as in rackets. Luck or chance has but little to do with it. The great
art is, the moment a ball is struck on to the front wall, to judge
exactly where it will return, and to get in that particular spot.
Quickness in getting over the court is another great point. Short, quick
steps are better than a run, as they are more easily checked. With good
players in the court, the game is almost as exciting to witness as to
play. The constant movement, the volleys, the rallies, the drops,
twists, and cuts, succeeding one another rapidly, require all the
observer's attention. For affording the greatest amount of exercise in
the shortest time there is no game like rackets.
THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 101, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
An Indian Story.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
CHAPTER XXVI.
During the time spent by Murray with Rita in the lodge, Steve Harrison
found his position a little awkward. The chiefs had by far too much
dignity to consult with so young a brave, especially as he had not even
one of the "Talking Leaves" to listen to. He knew that not only Dolores
and Ni-ha-be, but half a dozen other squaws, old and young, were staring
at him, and he could not understand a word of the low-voiced remarks
they made. He was very glad, therefore, when his friend once more
appeared, and he saw by the light on his face that he had no unpleasant
news to bring.
"What find?" asked Many Bears. "Send Warning and Rita hear anything?"
"Hear a little. Send Warning will take the Leaves to his own lodge and
hear more."
"What say now? Hear about big talk with blue-coat pale-faces?"
"Tell you what I think."
"The chief is listening."
"Break up village. Move west right away. More news come soon. Hear about
treaty when you see the lodges of your own people. No time to lose."
That advice agreed so exactly with the notions of Many Bears that he was
ready to accept it at once. He turned to his two councillors
triumphantly.
"What did I tell you? It is wisdom. We will go. Tell the braves to get
ready. Tell all the squaws to pack up. Send on hunting braves. Good
many. Kill plenty meat."
There was no opposition.
The only objection that could reasonably be raised was that so sudden a
departure gave no opportunity for a grand celebration of their victory
over the Lipans. They could attend to that, however, some other time.
"Come, Steve," said Murray. "We want an hour by ourselves."
They were quickly inside their own lodge, and were sure there were no
listeners.
"Steve!"
"What is it, Murray?"
"That little girl is my own daughter!"
"I've suspected it. And this was the very band of Apaches that broke up
your home and your mine."
"Yes, and it is a wonder they have not recognized me. If Apaches of some
other band were to join them, some of them might remember me. They have
seen me in more than one of their fights with the Lipans."
"It would be all over with us then."
"Of course it would. I am dressed differently, to be sure. I can change
a little more. Must crop my hair and beard closer. They know me for a
long-bearded old man; I must turn myself into a short-haired young one."
"Can't you dye your hair?"
"Not until we get to the settlements. There are no barbers among the
Apaches."
"How will we ever get her away, Murray?"
"Oh, my girl! my poor, dear little girl! I dare not think about my wife.
No wonder my hair is white. Steve, I must not let her live and die among
these wild people. They have been kind to her, she says, and I do not
hate them so much, now I know that; but she shall not be an Indian."
He was getting feverishly excited, and Steve replied:
"Now, Murray, of course we will get her away. Haven't you some plan?"
"Only to draw the whole band nearer the frontier or nearer to some fort
or other."
"That's good. We would have a shorter distance to run if we should
escape."
"Now, Steve, I'm all upset and unstrung. That's the reason I came in
here. I've got to get my wits about me again, or I can't plan anything."
"Sit down and read."
"Read? Do you suppose I could do that just now? Why, Steve, I've found
my little daughter."
"So you have. I don't wonder you're excited. I am myself. Here, give me
a magazine. I'd like to find out how much of my reading will come back."
Murray handed him one and Steve sat down. He had been fond of books in
the days before he was captured by the Lipans. He had not forgotten his
reading at all, and it came back to him in a way that made his heart
jump. But that was after he had made a great effort, and driven away the
faces of Rita and Ni-ha-be.
Both of them would somehow come between his eyes and the paper of those
printed pages at first. Both of them were such nice, pretty,
well-behaved girls, and yet one of them was white, the daughter of his
friend Murray, and the other was only a poor little squaw of the
Apaches.
Murray picked up a magazine and sat down. "It will do for a sort of
medicine," he muttered. "I may learn something from it, too. The world
has changed a great deal since I have had newspapers or magazines to
read. There may be some new nations in it for all I know, and there
surely must be a new lot of Kings and Queens and Presidents, and all
that sort of thing."
It was that thought which made him turn over a little carelessly all the
illustrated articles and the stories until he came to the "news of the
month" among the Leaves at the end.
There he began actually to read and read closely, for it was all new to
him, although the magazine in question was several months old. There was
a good deal told in a short space, for the editor had condensed
everything into the fewest words possible.
At the same time, it must have been a remarkable news item that could
make a man of steady nerve bound suddenly to his feet, and hold that
magazine out at arm's-length.
"Why, Murray!" said Steve, "what can be the matter?"
"Matter? My dear boy, read that! Rita is an heiress."
"What?"
Steve certainly had good reason for thinking that his friend had lost
his wits, but he took the "Talking Leaves" held out to him, and read the
few lines to which Murray's finger pointed.
"The great English estate of Cranston Hall, with a baronetcy, is waiting
for an heir. The late baronet left no children, and his only brother, to
whom the title and all descend, was last heard of in America. He is
believed to have been interested in mining in the far West, and the
lawyers are hunting for him."
"Well," said Murray, when Steve ceased reading, "what do you think of
that?"
"I don't know exactly what to think. Your name is Murray."
"Robert Cranston Murray, as my father's was before me. It was because
he left me only my name that I left England to seek my fortune. Oh,
Steve, I must find my way back now! Rita will be the lady of Cranston
Hall."
"Instead of the squaw of some Apache horse-stealer."
Steve felt a little like dancing and a good deal like tossing up his hat
and venting his feelings by a good hurrah, but the next thought was a
sober one.
"How are we ever to get them to give up Rita?"
Murray was thinking the same thought just then, and it seemed to him as
if he must go out to the door of the lodge for a little breath of fresh
air. The chief and his councillors were nowhere to be seen, but there
was Mother Dolores by the camp fire. Murray tried hard to assume a calm
and steady face and voice as he strode forward and stood beside her. He
spoke to her in Spanish.
"Well, Dolores, which do you like best, cooking for Mexican miners or
for the great chief?"
[Illustration: "SHE DROPPED HER STEW-PAN AND STOOD LOOKING AT HIM."]
She dropped her stew-pan, and stood looking at him for a moment, drawing
her breath hard, and then she exclaimed:
"I was right. It is Señor Murray. Ah, señor, it is so long ago! The poor
señora--"
"Don't speak of her. I know. We found her. My Rita?"
"Yes, she is your Rita. But they will kill you if you tell them. I will
keep your secret, señor. I have kept it until now."
She had dimly recognized him, then, and she too had been in doubt what
to do or say. In answer to a few more questions she told him, very
truly, that she had been better off among the Apaches than before she
was captured. Less hard work, better treatment, better food, better
position, just about as much real civilization. Poor Dolores had never
known anything much better than the hard lot of a Mexican woman of the
lower class among the rough miners. It was better, she said, to be the
wife of a chief, and have plenty to eat and little hard work to do.
"But about Rita?"
"If you had your mine, now, and your great droves of horses--"
"What could I do?"
"Do, Señor Murray? Why, you could buy half the young squaws in the
village if you had husbands for them. But you are poor now. I suppose it
can not be done."
It was no wonder he had not thought of it before. It was so strange a
thing to propose. That a father should buy his daughter!
He turned from her and strode back to his own lodge to see what Steve
would say.
"He's a mere boy, but he seems to have a great deal of sense."
Steve's remark, after he had heard about Dolores and her idea, was
simply: "That's nothing new, is it? If we can't run away with her, we
can ransom her."
"Ransom? Well, now, that's a great deal better word than buy. But our
gold coin won't do. They won't take the whole pile for her. They don't
really understand the value of it."
"They want ponies and blankets and all that?"
"That's it. Why, Steve, it's the queerest thing. I'm so excited I can't
think. If we can make a bargain with them, they'll be glad enough to go
with us to the nearest trading post. We can buy all we want when we get
there. You've helped me out of my scrape."
"Seems to me it was easy enough to think of that."
It may have been, but Murray felt very grateful to Steve.
The latter now put down his magazine, and went to the door in his turn,
for he too had a large amount of thinking to do.
"Murray, they are taking down the lodges again."
"Going forward to-night, eh? I'm glad of that. I must spur old Many
Bears up to it. Don't want him to lose a day on the road."
"Nor I, either. They'll move slowly enough anyhow."
"Oh, they'll find a good place to leave the village, while the chiefs
and warriors go on to be present at the treaty talk."
"Suppose there isn't any?"
"There's pretty sure to be something of the kind at this season of the
year. Anyhow, we will get them to a place where we can buy ponies and
blankets, and we will have Rita with us."
Murray felt it very hard that he could not send for her at once, and
tell her all about his plans for her release. Yes, and about the
beautiful English home to which he meant to take her, away beyond the
great salt sea she had never seen.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: "Sleep, Baby, Sleep"]
[Illustration: SPRING AND FALL STYLES FOR BOYS.]
OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.
Come, dears, gather around the Postmistress, while she has a moment to
look at you, and let her see how many merry faces she can count in the
throng. There are some which are paler than they should be--little
Gustave's, for instance; but no wonder, for he has been very, very ill,
so that the house was all hushed on his account, and papa and mamma were
afraid they would have to say good-by to their darling boy. But God
answered their prayers, and now he is getting well fast, and soon will
be as strong as ever. Here is Phoebe, who sends her love, but does not
know how to write a letter. Never mind, dear; the love is the best part
of any letter, and you will learn all about the rest when you are older.
There are Kitty, Molly, Ted, Margaret, Frank, Bobby, and Jack, and ever
so many more. The Postmistress knows your names by heart, and is sure
she would know you if she happened to meet you on the way to school some
bright spring morning.
She wonders if you would be willing to share your luncheon with her, and
let her peep into your school-books. She doesn't wear spectacles, and
she hasn't seven-league boots, but her eyes are pretty sharp, and she
thinks she could walk as fast on her feet as Robin A. says he can on
stilts, and she would not need more than one glance at a girl's exercise
to know whether the little lady did her best,
Or did not work,
And tried to shirk.
And now for our letters, children.
* * * * *
WAYNE, ILLINOIS.
I am a little girl seven years old. I have a doll; her name is Amy.
My papa bought me some calico, and I am making her a dress, and
mamma says it is done nicely for the first one. Papa went to St.
Charles yesterday, and bought me some card-board and worsted, and I
think it will keep me busy for some time. I can work my name. I
hope my letter will be printed.
ALICE M. K.
* * * * *
We thank Miss L. C. for her kindness in sending us the nice little
budget of letters from her pupils. They were all of nearly equal merit,
and those children whose letters are not printed may be sure that we
liked them just as well as we did that of Allie D., which follows:
STATE CENTRE, IOWA.
Our reading class have been reading out of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
instead of our Readers this term, and I like it very much. In No.
114 was a very interesting article on the sponge, and for our
examination last month we had to write a composition on it. In No.
117 was a very interesting article on the cigarette. I think if
boys and men knew what is in cigars and cigarettes, they would not
smoke them. Just think of men and boys smoking cigars that are made
up of stubs that are found in gutters in large cities! I think some
of your puzzles are very interesting. I like the monogram puzzle
very much. You have had some very pretty illustrations in your
papers, especially the "Little Dreamer," which is pretty enough for
an oil-painting. I have not been very much interested in the
"Talking Leaves," because we did not have the first numbers; but we
are waiting very patiently for the next story by Mr. Otis.
ALLIE D.
* * * * *
PICTOU, NOVA SCOTIA.
I am a little boy living in Pictou, Nova Scotia, in the Dominion of
Canada. Papa takes your paper for me and sister Eliza, and we like
it immensely, as we hear some people say about anything they like
very much. It is now winter with us; we have a heavy fall of snow
on the ground, and it is banked up as high as the windows at our
house. The harbor is frozen over altogether down as far as the
light-house, about three miles from town, outside of which it
hardly ever freezes, but is open all winter. Some parts of our
harbor are three miles wide, other places one mile. The ice is now
about one foot thick, and carries horses and sleds with large loads
of coal. It is marked in many directions with long rows of trees
not very far apart, which were put into holes in the ice when it
was about four inches thick, and having frozen there, they stand
quite firmly. They are for guiding people on stormy days and
nights, when they can not see from shore to shore.
There are extensive coal mines about eight miles from us. Some of
them are very deep under-ground, but others are not, but the coal
is brought up a slope in wagons on wheels. I was up last winter,
and saw the men and boys that work in the mines. They were terribly
black with coal dust. Each of them carries a safety-lamp, which
gives but a feeble light in such dark places. I was up two winters
ago, and saw one of the places for myself. At one of the largest
mines, about two years ago, there was an explosion, which killed
forty men, and ruined the mine. It has never been worked since. For
days and days you could see great clouds of smoke rising toward the
skies from where we live. Our town is not large; there are only
4000 people in it. But we have some fine houses and public
buildings. We have a $20,000 brick and stone academy, with 200
students. We have a railway connecting us with other places in the
Dominion and the United States. My papa has travelled a good deal;
he has been in Boston several times, and in New York and
Philadelphia. He was at the Exhibition there in 1876. He thinks it
was a bigger show than Barnum's Circus, which was here some years
ago. I wish I could visit your great city, and see the East River
Bridge, and the elevated railway, and Broadway, and all the other
great sights.
WILLIE M. H.
* * * * *
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.
I don't believe that any of the subscribers of HARPER'S YOUNG
PEOPLE enjoy reading it more than I do, though I can not read much
for fear of hurting my eyes, so I read a little every day. When I
was sick papa read it to me, as I could not read it then. I wish
Mr. Otis would hurry, and give us the story he promised. I like
Jenny Wren, or "The Little Dolls' Dressmaker," the best of any
story in a long while. I have no little pets. Like a great many, I
go to school, and have to study my lessons quite hard to know them.
I received a very handsome album for advertisement cards Christmas.
I hope my letter will be printed. Mamma says it will not, and I
said it would; so please put it in the paper. I never wrote before.
CAMILLE P.
No doubt the girls will all laugh with pleasure, and the boys throw up
their caps with delight, when they see that Mr. Stubbs's Brother makes
his bow in this very number. We expect he will be rather more popular
than poor Mr. Stubbs, and that is saying a great deal. The story is very
bright and entertaining, and Mr. Otis could not write a dull one if he
tried, could he, children?
* * * * *
GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA.
I am eight years old, and papa writes for me what I say in this
letter. I have a doll, dressed in baby clothes, called Daisy. Mamma
knit a pretty afghan for her of pink and white. She goes to sleep
under it in her carriage. Mamma knit her a hammock. I have a larger
doll, who is Daisy's mamma; her name is Violet. She has a muff and
hat and shawl; the muff is made of cotton flannel, trimmed with
silk. My boy doll Ray is the baby's papa. The baby doll's aunt,
Doll Elsie, gave me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for a Christmas present.
EDNA.
* * * * *
SHREWSBURY, NEW JERSEY.
I am a little girl eight years old, and have taken your nice paper
for two years, and like it very much. This morning a dog came into
our shed, and we let him into our house; he was a beautiful dog,
with great long white silky hair, and great black spots over him;
his ears were just as black and silky as could be. You said to tell
about our pets and dolls, so I will. I have no pets except an old
puss, which I love dearly--his name is Jack--but I have a lovely
waxen doll with flaxen hair; her dress is of light blue satin and
plum-color mixed; it is trimmed with lace. My papa is a traveller,
and is away eight months a year; Please put this in the Post-office
Box.
ANNIE L. P.
* * * * *
A CURE FOR CROSS LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS.
One night we all were at the supper table. We were in a very bad
humor, and did not know what to do with ourselves, and in a minute
or two Aunt Sue said, "When we get up stairs we will have a
growling party." We thought that would be a very good plan, as our
aunts and grandma and mamma did not like noise at the table. So
after supper we went up to the little sitting-room, and mamma told
me to begin. I told them my collar was very stiff (to tell the
truth, when Aunt Sue said a "growling party," I thought we were
going to howl all the time). They all thought that was very funny,
and asked me what else. I said that was all. Then they asked my
sister Lucy what was the matter with her. She said she had the
toothache and ear-ache and headache. Then mamma said she had a
pain, and she might have something else. Then Aunt Sue said her
head hurt, and Aunt Nell said her feet hurt, and Aunt Bessie said
she had a sick headache. At last we began to laugh at so much
misery, and that put us in a good humor right away. Now, whenever
we are in a bad humor, we have a growling-party, for this is all a
true story.
HELEN D. F. (nine years old).
* * * * *
Please read Aunt Edna's letter, children. You will find it worth
thinking about, and we slip it in like a sandwich between your own
letters, instead of printing it in the column with the treasurer's
report about the Cot, because we want you to pay attention to what this
kind lady has to say.
TO MY DEAR LITTLE "COT" FRIENDS,--I want to write and tell you
something very funny about the "mite chest" in our ward. You
remember I told you I put one there; and last Ash-Wednesday--the
first day of Lent, as many of you know--I thought I would take out
what money was in it, so as to empty it again at Easter, when it
would all be Lenten offerings. Sister Catherine told me when I went
into the hospital that measles had broken out in our ward, and the
little children had all been taken out. Those with the measles were
put in a large room at the top of the house, so that they would be
away from the rest, and the others were taken to a ward across the
hall, and there I found Robert McGee, the little boy I told you of,
who was to be in our Cot _that is to be_. He was just as merry as
ever, and put his fat little legs out of the covers to show me how
nice and straight they looked. As the mite chest had not taken the
measles, I went into our ward to see how it was getting on. The
room was very still, windows wide open at either end, the little
beds unmade, with the mattresses turned over to air, and little red
flannel socks or wrappers hanging on the posts of each crib. The
only occupants of the ward were several large dolls, sitting
quietly in their chairs, and to judge from their pale faces, they
had not taken the measles. However, they did not seem to feel like
talking--perhaps they were lonely without their little
companions--so I left them, and went to our mite chest. As I took
it up, a few pennies rattled, but that was all. But still it seemed
to be full of something; so, looking closely, I found it was filled
with _little scraps of worsted_. Some little hand, I imagine,
thought the opening at the top looked inviting, so put in the
worsted, and no doubt thought it fine fun; but we who are older,
and know more, know very well that scraps of worsted won't endow
our Cot. So while we will not trouble these little ones who put
them there and enjoyed it, no doubt, as it helped to amuse and keep
them from fretting while sick, we will work all the harder; we who
can run, jump, and play heartily out-of-doors will try and think
more of these little ones, ill and suffering, many of whom will
never again be able to run, or play, but may have to suffer pain as
long as they live.
Now, my dear little friends, I want to ask you all--those who have
done so well thus far (and many of you have worked bravely)--not to
stop yet; and those who have not yet begun to help us, to do so at
once; for, remember we will have to do our share, and also the
share of the little ones who give us only _scraps of worsted_.
Hoping all will do their best; I must say good-by, with love from
AUNT EDNA.
NEW YORK, _March_, 1882.
* * * * *
OUR KNOWING JEFF.
My father has a dog named Jeff. Harry, our little brother, will
say, "Come, Jeff, take a ride." Jeff will jump into the wagon,
Harry will pin a shawl around him, and he will sit and ride until
Harry tires of drawing him. It is a comical sight to see those two
going about the garden, Jeff sitting straight up with a shawl on,
looking so patient.
Not long since Jeff had a sore foot. The first we knew of it he
would keep coming in to us and holding one foot up. Sister got a
pail of quite hot water, and put his foot in. He looked thankful
for having it done. After soaking it long enough, we put some
liniment on it, and bandaged it up. Thinking he was all right, we
went up to our rooms; but as soon as Jeff found we had gone, he
began to cry and whine dreadfully, so we came down and made him a
new bed, and covered him. After leaving him, we heard no more from
him that night.
For a week or more it was a comical sight to see him limp about the
house on three legs, but out-of-doors he would run on all fours
well enough. The very instant he entered the door, up would go one
foot, not always the same that had been sore--he seemed to forget
which one had been. We would say, "Jeff, that is not your lame
foot." He would look ashamed, and walk off, only to return and look
up at us; he would whine until spoken kindly to. Sometimes we
would shake his paw, when he would walk away perfectly satisfied.
ONE OF JEFF'S FRIENDS.
* * * * *
CUSTER CITY, PENNSYLVANIA.
Glad to see my other letter in a book--the print not so big as
mine, though. I sent it to Uncle Joe 'way off in California. He
wrote me a poetry postal when I was a little fellow only a month
old. That was ever so long 'go, but I have it yet; and some gold
sand and lumps and stones that came to me from him.
I got a valentine of two gooses; one has a eye-glass on.