; the other ends of the side boards are supposed to be bolted to the
rudder plank. You have the main part of the hull done. Make full-size
drawings of runners and rudder iron-work, and show these drawings to
your blacksmith, and let him attend to that part of the business. Be
careful in drawing the details of the runner irons, rudder-post, etc.,
to use the right scale--that marked B.
Now for your spars. Mast, white pine, eight feet nine inches from end to
end, four inches at base, one inch at head. Put the stick in your bench
vise, and shape it with a spokeshave. Boom, eight feet six inches long,
one and a half inches thick at the middle, and one inch at either end;
fasten it to the mast with a staple and screw-eye; Fig. 4 shows it. Put
a brass ferrule on the end of the boom to prevent it from being split by
the staple. Gaff, four feet long, and an inch and a quarter thick. Make
the throat as in Fig. 4. Jib-boom, four feet eleven inches long, an inch
and a quarter thick; fasten it to the bowsprit by a staple and eye, the
former to be driven in the bowsprit. Topmast, two feet three inches
long, one inch at foot, narrow it half an inch, and screw it to the
mast. That completes the sparring.
The standing rigging is next in order. For shrouds and back and jib
stays use hemp line; heavy cod line will do. Fasten to eyes in the mast
bench and side board, as shown in Fig. 2. Brass eyelets suitable may be
got at the sail-maker's.
In shaping the mast you must leave a shoulder for the shrouds and stays
to rest on. The jib stay runs through the bowsprit, and is fastened to
the runner plank in the same way as the shrouds. The bowsprit stays
extend to the runner plank, under the ends of the side boards. The front
elevation gives the position.
Make sails out of heavy unbleached muslin; when hemmed to be of the
following dimensions: mainsail hoist, six feet six inches; head, four
feet two inches; leech, nine feet four inches; foot, eight feet six
inches. Jib hoist, six feet nine inches; leech, eight feet eleven
inches; foot, five feet.
The running rigging hardly needs a description. Small single blocks,
either of wood or metal, may be used, with the exception of the blocks
for the main and jib sheets, which should be double. The peak and throat
halyards run from blocks through screw-eyes in the mast bench, thence to
cleats on the side of the keel; jib halyards through eyes, and then to
the cleat; jib sheets fastened to eyes, then through double pulley, and
back to the cleat--one on either side, of course. For the topping lift
use blue-fish line; and for the running rigging, the same.
Before you put your sails on, or, in fact, any of the spars, standing or
running rigging, you must remember that you have not put the runners on
yet, nor got the rudder in place. See that the blacksmith has made the
iron-work according to the drawings. Bolt the rudder to the rudder-post,
screw the irons to the runners, the chocks to the under side of the
runner plank, and then to the runners. Look at the detail drawings, and
see that everything is all right; then you may begin to put on the
finishing touches.
Sand-paper every part so as to get the finger-marks off, and then give
your wood-work, spars and all, a coat of shellac. Step your mast; draw
taut as you possibly can the standing rigging; but don't forget to put
brass rings on your mast and jib stay, or you'll have to unrig. Then
bend your sails, reeve your running rigging, and, with a little oil on
the working parts of the rudder, you are ready to run a race with a
locomotive if one is at hand and you've got a clear sheet of ice under
you.
Don't forget that this craft of yours is inclined to speed at times, and
requires a steady hand, a quick eye, and ready nerve to manage it, or
you'll be running into Bill A. or Charlie B., perhaps shooting yourself
out as from a catapult, or driving high and dry up the side of a hill.
Nobody knows what may happen if you don't keep your wits about you.
Above all, don't smash your boat, because it can be put to good use when
the boating season opens again. We will tell you how by-and-by.
[Illustration: A LITTLE ANTIQUITY.--DRAWN BY MISS C. A. NORTHAM.]
JIM'S THANKSGIVING.
BY SYDNEY DAYRE.
"Is that your dog?"
Jim looked around. A bright-looking boy of eight years was sitting in a
carriage which stood before a six-story dry-goods store. He was gazing
admiringly at the pretty terrier Jim held in his arms. He moved toward
him, drawn by the quickly established chord of sympathy between two boys
on the subject of dogs.
"Ain't he a beauty! Well, yes, I s'pose he's mine. He fell off the box
of a big style carriage, somethin' like that o' yourn, one day. I picked
him up and run after it, but I couldn't ketch it. I _didn't_ steal him,"
added Jim, earnestly.
"Course you didn't."
"I've done some mean things, but I promised mother I'd never steal. He
was lame for a while, poor little creetur, but I nussed him very
careful, and he's well now."
"How'll you trade? I'd like to have him."
But Jim hugged the dog closer to him, as the small boy drew various
treasures from his pockets.
"There's a top'll spin for fifteen minutes; and look at that knife--four
blades and a nut-pick; then there's these carnelians--look--nine;
they're worth a quarter apiece. I'll give 'em all for him."
Jim shook his head. "He's all I've got, you see, and I'm fond of him.
I've fed him when I went hungry myself."
"I'll give you some money, then. See, you could buy--some clothes."
Jim looked down at his pitiful rags, but stood firm.
"Take this anyhow," said the boy, with a look of sympathy, holding out a
half-dollar. "Get something good for you and the dog."
Jim eyed the coin wistfully. "Won't your father care?" he asked.
"No, no," laughed the boy; "he isn't here, though. Been gone away for
six months, and he's coming home to-night, and we're going to have the
_jolliest_ Thanksgiving. Where's _your_ home?"
"I ain't got no home. There's no Thanksgivin' for me anywheres."
"Dear me!" the bright face lengthened into an expression of surprise and
dismay. "But my mamma says everybody has something to be thankful for";
but he looked at Jim as if he thought there _might_ be cases in which
this was to be doubted. "I'll tell you what," he went on, after a pause.
"You come to our house to-morrow afternoon, and I'll give you such a
dinner! Say, now, will you?"
"I don't know," said Jim, slowly. "I'd like to. Where is it?"
"No. ---- ---- Avenue. You come there and ask for Johnny Welford. Now
do; promise, won't you?--and bring your dog. Say, what's his name?"
"Well," said Jim, in a half-apologetic tone, "his whole name's George
Washington, but I call him George for short. You see, I ain't got no
folks, and I make b'lieve _he's_ folks, and I talks to him, and he 'most
knows all I say, and it seems 'most like he was my brother. I had a
little brother once, and my mother was a real good woman, and--"
"There's _my_ mamma," said the boy in the carriage. "Just show her that
dog."
But Jim drew back as a lady approached, and nodding to Johnny, "I'll
come," mingled in the crowd. He soon sought a poorer street.
"Ho, ho, George my boy, what do you think of that?" he said, showing him
the money. "What'd you like for supper to-night? B'lony-sassage and
crackers, eh? Yes, I knowed you'd say that," as George, wagging his tail
vigorously, licked his master's face. "Or what'd you say to a reg'lar
baker's roll and a bit o' hot steak?" George's attention was just here
riveted on a cur of low degree passing by, and the short hair on his
back stood up as he answered his growl. "No," went on Jim, "I thought
you'd say that was too extravagant for the likes o' we; so we'll have
the b'lony, George.
"And where shall we put up to-night, little feller, eh? Shall we go to
the United States, or to the Jefferson Club House? Or shall we go out to
the junction, where we slep' las' night? It's gettin' a leetle cold for
country lodgin's, but they might be expectin' us, and we wouldn't like
to disappoint 'em, eh, George? The warm side o' that straw-stack wa'n't
bad, you know. We might take our supper out there and eat, eh?"
George wagged his hearty approval of the plan, and Jim took his way to a
suburban dépôt. Here he awaited the making up of a freight train, and in
the gathering twilight took his place on a platform unperceived. Night
closed down as the train wound its slow length out of the city, and in
the course of an hour Jim alighted amid a perfect wilderness of cross
tracks, side tracks, coal heaps, and a wonderful quantity of
freight-cars. He sought out his straw pile, and the two enjoyed a hearty
meal. Then his quick eye was attracted by the half-open door of a
box-car near.
"Let's see, now," he said, going up to it. "P'r'aps they've been
a-keepin' one of their style rooms for us, George."
He lit a match and peered inside. It contained a few articles of shabby
furniture, and an old carpet rolled up in one corner.
"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "I knowed they'd be a-lookin' for us, George,
but I'm blamed if I thought they'd fix up for us like this. Quit now;
don't you be a-waggin' yourself all over the keer, and a-rappin' your
tail agin the fine furnitur'. Be genteel now."
Jim rolled himself and his pet in the carpet, and both were comfortably
settled for the night, when voices were heard.
"What's here?" A man looked in, and then climbed up, followed by
another.
"It's only me and my dog," said Jim.
"Ah, room for more, I guess."
Jim had thought he was going to have a fine night's rest; but he lay
awake long, his thoughts going back to the little boy who had liked his
dog, who had given him more money than ever he had had at one time
before, and who had promised him a Thanksgiving dinner. He liked the
idea of going very much, not only for the good dinner, which was quite
an attraction to the poor hungry little tramp, but he wanted to see the
nice little fellow again, and see where he lived, and perhaps talk more
about dogs. The thought of giving him his dog crossed his mind for a
moment, but was cast aside as a thing impossible, the very idea
producing an almost unconscious hug so fervent as to extort a patient
howl from George.
He wished, though, that he could "slick up" a little to go to Johnny
Welford's house. He wondered if he could get a pair of second-hand shoes
for what was left of his half-dollar, and made up his mind to search
among office sweepings early in the morning for the cleanest paper
collar he could find. He had an indefinite hope that some good might
come to him from this visit. Perhaps Johnny's father might help him to
something to do. He did odd jobs now, ran errands, swept steps and
crossings, but it was his great ambition to get "somethin' reg'lar" to
do.
As he lay thinking, the men who shared his shelter were talking, but he
paid little heed to them till he heard the words "John Welford"--"coming
on that train," and then he listened with every nerve on a tension, till
his heart was filled with fright and horror at what he heard.
He heard the whole plan. A large bowlder lay close to the track a short
distance from the junction, and crow-bars were hidden near. The men were
to wait till the watchman had made his last patrol out that way before
the time for the passing of the train, when they would quickly hoist
destruction into its path.
"He sent me up for four years, but I'll send _him_ up for longer than
that," said the man, with a laugh and an oath which made Jim shudder.
When the two at last left the car he waited till they were beyond
hearing, and crept cautiously out. He knew that if they suspected his
intention they would think no more of crushing out his life than of
treading on a worm, but he was resolved on saving that train if he died
in doing it. It was bright starlight, but dark enough to admit of his
watching the men without much danger of being discovered. He saw them
finish their work, and hide in the bushes near. Then, with trembling
hands, but full of firm purpose, he set about carrying out _his_ plan.
Running back to the straw pile, he quickly made up a bundle of it, and
slipping off his old shoes, sped noiselessly along the track, past the
wreckers. Just beyond the bowlder the road made rather a sharp curve,
bringing a high bank between the two men and Jim's selected place of
action, and this, he hoped, would conceal from them what he was doing,
at least long enough to insure success.
He divided his bundle of straw, and laid a heap on the track. Then he
waited and listened, with his heart beating too loudly for him to hear
any other sound. He looked up at the stars over his head. "My mother is
up there somewheres, p'r'aps," whispered the little fellow; "maybe
she'll ask some 'un to help me."
As the head-light at last appeared in the distance he set a match to his
heap, and saw it blaze up brightly. Lighting by it the portion still in
his hand, he ran wildly forward, waving it to and fro. But the engine
came steadily forward: would it never, _never_ stop? He reached a short
bridge over a culvert, and sprang on the abutment at its side, still
brandishing his beacon, and, scarcely knowing it, shrieking at the top
of his voice. His hands were burning, the smoke blackened his face and
took away his breath; but, yes--it surely _was_ slowing. The engine
passed him; he listened, and could hear the brakes worked by the
desperate strength of frightened men. Passengers crowded out on the
platform, and saw the little figure still waving the last sparks of his
safety-light. And then a dark form stole up to him, a cruel blow sent
him crashing against the last car, and he fell. Its wheels had not
stopped moving.
Men sprang down, raised him, and carried him into the car, where he was
laid upon a seat.
"It's the one who stopped the train--a boy. Why did he do it?--what's
the matter?" The conductor had sent men forward on the track, and soon
knew the terrible reason. It spread through the cars like wild-fire.
Women cried and fainted, and strong men turned pale. Every one knew that
it might have been his or her life which had gone out ere now but for
the boy who lay there. A woman wiped the blood and smoke from his face
with shaking hands and quick-dropping tears.
Presently a boy's clear voice cried out, "Johnny Welford's
father?--Johnny Welford's father?"
A tall man turned in surprise, and bent over him. "Did you call my name,
my boy?"
"Be you Johnny Welford's father?"
"Yes, I am John Welford."
"Be you a-goin' home to Thanksgivin'?"
"I--hope so"--his voice broke--"thanks to you."
Jim smiled. "I guess mother sent some 'un to help me. Where's George?"
The dog had crept close to his master, and no one had driven him away.
"Hello, old feller.--Give Johnny Welford my dog--he'll know. Tell Johnny
Welford I can't--come to his house--for--Thanksgivin'." The voice died
away.
* * * * *
Jim had his Thanksgiving dinner at Johnny Welford's house, but it was a
few spoonfuls of wine, given by the white hands of Johnny Welford's
mother. And he was the only guest, for there was no merry-making in the
beautiful house where the poor little street Arab lay in the balance
between life and death. And from many other hearts in the city went up,
with fervent thanksgiving, the earnest prayer that the little life which
had been so freely offered for others might be spared.
* * * * *
"And you lost your poor foot, my boy," some one said, months after.
"You'll have to go without it all your life."
"Why, yes," said Jim, with a laugh; "but, bless me! I'm enough sight
better off with one foot 'n ever I was with two. Why, it's been
Thanksgivin' for me and George all the time ever since. Eh, old feller?"
MRS. NOVEMBER'S DINNER PARTY.
BY AGNES CARR.
The widow November was very busy indeed this year. What with elections
and harvest-homes, her hands were full to overflowing; for she takes
great interest in politics, besides being a social body, without whom no
apple bee or corn-husking is complete.