Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 134. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, May 23, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: UNCLE DANIEL RECEIVING HIS GUESTS.]
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," ETC.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE DINNER PARTY.
But the time was passing rapidly, and as there were many persons outside
waiting for an opportunity to pay their money to see the various
attractions of the show, Mrs. Treat gave the signal for the
snake-charmer to begin. The entertainment, the skeleton explained, was
given as a mark of respect to their friend Toby Tyler.
This private exhibition lasted about fifteen minutes; and when, at its
close, the doors were thrown open to the public, the boys were not at
all anxious to leave.
"Let them stay as long as they want to, Toby," said the skeleton,
indulgently.
The boys were only too glad to avail themselves of this permission, and
Toby said to Abner:
"I want to see if I can find Ella, an' you stay here till I come back."
"I'll keep him right here by me," said Mrs. Treat, "and he'll he safe
enough."
Remembering how she had served Job Lord, Toby had no fears for the
safety of his friend. He went at once, therefore, to deliver the
invitation to the last of Aunt Olive's expected guests.
When, after some little time, Toby returned, the boys had satisfied
their curiosity so far as the side show was concerned, and all except
Abner had left the tent.
That Toby had found Ella was evident, as that young lady herself skipped
along by his side in the greatest possible delight at having met her
former riding companion; and that she had accepted his invitation to
dinner was shown by the scrupulous care with which she was dressed.
"It's time to go up to Uncle Dan'l's," Toby whispered to Mrs. Treat,
"an' Ben's harnessin' the hosses into your wagon, so you won't have to
go to the trouble of puttin' on your other clothes."
"I don't know as we ought to go up there in this rig," said Mrs. Treat,
doubtfully, as she looked down at her "show dress," made to display her
arms and neck to the greatest advantage, and then at her husband's
costume, which was as scanty as his body. "I wanted to dress up when we
went there, but I don't see how I'll get the chance to do it."
"I wouldn't bother, 'cause Uncle Dan'l will like you jest as well that
way, an' it will take you too long," said Toby, impatiently.
The skeleton, on being consulted as to the matter, decided to do as Toby
wished, because by adopting that course they would the sooner get the
dinner about which he had been thinking ever since he had received the
invitation.
But while Mrs. Treat was ready to believe that her costume might be
reasonably fit to wear to a dinner party, she was certain that something
more than tights and a pair of short red velvet trousers was necessary
for her husband.
Mr. Treat tried to argue with his much larger half, insisting that Uncle
Daniel would understand the matter; but his wife insisted so strongly,
and with such determination to have her own way, that he compromised by
adding to his scanty wardrobe a black frock-coat and a tall silk hat,
which gave him a rather more comical than distinguished appearance.
The audience were dismissed as soon as possible; Abner was helped into
the wagon, perfectly delighted at being allowed to ride in a circus van,
and the party started for Uncle Daniel's.
Toby sat on the box with Ben, to show him the way; and when the gaudily
painted cart stopped in front of the farm-house, it was much as if a
peacock had suddenly alighted amid a flock of demure hens.
Uncle Daniel was out in the yard to receive his strangely assorted
guests, and the greeting they received from both him and Aunt Olive was
as hearty as if they had been old acquaintances.
There was a look of calm satisfaction on the skeleton's face as the odor
of roast lamb mingled itself with Uncle Daniel's welcome when he
descended from the wagon; and as the company were ushered into the
"fore-room," the air of which was pungent with the odors of herbs used
to keep the moths from carpet and furniture, a restful feeling came over
them such as only those whose lives are dreary rounds of travelling can
feel.
Uncle Daniel insisted on taking care of the horses himself, for his idea
of the duties of host would not allow that Ben should help him, and
almost as soon as he had finished this work dinner was ready.
When all the guests were at the table, and Uncle Daniel bowed his head
to invoke a blessing on those who had befriended the fatherless, the
look of general discomfort old Ben had worn from the time he reached the
house passed away, and in its place came the peaceful look Toby had seen
on Sundays after the old driver had come from church.
It seemed to Toby that he had never really known Uncle Daniel before, so
jolly was he in his efforts to entertain his guests; and the manner in
which he portioned out the food, keeping the plates well filled all the
time, was in the highest degree pleasing to Mr. Treat.
Of course very much was said about the time when Toby was an unwilling
member of the circus, and Mrs. Treat and Ben told of the boy's
experiences in a way that brought many a blush to his cheeks. Mr. Treat
was too busy with Aunt Olive's lamb, as he affectionately spoke of it,
to be able to say anything. He was also wonderfully fortunate in not
choking himself but once, and that was such a trifling matter that it
was all over in a moment.
Old Ben told Toby that night, however, that Treat would not have got on
so well if his wife had not trodden on his toes frequently, as a hint to
eat more slowly.
Although Abner had spent several hours in the side show, it seemed as if
he would never tire of gazing at Mrs. Treat's enormous frame, and so
intently did he look at her that he missed a good chance of getting a
second piece of custard pie, though Toby nudged him several times to
intimate that he could have more as well as not.
Ben told a number of stories of circus life; Mrs. Treat related some of
her experiences in trying to prevent her husband from eating too fast;
Ella told Aunt Olive of the home she and her mother lived in during
winter; and the hour which had been devoted to this visit passed so
pleasantly that every one was sorry when it was ended.
"You've got a trim little farm here," said Ben to Uncle Daniel, when the
two went out to harness the horses; "an' I reckon that a man who has got
land enough to support him is fixed jest about as well as he can be. I
don't know of anything I'd rather be than a farmer, if I could only get
away from circus life."
"Whenever you want to leave that business," said Uncle Daniel, solemnly
and earnestly, "you come right here, and I'll show you the chance to
become a farmer."
"I'd like to," said Ben, with a sigh of regret that the matter seemed so
impossible; "but I've been with a circus now, man an' boy, goin' on
forty-one years, an' I s'pose I shall always be with one."
Then he changed the conversation, making an arrangement with Uncle
Daniel, for pasturing the ponies that were to be left behind, and by the
time the bargain was completed the horses were at the door.
While Uncle Daniel and old Ben had been at the stables, Mr. Treat had
been showing his liberality by giving Aunt Olive tickets for the side
show and circus, and inducing her to promise that she and Uncle Daniel
would see both shows. He had also given Toby fully a dozen circus
tickets for distribution among his friends; and then, as Uncle Daniel
entered, he said:
"I wish to express thanks--both for myself and my wife Lilly--for the
very kind manner in which you have entertained us to-day."
Before he could say anything more, the others came to say good-by, and
he was disappointed again. Aunt Olive kissed Ella several times, while
the parting with the others was almost as between old friends. Then the
guests started for the tent again, more than satisfied with their visit.
"Now, Toby, you look me up jest after the show is out this afternoon,
an' we'll fix it so's you shall have a chance to talk with Mr. Stubbs's
brother," said Ben, as they were driving along.
As a matter of course Toby promised to be there, and to bring Abner with
him.
"You said that little cripple had to live at the poor-farm, didn't you?"
asked Ben, after quite a long pause.
"Yes, an' it's cause he hain't got no father or mother, nor no Uncle
Dan'l like I've got," said Toby, sadly.
"Hain't he got any relations anywhere?"
"No; Uncle Dan'l said he didn't have a soul that he could go to."
"It must be kinder hard for him to live there alone, an' I don't s'pose
he'll ever be able to walk."
Toby was not at all certain whether or not Abner could ever be cured;
but he told the old driver what he knew of the lonely life the boy led.
Ben did not appear to hear what was said, for he was in one of his deep
studies, and seemed unconscious of everything except the fact that his
horses were going in the proper direction.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Toby," he said, after remaining silent
until they were nearly at the tent. "I hain't got a child or a chick in
the world, an' I'll take care of that boy."
Toby looked up in surprise, as he repeated, in a puzzled way,
"You'll take care of him?"
"I don't mean that I'll take hold an' tote him round, but he shall have
as much as he needs out of every dollar I get. I'll see your uncle
Dan'l, an' fix it somehow so he'll be taken out of the poor-house."
"Why, Ben, how good you are!" and Toby looked up at his friend with
sincere admiration imprinted on his face.
"It hain't 'cause I'm good, my lad; but if I didn't help that poor
fellow in some way, I'd see them big eyes an' that pale face of hisn
every night I rode on this box alone; so you see I only do it for the
sake of havin' peace," said Ben, with a forced laugh; and then he
stopped the horses at the rear of Mr. Treat's tent. "Now you jump down,
Toby, so's to see the skeleton don't break himself all to pieces gettin'
out, for I'm kinder 'fraid he will some day. I'd rather drive a hundred
monkeys than one sich slim man as him."
Then Ben had a fit of internal laughter, caused by his own remark, and
Uncle Daniel's guests were ready to resume their duties at the circus.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SOME DIAMOND STORIES.
BY ELLA RODMAN CHURCH.
Every one knows that the diamond is the hardest and most valuable of all
precious stones; but every one does not know why it is always said to
weigh so many _carats_. The _kirut_ is a small Indian seed, used in
India for weighing diamonds, and it weighs itself about four grains, so
that six carats are equal to a pennyweight.
The diamond mines of Golconda have been known all over the world for
hundreds of years; and the largest stone ever found in them is the
famous Koh-i-noor, or Mountain of Light, so called from its great size
and brilliancy, for it weighed _nine hundred carats_. A Venetian
diamond-cutter chipped away at it as though he had been sharpening a
pencil, because it was not even in shape--the idiot!--until he left only
two hundred and eighty carats of it. After being worn, it is said, for
thousands of years, by the monarchs of India, it came into the
possession of Queen Victoria; and it was again cut and polished, at an
expense of about forty thousand dollars. There are only one hundred and
twenty-three carats left of it now, but it is said to be worth seven
hundred thousand dollars.
A great many stories are told about this wonderful diamond; and if it
could only write its own history, the account would certainly be worth
reading. It belonged to many different princes of India, one of whom
would often take it by cheating, and even murder, from another; and this
happened among the rest:
"The King of Lahore having heard that the King of Cabool possessed a
diamond that had belonged to the Great Mogul, the largest and purest
known, he invited the fortunate owner to his court; and there, having
him in his power, demanded the diamond. The guest, however, had provided
himself against such a contingency with a perfect imitation of the
coveted jewel. After some show of resistance, he reluctantly acceded to
the wishes of his powerful host. The delight of Runjeet was extreme, but
of short duration, the lapidary to whom he gave orders to mount his new
acquisition pronouncing it to be merely a bit of crystal. The
mortification and rage of the despot were unbounded. He immediately
caused the palace of the King of Cabool to be invested and ransacked
from top to bottom. But for a long while all search was vain; at last a
slave betrayed the secret--the diamond was found concealed beneath a
heap of ashes."
The largest diamond now to be seen in the world belongs to a Rajah of
Borneo, and weighs three hundred and sixty-seven carats. It is shaped
like an egg, and is very pure and beautiful. For this three ounces of
diamond the owner once refused to take in exchange two large war vessels
completely equipped, and one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in
money!
The next largest is the Orloff, or Grand Russian, of one hundred and
ninety-three carats, which also has quite a history. It belonged first
to the Great Mogul, and then to Nadir, the Shah of Persia, who was
assassinated in 1747. At his death the great diamond disappeared, and no
one could tell what had become of it, until many years afterward it was
offered for sale in the city of Amsterdam. No one there could afford
such an expensive ornament, which was fit only for royalty, and the
English and Russian governments both tried to get possession of it. The
Empress Catherine came off conqueror, her agent, Count Orloff, paying
for it four hundred and fifty thousand rubles in cash, and a grant of
Russian nobility. This diamond, although not perfect in shape, is of
wonderful clearness and lustre, and as large as a pigeon's egg.
A Frenchman named Tavernier visited the mines of Golconda as long ago as
1677, and was much interested in watching the finding and sale of
diamonds. The laborers who search for them have to be closely watched,
as they will secrete valuable ones in the most ingenious ways, even
swallowing them, and one miner hid a stone of two carats in the corner
of his eye.
This traveller describes a group of boy traders who assembled every
morning under a large tree in the middle of a village near the mines to
wait for people with diamonds to sell. The boys were from ten to sixteen
years old, and each one had his diamond weight in a bag on one side of
his girdle, and a purse with considerable money in it on the other. When
a diamond is offered, it is handed to the eldest boy, who examines it
carefully, and passes it to his neighbor, who does the same, and hands
it to the next, and so on through the group. It then returns to the head
of the little band, who makes the bargain for it. If the others think he
has given too much for it, he has to keep the stone on his own account.
In the evening the diamonds bought during the day are classed according
to their size and purity, and the prices affixed which they are thought
to be worth; the children return with them to their masters, and receive
a good share of the profits, the head boy getting one-fourth more than
the others.
[Illustration: SOMEBODY IS COMING.]
THE MOUNTAIN DWARF.
BY ANNIE L. BELCHER.
You all know the old proverb, "Those who live in glass houses should not
throw stones"? Well, I am going to tell you a story about it.
Years ago there stood a beautiful castle on the summit of a mountain. It
had many towers and many wings, and was built entirely of glass. It
stood in the midst of a garden brilliant with unknown flowers, and
filled with trees weighted down with strange delicious fruits.
People from various parts of the world came to see this wonderful
garden, with its glass palace, and strange birds and fruits and flowers;
and not the least strange part about it was its master, christened, by
order of the Mountain King, the Mountain Dwarf. He was an odd, grotesque
little creature, with thin, crooked legs, and a sharp shrewd face set in
a mass of yellow hair. He wore costly satins and velvets, and all his
garments were trimmed with wee silver bells that kept up a perpetual
jingling that seemed impertinently to assert their master's supremacy
over all the world. It pleased this curious little man to build himself
a glass castle. He liked that men should watch him dine from golden
plates, and drink rare wine from diamond goblets. Admiration was to him
the breath of life, and he was most happy when his neighbors were most
envious. He laughed aloud when strangers, toiling up the hill, were
forced to shield their eyes from the dazzling glare of the sun shining
on his palace.
Half-way between the summit of this mountain and the pretty village at
its foot stood a miner's settlement--a pitiful collection of log-huts so
rudely put together that they kept out neither snow nor rain. In these
huts lived the families of the men who toiled night and day in the mine
underneath the hill. It was these half-starved, hard-worked men that
made the money that enabled the Mountain Dwarf to live like a Mountain
King. But little thought he of the poor wretches underneath his feet,
save that their settlement was an eyesore, and must be destroyed. He
denied their right to homes and families. Those uneducated machines,
men! They were lower than the brutes, and but fit to live in mines. He
had no thought of helping them to a higher life; he only wished to push
them lower.
Every evening after sunset the Mountain Dwarf would wrap himself in his
sable cloak, and walk down to the miners' homes, followed by a retinue
of servants. At the first sound of the tinkling bells, women and
children would rush from the huts and hide themselves in the forest.
One night he stood alternately gazing on the wretched hovels beside him
and the castle on the hill. As he looked, his rage escaped all bounds.
"Down with that rubbish!" he shrieked, pointing to the settlement. "They
have disgraced me enough. Strangers have to pass this to see my palace.
Down with these huts!"
"But the miners and their wives and children!" ventured the boldest of
the servants.
The Mountain Dwarf looked at the man with his small cruel eyes. "Ha!
ha!" he yelled. "You dare defend them. Good! We will send you to the
mines and work you hard. Now let every man take a stone and let him aim
it well."
All the servants trembled, and the poor fellow who had pleaded for the
miners fell on his knees with loud sobs. But not one man stooped to
raise a stone.
"What!" thundered the Dwarf. "You dare defy me! Then I'll stone them
down myself. Their ugly huts have stood in sight of my castle long
enough."
With fiendish glee he danced from hut to hut, hurling stones that giants
could barely move as though they were but pebbles, until not one log was
left upon another. Then he clapped his hands and snapped his fingers in
the air, and led the servants home. The Mountain Dwarf was in an ecstasy
of delight, and roared with laughter, when the women and children crept
timidly from the woods and sobbed over their ruined homes.
When the moon was at its full, and the castle lay shimmering in its
yellow light with the pale soft tints of an opal, a long still line of
men crept up the hill and through the beautiful gardens, close up to the
castle walls. Their faces were fierce yet quiet, as though some great
purpose was controlling their actions, and behind them some little
distance came the women and children that had wept over the fallen
settlement. They could see the Mountain Dwarf on his silver bed with its
silken draperies, and even in sleep his lips wore the sneering smile of
triumph they had worn a few hours earlier. The men looked from the bed
to the stones in their hands, and then at one another.
"It is time," said a low voice, and every right arm stretched itself up
and backward and flung a stone. There was a terrible crash.
"Again!" said the same low voice, and again with military precision the
right hands went up and back, and the stones flew, and again came that
terrible crash.
The Mountain Dwarf, stunned and bruised and bleeding, raised himself in
his bed.
"Who is it?" he moaned feebly.
"The miners," came back in a terrible shout.
"Ah me!" he gasped. "Those who live in glass houses should not throw
stones." They were his last words, and they have grown into a proverb.
"PETER."
BY EDWARD I. STEVENSON.
American boys and girls whose delight in looking at Jumbo and his
celebrated legs may have been clouded by remembering how many of the
little English cousins across the sea were lamenting the tall old
elephant's absence will be glad to know that a new pet has already been
found to take Jumbo's place.
[Illustration: PETER, THE BABOON, AT THE "ZOO."]
They are flocking by hundreds daily to the Zoological Gardens, where
once Jumbo reigned and carried them trumpeting upon his broad back, to
be introduced to Peter--a splendid specimen of the "Chacma" baboon,
whose sparkling countenance and symmetrical shape our artist has here
pictured for the benefit of the readers of the YOUNG PEOPLE.
Peter came originally from South Africa on a war ship with his master, a
British officer, who lately turned his monkeyship over to the "Zoo." It
is disagreeable to state that his owner did so to get rid of him--he was
fast growing too mischievous to be endured on shipboard. I fear Peter
is, in truth, no model for the other monkeys in the Gardens. He steals;
he bites; he loves to tear up anything he can once fasten his fingers
upon. All this is very sad to learn. Possibly Mr. Barnum will see that
he ought to be taught to be a good and happy monkey, and feel bound to
buy him for America next year. Travel is so improving to the manners.
Peter has recently had a curious experience. Did any of you ever hear of
a monkey who had the toothache, and who took chloroform to get rid of
it? Such was Peter's fortune. Day after day the poor fellow sat in one
corner of his roomy cage holding his paw close to his cheek. His
friends, the children with their mothers and fathers and nurses, stood
around pitying him and longing to help him, but in vain.
Peter's jaw began to swell terribly. At length his sufferings came to
the point where his keepers said that the cause of all his woe, an
aching molar tooth, must be drawn, or the poor fellow would die, for he
refused to eat, and seemed to become each day weaker and more dejected.
Suddenly a London gentleman, Mr. Hammond, came to the conclusion that he
could extract the ailing tooth and save the pet's life.
Peter's illness had made him exceedingly afraid of any strangers--quite
as cross, in fact, as a good many of my small readers are when they have
the toothache. Mr. Hammond and his assistants, however, entered the cage
and politely presented Peter with a nice linen handkerchief well soaked
in chloroform.
Peter warily took it, examined it attentively, and presently
proceeded--not to smell of it at all, but to calmly lick off all the
chloroform with much pleasure. Chloroform must be smelled to best take
effect, not swallowed. The handkerchief was prepared again, and again
offered. A second time did the red tongue make its appearance and spoil
Mr. Hammond's kind designs, and indeed for nearly half an hour did Peter
cunningly get the best of his friends by licking up the chloroform.
Finally, however, the liquid began to take effect upon him. Peter's
bright eyes grew dim, his head drooped. The handkerchief was held
tightly to his nose, and suddenly he tumbled over sound asleep, able to
undergo any operation without feeling it.
Now was the time for Mr. Hammond. The forceps (ugh!) were produced, and
after some quick but careful work the tooth was drawn from the
unconscious sleeper's jaw, safely, and without rousing him. By-and-by
its owner awoke. He seemed wonderfully relieved immediately, but also
somewhat dazed and puzzled to find out what had been done to him. At
length he settled down comfortably in a corner of his cage to think
about it, and recover his spirits. He was quite too proud to ask
questions. I doubt if he has discovered yet just what was done to him,
although with that broad forehead of his he must be a monkey with a good
deal of mind.
And really is he not a striking-looking stranger. Just notice his bold
glance and the dignified position, which at once show him to be a monkey
of great force of character, as well as easy manners. And how modest
and retiring too, to judge from the graceful way in which he has tucked
his handsome tail away in the straw.
Poor Peter, exiled from his hot South African jungles and woods, what
strange scenes he might describe could he only succeed in acquiring a
proper English accent!--of dense boundless forests, lashed into a sea of
waving boughs at night by hurricanes and tornadoes; of calm moonlight
evenings by blue lakes rippled with silver, where the lion comes down
like a great stealthy cat to drink and meet a friend for a hunting
excursion; and of Mrs. Peter (only that is not her married name), who
may be wondering all this time why her husband ran away and left her.
But there he is, safe in the great London Zoological Gardens, and there
he is likely to remain as long as he lives, unless, as I have already
suggested, Mr. Barnum buys him and brings him over to America.
THE CHILDREN'S JOURNEY.
A REMINISCENCE OF SOUTHERN AUSTRIA.
BY DAVID KER.
There are few stranger places in the world than the hilly region around
the head of the Gulf of Venice, and few stranger people than the Slovaks
who inhabit it. Almost within sight of busy, bustling, populous Trieste,
with its bristling masts, and crowded quays, and rattling carriages, and
smart modern hotels, you come suddenly upon a district dotted with
quaint little antique villages that seem to have been dropped by Santa
Claus out of his basket of toys--villages which might well have Rip Van
Winkle for chief magistrate, and the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus for
tenants.
Up here on these warm dreary hill-sides, far from the busy world below,
no one ever seems to be in a hurry, to get angry, or to excite himself
in any way. The heavy wagons that creep along the broad white dusty road
seem to go or not as they please, their "drivers" being usually fast
asleep inside them. These four or five sallow, bearded, low-browed
peasants in gray frocks and high boots, who are munching their black
bread and garlic in the shade of yonder tree, instead of chattering and
laughing like their Italian neighbors of the valley, are silent as
statues. This meek little church of crumbling stone was built before the
Turks entered Constantinople, and the language of its builders is spoken
here still.
So completely, indeed, does the whole of this strange region reproduce
what the world was centuries ago that I feel quite out of place as I
look out at it through the window of a modern railway car, and hear a
call for "tickets" in the midst of the enchanted ground. But even the
railway itself seems to have borrowed something of the character of its
surroundings. For a whole hour we zig-zag at a creeping pace up a
seemingly endless succession of terraced ridges crowned with dark clumps
of thicket. Suddenly two or three beautiful little patches of green
sunny vineyard peep out at us from between two huge black cliffs, down
one of which, like a fly walking on a wall, comes a sturdy peasant,
brown and shapely as a bronze statue, showing all his splendid teeth in
a grin of indulgent contempt at sight of the crawling train. The faint
tinkle of a bell makes me look up to see a herd of goats feeding high
above my head, while the next moment I catch sight of a little red-tiled
cottage tucked away in the cleft of a rock as if playing hide-and-seek.
At length our train struggles up to the summit of the mountain with a
shrill whistle of triumph. We thrust our heads out of the window to see
where we have got to, when, lo! right under our feet lie the clustering
white houses, and shining church domes, and countless masts, and bright
blue waters of Trieste which we left behind more than an hour ago, as if
bound by the same spell which kept poor Christoval tramping round and
round the church all night, thinking he was going straight home.
But at this point a new turn is given to my thoughts by the sudden
entrance of a group as picturesque as any painter could wish: three
children--a bright-eyed little fairy of eight, with cheeks as round and
rosy as the apple which she is eating, a sturdy boy of eleven, whose
sunburned face is browner than his flat leather cap, and a tall, slim,
golden-haired girl about a year older, taking charge of the other two in
a protecting, motherly way which is simply irresistible.
But the first glance shows me that their journey, whatever its object
may be, is one of no ordinary importance to themselves. All three have a
grave, preoccupied look, the elder girl especially. Instead of prattling
merrily, laughing, shouting, and pointing out passing objects to each
other, as children usually do on a railway journey, they sit close
together in a corner, and talk in whispers.
Even the grand scenery through which we pass, new as it evidently is to
them, seems quite unheeded. Frowning precipices; sombre pine woods;
black, tomb-like gorges; rock ledges just wide enough for the train
itself; over-hanging water-falls which go leaping and foaming from crag
to crag down a seemingly endless descent; queer little painted wooden
station-houses, placarded with regulations in Italian, German, and
Slovak; brawny peasant women, with their hard sallow faces framed in
scarlet kerchiefs, waving signal flags on the very verge of the
precipice--go by without remark.
The illustrated journal which I contrive to let fall as if by accident
on the seat nearest to them remains equally unnoticed for awhile. But at
length I see the younger girl's eyes beginning to turn that way.
Presently she slips off her seat, and sidles up to the tempting paper;
and then, having satisfied herself that I was not looking at her, she
seizes it in her plump little hands, and is soon deep in one of the
greatest enjoyments of childhood--"looking over a whole lot of
pictures."
But as we approach St. Peter's the other two children become visibly
restless and excited, looking constantly out of the window as if
watching for something which they are eager to see. Even the little
student of my paper, with whom I have struck up a conversation in
German, soon forsakes me to join the watch; and I hear the boy mutter
disconsolately:
"Why _don't_ the train go quicker? We shall never get there!"
Can they be bound on a picnic? think I; but they look far too grave and
troubled for that. Are they going home from school? but who would think
of living in a desolate place like this? I am still puzzling over the
riddle, when my little rosy-cheeked friend, after looking doubtfully at
me once or twice, as if uncertain whether to speak or not, startles me
with a very unexpected question:
"Please, when anybody grows blind, not from a blow or anything like
that, but just with something growing over their eyes, can they be made
well again?"
"Very often they can, when they have a good doctor; but why do you ask?"
And then the whole story comes out. Their father, a retired Austrian
officer, has become blind from cataract; and a famous German oculist, an
old friend of his, has taken him away to a country house among the hills
between St. Peter's and Adelsberg, in the hope of restoring his sight by
an operation.
"And it was to be done last night," says Theresa, the elder girl, "and
papa was to start home this morning. But we _couldn't_ wait until he
came, and he wouldn't be able to send us a message; so we got leave from
aunt to come and meet him ourselves, as she wasn't well enough to go
with us. He's sure to be at St. Peter's station, when we get there."
"And his eyes will be quite well again--I'm _sure_ they will!" cries
little Katrina, eagerly. "Dr. Ulrich is so clever, and he's cured so
many people, and papa's such a friend of his. I'm sure he'll cure him
too."
"I hope he will, indeed," says her brother, earnestly. "Poor papa! it's
so horrid to see a great strong man like him led about just like a baby,
and not able to read any stories, or watch his flowers coming up so
nicely, after taking all that trouble with them! I _will_ give a shout
if he's really cured."
"There's the station!" cried Theresa, almost throwing herself through
the window in her eagerness, "and there's a man standing on the platform
all by himself. Can that be papa?"
A whistle, a clank, a long creaking groan, and the train comes to a
stand-still. But almost before it has stopped, the door flies open, and
the next moment I see the children banging in a cluster upon a tall,
fine-looking man with a thick gray mustache, while three voices shout,
joyfully,
"Papa! papa! you _see_?"
"Yes, dears, I see, thank God!" says the old soldier, fervently; "and
when the doctor was going to begin, I laid your portraits beside my
chair, that they might be the first thing I saw."
There were not four happier people, I will answer for it, in all Austria
that day; and the remembrance of that meeting is still among the
brightest of my travelling recollections.
THE VICTIMS OF THE ARCTIC SEAS.
BY SHERWOOD RYSE.
On the evening of the 9th of May, thirty graduates of the school-ship
_St. Marys_, and one hundred of the present pupils, were gathered
together on the gun-deck of that vessel. Finely built, robust-looking
lads were these last, of the stuff that good sailors are made of; and as
they lounged in easy and careless attitudes upon and about the guns,
they made a picture that gave assurance that the rising generation of
our sailors will be no disgrace to those who have gone before them. It
was easy to see from the manner of the boys and their expectant looks
that they had been called together for no ordinary purpose. They had met
to do honor to a noble officer, who is among the latest and most
lamented victims of those dread arctic seas, the mysteries of which so
many gallant men have striven to solve.
During the years 1876, 1877, and 1878 Commander De Long had been
executive officer of the school-ship, and his memory was revered as the
memory of noble men always is. What wonder, then, that when the news, so
long expected, yet so lovingly dreaded, reached them, his former pupils
were anxious to do him such honor as their regard and affection
suggested?
And who was this noble Commander, and what were his services?
George Washington De Long entered the navy in the year 1865, when he was
twenty-one years old. In 1873 he was second in command on the _Juniata_,
a ship that accompanied the _Polaris_ arctic expedition, in which he
performed distinguished services. When, therefore, the liberality of a
private citizen fitted out another expedition for arctic exploration,
this young officer was chosen to take the command of the perilous
undertaking.
The _Jeannette_--a name that will never be forgotten while history
records the deeds of brave men--sailed from San Francisco on July 8,
1879, with a crew of thirty-three men all told. About the end of
September the party had really entered upon the dangers and difficulties
of arctic exploration. They were in the midst of great fields of ice,
which drifted with the varying winds and currents, so that, although the
ship was itself inactive, it was carried over great distances. On
November 10, daylight disappeared, and a long night--a night that was to
last for nearly three months--set in. In spite of their desolate
situation, the gallant crew kept up their spirits, engaging in
theatrical performances, and trying to brighten the gloom of an arctic
winter by their cheerfulness.
In January, however, the ship sprang a leak, and all hands were kept
busy at the pumps to keep the water down, and for eighteen months the
pumps never ceased working. At last, however, the fight could be kept up
no longer. On June 13, the _Jeannette_ sank, and the crew were left
encamped upon the ice, with no other hope of return than that which
their three boats afforded.
Thus left almost destitute, Commander De Long had no other course open
to him than to retreat. And what a gallant movement that was!
The three boats were two cutters and a whale-boat. The first, commanded
by De Long, was twenty feet in length, and carried fourteen persons; the
second, under Lieutenant Chipp, measured sixteen feet, and carried eight
persons, and the whale-boat, which was larger than either of the others,
being twenty-five feet long, was accompanied by eleven persons, under
command of Engineer Melville. But though they had the boats, the gallant
party could not launch them. They were in the midst of a sea, indeed,
but it was a sea of solid ice, and for weeks the boats did not touch
water, except for a short ferriage here and there where a break in the
ice left a narrow strip of open sea. The boats were placed upon rudely
built sleds, and for fifty-three weary days the resolute men dragged
them over the ice. Some days they would make a mile; on others scarcely
more than half that distance. Great hillocks of ice were to be
surmounted, and cracks to be crossed, nearly every one of these being so
wide that the sleds had to be let down into them and then hauled up on
the other side.
Nor were these the only hardships that the retreating band had to
encounter. The cold was intense, as may be imagined. Short rations and
their fearful labor had reduced the strength of the men, so that
one-quarter of the whole party had to be carried helpless on sleds,
while almost all were suffering either from frost-bite or from the
effect of the glare of the ice upon their eyes.
At last the retreating company reached comparatively open water. The
boats were launched, and the party set sail for what they hoped would be
a milder climate and a more hospitable shore.
Now, however, the perils by which they had been beset were increased.
The cold was still as great as that which they had previously
encountered, and it made itself more intensely felt now that the men
were confined within the limits of small boats, and deprived of the
active exercise which alone had kept the warmth in their bodies. The
food supply was running so short that but scanty fare could be allowed,
and the danger of drowning was added to that of perishing by cold and
hunger.
For a few days all went fairly well, but during a gale that arose in the
night the boats became separated, and in the morning the company on
board the whale-boat scanned the dreary waters in vain for the sails of
the boats manned by the crews of Commander De Long and Lieutenant Chipp.
Engineer Melville's boat touched land on the delta of the Lena--a river
which, flowing northward through Siberia, discharges itself into the
arctic seas. Here the boat's crew met with hospitable treatment by the
natives of those bleak and barren shores, and were all saved.
Not so, however, the occupants of the two cutters. Lieutenant Chipp's
boat has not since been heard of. It was a smaller boat than either of
the others, and though commanded by a young officer who enjoyed in an
unusual degree the confidence and love of his men, it is not probable
that he was able to bring his crew to a place of safety, even though he
succeeded in making the land.
[Illustration: THE BOYS OF THE "ST. MARYS" LISTENING TO THE STORY OF
THEIR OLD COMMANDER'S DEATH.]
The sad story of the fate of De Long and his companions was told several
months later by two seamen, named Noros and Ninderman, both of whom had
served on board the _St. Marys_ school-ship.
On September 13, Captain De Long's boat, although its mast had been
carried away, got within two miles of the Siberian coast, when it struck
ground, and the Captain ordered the men to get into the water so as to
lighten the load, and tow the boat ashore. Only half of the distance,
however, had been traversed when it was found to be impossible to bring
the boat nearer, and so they collected the food, arms, ammunition, and
papers, and waded ashore.
Having rested for two days, the party started southward, each man
carrying heavy burdens, though all but the most important articles had
been abandoned. In the first ten days' march the travellers made no more
than twenty miles, so difficult was the country; but during those days
they enjoyed the luxury of a meal of deer's flesh, which, but for the
crippled condition of several of the men, would have put new life into
the whole party.
Then Captain De Long determined to send Ninderman and Noros ahead, for
they were in better condition than any others of the party, and when
they left on their perilous mission they bade a sad farewell to a
gallant yet almost hopeless band of men, whom no one ever saw again
until, nearly six months later, Mr. Melville found their dead bodies.
"The Captain," says Noros, "read divine service before we left. All the
men shook hands with us, and Collins, as if knowing that their doom was
sealed, said, simply, 'Noros, when you get to New York, remember me.'
They seemed to have lost hope, but as we left, they gave us three
cheers. That was the last we saw of them."
Wholly without food, for the supply they had saved from the boat was
exhausted, and the fresh meat which had been procured was soon consumed,
the two brave seamen pushed on. They supported life by chewing their
leather moccasins and breeches, and after a few days they came upon two
deserted huts, in which they found some mouldy fish, which they ate with
relish. Here in these huts they rested for three days, when a native
found them; but they were unable to make him understand that they had
left eleven starving comrades behind.
At length the Governor of the Province, who lived at a town called
Bulun, arrived, but he did not understand their sign-language, and so he
sent no aid. He cared for the two seamen, however, and sent them to
Bulun, and there it was that they fell in with Engineer Melville, whose
boat's crew were by this time in safety. Melville at once started out in
search of the ill-fated crew, and the result of his search was told
briefly in a dispatch, dated March 24, and received in New York on May
6: "I have found De Long and his party: all dead."
Thus ends the first chapter of this melancholy story of arctic peril.
The last chapter may never be told, and the fate of Lieutenant Chipp and
his crew never revealed.
The names of De Long and his brave associates will live in history, and
generations of sailors will be incited by the memorial tablet which is
to be erected on board the _St. Marys_ school-ship to follow in the path
that these gallant men followed to their death; for that path, though
stern and rugged, was the path of duty.
[Illustration: "IN A THOUSAND TERRORS."--FROM THE PAINTING BY L.
KNAUS.]
APPLE BLOSSOMS.
BY MARY D. BRINE.
Out in the orchard dwell wee little fairies,
Busy with bud and with blossom at last.
See how they work with their palettes and brushes,
Tinting the apple-trees brightly and fast.
Pink and white blossoms, so dainty and fragrant,
Laden with promise of good things to come,
Softly the breezes are stealing their perfume,
While o'er their beauty the busy bees hum.
Fair are the treasures which come with the spring-time,
Fields full of daisies, and grasses so green,
Sweet are the zephyrs from rose gardens blowing,
Lovely the earth in the sun's golden sheen.
But out in the orchard amid the white blossoms,
The pink and white blossoms that garland the trees,
We find the best charm of the beautiful spring-time,
And welcome the touch of the sweet-scented breeze.
THE BOYS' TEA PARTY.
BY S. C. MORRISON.
When ten boys and girls live in one house, they can have a great deal of
fun. This was the case at Mr. Stanley's, where there were six girls and
four boys; only the boys sometimes felt a little injured that the girls
should have the majority.
But next door, at Mr. Fleming's, there were seven boys and only one
girl; so when the Stanley boys wanted a refuge from feminine oppression,
they had only to climb the fence, and join forces with the Flemings, and
at once they had a majority in their favor.
Not that they had any real cause of complaint. Everything that could
make them comfortable and happy was provided for them by their father
and Aunt Sue. Aunt Sue!--that name suggests their grievances. For two
years before Aunt Sue came to take charge of the Stanley boys and girls
they had had a housekeeper who let them do pretty much as they pleased.
She allowed them to eat pies, puddings, cakes, and sweetmeats until they
cared for nothing else.
Aunt Sue instituted a new state of affairs. They must learn to eat
vegetables for the sake of their health.
Now don't suppose that they never had cake, or that Aunt Sue was at all
unreasonable. But when boys make no distinction between cake and bread
except to give the former the preference, it is difficult to fill their
orders.
It is remarkable how boys always know when cake-baking is going on. They
seem to scent it in the air. At first Aunt Sue tried to escape by
springing baking day at odd times. But it was no use. One or other of
them was sure to happen in, and then in some miraculous way the other
boys would come trooping in like the Northern barbarians at a Roman
harvest-time.
Then Aunt Sue tried a new plan. Wednesdays and Saturdays were announced
as regular baking days, and each boy was to be entitled on the spot to
one cake out of every pan of ginger-snaps or other small cakes that were
baked. Four cakes to a panful was no light tax to levy, but the boys
were rigorously exacting, and woe to the boy who failed to be present;
His cake was confiscated, immediately, and gobbled up by the reigning
powers, after the manner of the partition of Poland.
When a soft cake was to be cut at table it was an understood thing that
those rapacious boys should have the "corner pieces." The only wonder
was that no amount of cake ever seemed to make these boys sick. The fact
was so amazing that Aunt Sue pronounced it "just miraculous."
It so happened that during the spring, just about house-cleaning time,
the boys had been two weeks without cake. They had been out one day
playing base-ball, and were coming home to supper cold and hungry. They
discussed the afternoon's fun until there seemed nothing more to say
about it, and after a little silence one of them revealed the subject of
his thoughts by the grumbling remark:
"I hope Aunt Sue will manage to have some cake for supper. It is an age
since we had any."
"She is getting awfully stingy with it, anyhow," said Bob. "The piece I
had last night was hardly big enough to taste."
"I never get more than a taste except at Christmas," said John.
"See here, boys," cried Tom Fleming, "I have thought of something. Let's
have a party, and bake the cake ourselves."
This brilliant idea was so new as to be somewhat startling; but after
the first shock was over, most of them entered into the plan eagerly.
The older boys were dubious. "How can we? Aunt Sue would never consent,
and your mother never lets us come near the kitchen."
"Have it in my room," said Tom, hospitably, "and keep dark about it."
That seemed feasible; for his out-of-the-way room in the top story had
often been the scene of their revels.
"But the cooking?"
"I will make a fire in the fire-place. I have often done a little in the
cooking line there; made bullets, and boiled paste, you know."
It was then arranged that the Flemings, being hosts, should provide
fuel, lights, and utensils; and the Stanleys, who were posted in pastry,
should provide materials for the cake.
"All right," said Tom. "We will do our share. But if we engage to get
the milk and eggs, don't you think you fellows might scare up the flour
and molasses?"
The Stanleys thought they could; and the time was set for the next night
but one, to allow ample time for preparation.
"I tell you what, Dick," said Bob, suddenly sitting up in bed that
night, "if I could only get a chance to speak to the milkman, I could
order an extra lot of milk."
"Well, get up in time to take the milk to-morrow. It won't be any colder
than sitting up in bed now, and there is no use in cooling us both off."
It seemed an important though painful step to take, so it was determined
on. But, alas! the morning the milk was to be delivered, the boys both
overslept the hour. Some one else took the milk, and refused to take the
double quantity.
Dick waited until after tea to go up the street for his eggs, so as to
carry them directly to the rendezvous. As the party was to be kept a
profound secret from everybody, he thought best to put the eggs in his
pockets. He did this very carefully, knowing the frail nature of eggs as
well as any one.