[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 78. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, April 26, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SHAD-FISHING ON THE HUDSON.]
HOW THE SEINE NET WAS BROKEN.
BY J. O. DAVIDSON.
"Why, Joe, is that you? Where have you been all day?" asked Ralph
Hadley, as he met Joe Manson turning into Hillside Lane.
"I've been to see the rabbit-warren at the goat-house up Hook Mountain
road," replied Joe.
"Hello! here comes Scott Otis, with his fish-basket. Wonder what he's
after now? Can't be going over to the lake this time in the afternoon."
"Where are you going, Scott?" asked the boys.
"Shaddin'," answered Scott.
"Are you going to haul the seine?" inquired Joe.
"Yes, if the wind goes down, about five o'clock or thereabouts."
"Let's go see them!" exclaimed Joe.
"All right, I'm with you," replied Ralph; and the two boys trudged
joyfully along beside Scott, asking many questions as they went.
Down through winding lanes they went, over fences and across lots, and
emerged on a broad, open space, commanding a fine view of the Tappan
Sea, which was dotted here and there by the bright sails of
fishing-smacks and schooners, bathed in the warm afternoon sunlight.
"There they are at work already, getting the seine out," called Ralph,
pointing down to the shore, where a group of figures were moving about
among the boats.
Down at the water-side was a busy scene. The stony beach was covered
with figures and boats. Old fishermen in brown oil-skin suits hurried by
with coils of rope and oars slung over their shoulders, while others
were preparing the boats, and some were watching for shad signs on the
river's surface.
A few paces from the shore stood a machine called a reel. It looked like
a huge four-spoked wheel, and from it some men were unwinding the seine
net, and stowing it in two large boats.
Near it, under the willows, two old fishermen were engaged in mending
some badly torn nets. The boys wondered how they could with their hard
horny hands do such delicate knotting and splicing.
"Why, sister Minnie's crochet-work isn't any finer than this!" exclaimed
Ralph, examining some of the strands. "I could never learn to do that."
"Oh yes, my boy," replied one of the fishermen, kindly. "If you had
worked at it, like me, for over twenty years, I doubt not you would do
it just as well."
"What's the matter now?" inquired Joe, as several men ran past them.
"Shad signs, sah," replied a darky. "There they go after them!" and from
a distance up the shore two large boats put off, and rowed slowly out
into the river. "And here comes a boat from picking de gill-nets out
yonder."
"What are gill-nets?" inquired the boys, determined to know all about
it.
"Dey am nets fastened to poles in shallow water, and de shad, swimmin'
along, gits deir heads through easy enough, but when dey tries to back
out ag'in, find demselves caught wid de mesh behind de gills."
"Let's go up and see them," said Joe.
"Better stay here, sah," advised the darky. "Dey'll land hereabouts, and
you'll have all de walk for nuffin. You see, sah, de tide am slack now,
but 'twill ebb presently, and by de time dey gets 'em surrounded dey'll
drift about to dis p'int, den we'll see 'em come asho'. Now, you see,
dey have drapped de nets; dey am outside ob de school; one boat goes
round 'em on one side, and de other goes de other way. See! de nets am
all drapped, and de big boat am pullin' dis way wid de shore-line."
In a few minutes the boat grounded, and the men, tossing in their oars,
jumped ashore, and laying hold of the ropes, commenced "pulling in." The
cork floats could be seen extending away out into the river like a great
semi-circle, the upper end of which was also being dragged ashore by a
dozen stalwart fishermen, who slowly moved down the beach, keeping
abreast of the tide-driven net, and as the lower party were stationary,
the two ends were gradually coming together. The men tugged and pulled,
but the net came in but slowly.
"In with her lively now!" shouted Scott, running down the beach.
"There's a big school in there."
"You're right; she do pull heavy," said one of the men, straining at the
ropes.
"This won't do," cried Scott. "It's not coming in half fast enough.
We'll have to use the winch, or the tide will carry it on the rocks.
Here, some of you, run the rope up to the winch, and start her."
The winch was a rough wooden machine, with two bars like a ship's
capstan. Around the barrel the rope was wound, and two village lads ran
rapidly round with it. The extra purchase thus obtained brought in the
seine much faster.
Both parties were now within speaking distance, and congratulations and
jokes passed between them at the prospect of making a good catch.
The lower ropes were carefully managed by two experienced men, so that
no fish should escape underneath, and the disturbed water at the "bag"
end of the net indicated that a large school was inclosed. So quietly
and smoothly had all been done that the fish had not realized they were
caught. But now ensued a great splashing and boiling, particularly at
one place.
"Must be sturgeon in there!" cried Scott. "Carefully now, or he'll break
away."
The net was coming in beautifully, when suddenly a long black body shot
up out of the water, and fell back with a tremendous splash, and
commenced rushing back and forth, threatening to destroy everything.
"What is it?" shouted Scott. "Sturgeon don't act that way."
"We don't know," replied one of the men. "It's too dark to see what it
is."
"You will have to kill it, or we'll lose the catch," yelled Scott. "He's
tearing the net now."
At this several dashed into the water with poles and staves, and a
lively and confused conflict ensued with the monster, while the shad and
other captive fish darted about in the wildest manner, frightened out of
their wits at the terrible uproar; and in the shallow water were
hundreds poking their cold noses against the net, trying to get out.
"It's a shark, as sure as I'm alive," shouted one of the men, jumping
one side as the monster made a rush.
"It can't be," replied another; "they don't run here."
"Never mind; pull up the net," called Scott; "there come the rollers
from the night boat."
But it was too late, for with a low, sullen roar the heavy rollers from
the Albany night boat came tumbling in, upsetting and twisting the net,
and carrying it on the rocks.
"There he goes!" cried one of the men, and sure enough the big fish had
torn the net, and was free, and like a flash hundreds of shad followed
through the hole he had made, so that scarcely fifty good fish were left
in it to reward the fishermen's labors.
"Isn't it too bad?" said Joe to Scott, as he passed by to a bright
drift-wood fire under the rocky headland, where the men were drying
themselves. "I'm real sorry you lost them."
"It's fisherman's luck," replied Scott, quietly. "We'll hope for better
next time."
"What kind of fish was it?" asked Ralph.
"I hardly know. I never saw one like it, or we would have known how to
manage it better."
By the fire-light the remaining fish were soon sorted out, and each of
our boys was given a fine fat shad for his share of the work; so
although they lost their supper, they had a fine feast for Sunday
morning's breakfast.
PLANTING-TIME.
"I've planted a paper of pins in a row;
I wonder when will my pin-trees grow?"
Cried darling Dora, with puzzled eyes,
At aunty's look of complete surprise.
"Planted a paper of pins, my dear?
They'll never come up, though you wait a year--
Yes, you may wait a year and a day,
And down in the ground your pins will stay.
"Roses and lilies and daisies white,
Blossom and flourish in dark and light;
But pins will rust in the planted row,
For out in the garden no pin-trees grow."
"THE TRIBUTE OF CHILDREN."
BY HELEN P. JENKINS.
I am going to tell you, Young People, something about a once famous body
of men called the Janissaries. You may pronounce the word as if spelled
Yanissaries.
A few hundred years ago, when the nations of Europe were more given to
fighting than they are now (though they seem in this day to like it
pretty well), the most celebrated soldiers in the world were the
Janissaries. At that time armies were not drilled as thoroughly as they
are to-day, but so well disciplined, so fierce, and so successful were
the Janissaries that their name became a terror throughout Europe.
Who these soldiers were is a curious and a sad story. They were Turkish
troops, but they were not Turks by birth, and that is why the story is a
sad one. The Turks came from Asia into Europe about six hundred years
ago. They conquered the southeastern part of Europe, which is called
Turkey, and little by little, by dreadful fighting, they got possession
of Greece, and several states north of it. Finally they took the
beautiful city of Constantinople, which the Christians so long and so
gallantly defended. The Turks brought with them a religion, a costume,
and a government different from any the people in Europe had been
accustomed to. They were Mohammedans, while the people of the conquered
countries were Christians. You can easily believe that the Christian
people did not love the race that had robbed them of their country and
their freedom, nor did they submit very willingly to their fate.
Now the Turkish government took a very cunning and cruel way to increase
the strength of its own army, and weaken the people they were
conquering. It took from the Christian people every year one thousand of
their brightest boys to train them for the Turkish army. This is called
in history "the tribute of children." Some historians say that all the
boys over seven years of age "who promised any excellence in mind or
body" were captured by the Turks; but probably the "annual tax of one
thousand children" is a more reliable statement. As this "tribute of
children" was kept up for over three hundred years, not less than
300,000 noble Christian children were torn from their homes, and their
strength turned against their own people. The delicate and deformed and
dull were not taken, for the Turkish government wanted to make a body of
soldiers the finest in size and strength and courage the world had ever
seen; and, besides, the puny and dull boys would never be of much
service to the Christians; so it was very safe to leave them with their
own people.
Can you think of a meaner way of gaining victories than to kidnap the
finest children of a conquered race, so there should be no grand, strong
men among them, and then to make these boys, when grown to men, fight
against their own flesh and blood? I do not think history records
anything more base.
How glad a Christian mother must have been if her boy was pale and puny,
or her children were all girls! Do you not believe that parents
sometimes hid their boys in the mountains when the Turkish officers were
about, or taught them to look sick or silly? I have never read in any
books that they did do so, but I do not doubt it myself. Yet it is said
that so much care was given to the training of these bright boys, and
such honors sometimes conferred upon them by the government, that the
very poor people were sometimes willing their sons should go away from
them forever to enter the service of the Turks. It seems to me it must
have been a dreadful poverty and ignorance that could have made
Christian mothers willing to give up their sons to the enemy of their
country and their religion.
These boys were taken from their homes so young they soon forgot kindred
and country, the religion, and even the language of their fathers. They
were usually carried to some portion of Asia Minor, where they were
trained severely to abstinence and endurance of all kinds, to fit them
for service. Those who proved greatly superior in mind were fitted for
places of trust in the government--some were made pages in the Sultan's
palace--but those who were strong and large of stature were trained for
war. And it was these Christian boys who constituted the celebrated
Janissaries, and won such great victories for the Turkish nation for
three hundred years, that its influence and power was felt and dreaded
throughout the civilized world.
It was the first instance of a "standing army" in Europe. Charles VII.
of France is usually considered the originator of the "standing army,"
perhaps because the Turks were not considered a European nation; but the
Janissaries were in existence a century before Charles's time. They were
organized in 1329, and Charles was not crowned until 1422.
The Janissaries fought in many important battles and sieges in the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. They figured in the sieges of the
islands of Rhodes and Crete and Malta, and at the famous battle of
Lepanto, which you will read about when you are older. They wore, even
in fighting, flowing robes and white caps with black plumes, and fought
with cimeters. We can believe their flowing robes were somewhat
inconvenient in battle, especially at the siege of Malta, where they had
to scale high parapets of rocks.
The Janissaries were in the height of their splendid fame during the
reign of the Sultan Solyman the Magnificent, in the seventeenth century.
After a time this celebrated corps lost its superiority. The "tribute of
children" had, after three hundred years, gradually ceased, and the
force was kept up by volunteers of any kind. The Janissaries became
corrupt and insubordinate, and instead of making conquests for Turkey,
they often turned upon their masters, and became more terrible to the
Sultans than to the nations around. They deposed Sultans, and murdered
Sultans, and made new ones, and Turkey was cursed by the very troops of
which she had once been so proud.
Mahmoud II., who was a fierce and daring man, resolved to save his own
head, and protect Turkey, by destroying this dreadful soldiery. In 1826
he led the rest of the army against the Janissaries, surprised them, and
after a dreadful battle defeated them. Eight thousand were burned in
their barracks before they could escape. Fifteen thousand were
slaughtered in the struggle to defend themselves. The rest were banished
from the country, and became scattered among the armies of Europe. The
Janissaries were forever dissolved, and their name lives now only in
history.
[Illustration]
THE REPRIMAND.
BY MRS. MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
I'm s'prised at you, Rover! Pray what does this mean?
You're the naughtiest dog, sir, that ever I've seen,
To be teasing poor Kitty, and vexing her so;
Such conduct won't do, sir, I'd have you to know.
Was Kitty mistaken? You chased her in play?
Is that what your sorrowful eyes try to say?
Then puss shall forgive you; but, Rover, my dear,
Do please be more careful. You're _too_ rough, I fear.
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER XX.
HOME AND UNCLE DANIEL.
Meanwhile the author of all this misery had come upon the scene. He was
a young man, whose rifle and well-filled game bag showed that he had
been hunting, and his face expressed the liveliest sorrow for what he
had so unwittingly done.
"I didn't know I was firing at your pet," he said to Toby, as he laid
his hand on his shoulder, and endeavored to make him look up. "I only
saw a little patch of fur through the trees, and thinking it was some
wild animal, I fired. Forgive me, won't you, and let me put the poor
brute out of his misery?"
Toby looked up fiercely at the murderer of his pet, and asked, savagely:
"Why don't you go away? Don't you see that you have killed Mr. Stubbs,
an' you'll be hung for murder?"
"I wouldn't have done it under any circumstances," said the young man,
pitying Toby's grief most sincerely. "Come away, and let me put the poor
thing out of its agony."
"How can you do it?" asked Toby, bitterly; "he's dying already."
"I know it, and it will be a favor to him to put a bullet through his
head."
If Toby had been large enough, perhaps there might really have been a
murder committed; for he looked up at the man who so coolly proposed to
kill the poor monkey after he had already received his death-wound that
the young man stepped back quickly, as if really afraid that in his
desperation the boy might do him some injury.
"Go 'way off," said Toby, passionately, "an' don't ever come here again.
You've killed all I ever had in this world of my own to love me, an' I
hate you--I hate you."
Then turning again to the monkey, he put his hands each side of his
head, and leaning down, kissed the little brown lips as tenderly as a
mother would kiss her child.
The monkey was growing more and more feeble, and when Toby had shown
this act of affection, he reached up his tiny paws, grasped Toby's
finger, raised himself half from the ground, and then, as a more
convulsive struggle came, fell back dead, while the tiny fingers slowly
relaxed their hold of the boy's hand.
Toby feared that it was death, and yet hoped that he had been mistaken;
he looked into the half-open, fast-glazing eyes, put his hand over his
heart to see if it was not still beating, and getting no responsive look
from the dead eyes, feeling no heart-throbs from under that bloody
breast, he knew that his pet was really dead, and he flung himself by
his side in all the childish abandon of grief.
He called the monkey by name, implored him to look at him, and finally
bewailed that he had ever left the circus, where at least his pet's life
was safe, even if his own back received its daily flogging.
The young man, who stood a silent spectator of this painful scene,
understood everything from Toby's mourning. He knew that a boy had run
away from the circus, for Messrs. Lord and Castle had staid behind one
day in the hope of capturing the fugitive, and they had told their own
version of Toby's flight.
It was nearly an hour that Toby lay by the dead monkey's side, crying as
if his heart would break, and the young man waited until his grief
should have somewhat exhausted itself, and then he approached the boy
again.
"Won't you believe that I didn't mean to do this cruel thing?" he asked,
in a kindly voice; "and won't you believe that I would do anything in my
power to bring your pet back to life?"
Toby looked at him a moment earnestly, and then he said, slowly, "Yes,
I'll try to."
"Now will you come with me, and let me talk to you, for I know who you
are, and why you are here?"
"How do you know that?"
"Two men staid behind after the circus had left, and they hunted
everywhere for you."
"I wish they had caught me," moaned Toby; "I wish they had caught me,
for then Mr. Stubbs wouldn't be here dead."
And Toby's grief broke out afresh as he again looked at the poor little
stiff form of him who had been a source of so much comfort and joy to
him.
"Try not to think of that now, but think of yourself, and of what you
will do," said the man, soothingly, anxious to divert Toby's mind from
the monkey's death as much as possible.
"I don't want to think of myself, and I don't care what I'll do," sobbed
the boy, passionately.
"But you must; you can't stay here always, and I will try to help you to
get home, or wherever it is you want to go, if you will tell me all
about it."
It was some time before Toby could be persuaded to speak or think of
anything but the death of his pet; but the young man finally succeeded
in drawing his story from him, and then he tried to induce him to leave
that place, and accompany him to the town.
"I can't leave Mr. Stubbs," said the boy, firmly; "he never left me the
night I got thrown out of the wagon, an' he thought I was hurt."
Then came another struggle to induce him to bury his pet, and finally
Toby, after realizing the fact that he could not carry a dead monkey
anywhere with him, agreed to it; but he would not allow the young man to
help him in any way, or even to touch the monkey's body.
He dug a grave under a little fir-tree near by, and lined it with wild
flowers and leaves, and even then hesitated to cover the body with the
earth. At last he bethought himself of the fanciful costume which the
skeleton and his wife had given him, and in this he carefully wrapped
his dead pet. Not one regret at leaving the bespangled suit, for it was
the best he could command, and surely nothing could be too good for Mr.
Stubbs.
Tenderly he laid him in the little grave, and covering the body with
flowers, he said, pausing a moment before he covered it over with earth,
and while his voice was choked with emotion: "Good-by, Mr. Stubbs,
good-by. I wish it had been me instead of you that died, for I'm an
awful sorry little boy now that you're dead."
Even after the grave had been filled, and a little mound made over it,
the young man had the greatest difficulty to persuade Toby to go with
him, and when the boy did consent to go at last, he walked very slowly
away, and kept turning his head to look back just so long as the little
grave could be seen.
Then, when the trees shut it completely out from sight, the tears
commenced to roll again down Toby's cheeks, and he sobbed: "I wish I
hadn't left him; oh, why didn't I make him lie down by me, an' then he'd
be alive now, an' how glad he'd be to know that we was getting out of
the woods at last!"
But the man who had worked Toby this sorrow talked to him about other
matters, thus taking his mind from the monkey's death as much as
possible, and by the time the boy reached the village, he had told his
story exactly as it was, without casting any reproaches on Mr. Lord, and
giving himself the full share of censure for leaving his home as he did.
Mr. Lord and Mr. Castle had remained in the town but one day, for they
were told that a boy had taken the night train that passed through the
town about two hours after Toby had escaped, and they had set off at
once to act on that information.
Therefore Toby need have no fears of meeting either of them just then,
and he could start on his homeward journey in peace.
The young man who had caused the monkey's death tried first to persuade
Toby to remain a day or two with him, and failing in that, he did all he
could toward getting the boy home as quickly and safely as possible. He
insisted on paying for his ticket on the steamboat, although Toby did
all he could to prevent him, and he even accompanied Toby to the next
town, where he was to take the steamer.
He had not only paid for Toby's ticket, but he had paid for a state-room
for him; and when the boy said that he could sleep anywhere, and that
there was no need of such expense, the man replied: "Those men who were
hunting for you have gone down the river, and will be very likely to
search the boat when they discover that they started on the wrong scent.
They will never suspect that you have got a state-room, and if you are
careful to remain in it during the trip, you will get through safely."
Then, when the time came for the steamer to go, the young man said to
Toby: "Now, my boy, you won't feel hard at me for shooting the monkey,
will you? I would have done anything to have brought him to life; but as
I could not do that, helping you to get home was the next best thing I
could do."
"I know you didn't mean to shoot Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, with moistening
eyes as he spoke of his pet, "an' I'm sorry I said what I did to you in
the woods."
Before there was time to say any more, the warning whistle was sounded,
the plank pulled in, the great wheels commenced to revolve, and Toby was
really on his way to Uncle Daniel and Guilford.
It was then but five o'clock in the afternoon, and he could not expect
to reach home until two or three o'clock in the afternoon of the next
day; but he was in a tremor of excitement as he thought that he should
walk through the streets of Guilford once more, see all the boys, and go
home to Uncle Daniel.
And yet, whenever he thought of that home, of meeting those boys, of
going once more to all those old familiar places, the memory of all that
he had planned when he should take the monkey with him would come into
his mind, and dampen even his joy, great as it was.
That night he had considerable difficulty in getting to sleep, but he
did finally succeed in doing so, and when he awoke, the steamer was
going up the river whose waters seemed like an old friend, because they
had flowed right down past Guilford on their way to the sea.
At each town where a landing was made, Toby looked eagerly out on to the
pier, thinking that by some chance some one from his home might be
there, and he could see a familiar face again. But all this time he
heeded the advice given him, and remained in his room, where he could
see and not be seen; and it was well for him that he did so, for at one
of the landings he saw both Mr. Lord and Mr. Castle come on board the
boat.
Toby's heart beat fast and furious, and he expected every moment to hear
them at the door demanding admittance, for it seemed to him that they
must know exactly where he was secreted.
But no such misfortune occurred. The men had evidently only boarded the
boat to search for the boy, for they landed again before the steamer
started, and Toby had the satisfaction of seeing their backs as they
walked away from the pier. It was some time before he recovered from the
fright which the sight of them gave him; but when he did, his thoughts
and hopes far outstripped the steamer, which it seemed was going so
slowly, and he longed to see Guilford with an impatience that could
hardly be restrained.
At last he could see the spire of the little church on the hill, and
when the steamer rounded the point, affording a full view of the town,
and sounded her whistle as a signal for those on the shore to come to
the pier, Toby could hardly restrain himself from jumping up and down,
and shouting in his delight.
He was at the gang-plank ready to land fully five minutes before the
steamer was anywhere near the wharf, and when he recognized the first
face on the pier, what a happy boy he was!
He was at home! The dream of the past ten weeks was at length realized,
and neither Mr. Lord nor Mr. Castle had any terrors for him now.
He ran down the gang-plank before it was ready, and clasped every boy he
saw there by the neck, and would have kissed them if they had shown much
inclination to let him do so.
Of course he was overwhelmed with questions, but before he would answer
any, he asked for Uncle Daniel and the others at home.
Some of the boys ventured to predict that Toby would get a jolly good
whipping for running away, and the only reply which the happy Toby made
to that was:
"I hope I will, an' then I'll feel as if I had kinder paid for runnin'
away. If Uncle Dan'l will only let me stay with him again, he may whip
me every mornin', an' I won't open my head."
The boys were impatient to hear the story of Toby's travels, but he
refused to tell them, saying,
"I'll go home, an' if Uncle Dan'l forgives me for bein' so wicked, I'll
set down this afternoon, an' tell you all you want to know about the
circus."
Then, far more rapidly than he had run away from it, Toby ran toward the
home which he had called his ever since he could remember, and his heart
was full almost to bursting as he thought that perhaps he would be told
that he had forfeited all claim to it, and that he could never more call
it home again.
When he entered the old familiar sitting-room, Uncle Daniel was seated
near the window alone, looking out wistfully, as Toby thought, across
the fields of yellow waving grain.
Toby crept softly in, and going up to the old man he knelt down, and
said, very humbly, and with his whole soul in the words, "Oh, Uncle
Dan'l, if you'll only forgive me for bein' so wicked, an' runnin' away,
an' let me stay here again--for it's all the home I ever had--I'll do
everything you tell me to, an' never whisper in meetin' or do anything
bad."
And then he waited for the words which would seal his fate. They were
not long in coming.
[Illustration: UNCLE DANIEL'S BLESSING.]
"My poor boy," said Uncle Daniel, softly, as he stroked Toby's red,
refractory hair, "my love for you was greater than I knew, and when you
left me I cried aloud to the Lord as if it had been my own flesh and
blood that had gone afar from me. Stay here, Toby, my son, and help to
support this poor old body as it goes down into the dark valley of the
shadow of death, and then, in the bright light of that glorious future,
Uncle Daniel will wait to go with you into the presence of Him who is
ever a father to the fatherless."
And in Uncle Daniel's kindly care we may safely leave Toby Tyler.
THE END.
THE FAITH OF THE TWO SHEIKS.
BY LYDIA M. FINKELSTEIN.
There is a passage in the Koran that reads, "When God creates a human
being, He also creates his inheritance, which is inalienable, and must
come into his possession."
In the Orient, prisoners are allowed by the government only a meagre
supply of bread and water--so meagre that unless the relatives supply
them with food (which they are permitted to do), the unfortunates
frequently die of sheer starvation.
It is the custom for the Orientals, at a time of sickness or any other
trouble, in view of some business speculation, also when undertaking a
journey, to make a vow that if they are delivered from the trouble, meet
with success in the transaction, or accomplish the journey in safety, to
provide the prisoners with a certain quantity of food, and often for a
stated period of time.
In an Oriental city two Sheiks were once confined in prison for debt.
The one, Sheik Kassim, was blind; the other, Sheik Ahmed, was lame. They
had made a living, such as it was, in the outside world, by reciting
passages from the Koran for the dead, usually at the grave, for which
they received payment, either in food or money, from the relatives of
the deceased. In prison, however, there were but few opportunities for
the two Sheiks to earn anything by their profession.
Sheik Kassim was a true believer, and consequently held to the literal
interpretation of the above-mentioned passage of the Koran, asserting
repeatedly that whatever God had destined for him, He would send him,
without any care or exertion on his own part.
Sheik Ahmed, though a sincere Moslem, had a somewhat different opinion,
and believed that although whenever God created a human being, He also
created for him a special inheritance, yet at the same time God intended
the human being to make some exertions to obtain possession of said
inheritance.
It so happened that a wealthy merchant of the city had made a vow to
supply the prisoners not only with necessary wholesome and sufficient
food, but also with some extra dainties, for the term of seven days.
On such occasions a herald passes through the different departments of
the prison, proclaiming, "Ho! all ye poor of the earth that hunger and
thirst, come and partake of the bounty and the inheritance from God!"
The prisoners are then expected to gather in the prison yard, where the
supplies are doled out to them.
Sheik Ahmed, on hearing the invitation, prepared to proceed to the yard,
offering to lead Sheik Kassim, who sat reciting passages from the Koran
and prayers in a corner of his cell, to the same place, to receive a
share of the good things provided by the grateful merchant.
"Nay," said Sheik Kassim, "if I have any inheritance in this supply,
Allah will send me my portion to this place," and he resumed his
prayers, while Sheik Ahmed, finding persuasions and arguments alike
vain, hobbled off to the yard to secure his share of the food which was
being distributed, and this scene was repeated for six days.
On the seventh day the merchant walked through all the different
departments of the prison to make personal inquiries of the prisoners
whether they had received the food he had sent as a thank-offering for
his mercies. On seeing the blind Sheik he particularly questioned
whether his wants received the proper attention. "My lord," replied
Sheik Kassim, "if I have any inheritance in this supply, Allah will send
me my portion to this place." Hearing this reply, the merchant
immediately gave orders for a liberal supply to be brought to the blind
man.
Later, Sheik Ahmed approached his friend to endeavor once again to
convince him of the necessity for making some exertion in order to
receive his share of the good things to which he was entitled, but
missed through his own inaction. Triumphantly Sheik Kassim related the
circumstance of the merchant sending for his portion, and having it
brought to the spot from which the blind man had not considered it
necessary to move, so great had been his faith that his inheritance,
however great or small it might be, would be sent by Allah sooner or
later to him.
"That is all very beautiful and very true," replied Sheik Ahmed, "and
Allah is good to all His creatures, even the most undiscernible, if they
only trust Him; but remember that while you waited, Allah sent you a
portion only once, while I, who made the exertion and went, received a
portion from His bountiful hand seven times."
THE BUZZARD'S BALD HEAD.
BY A. L. BASSETT.
"Now, chillen, git to bed quick, and don't make no fuss, and I'll tell
you a story 'bout Mr. Fox and Mr. Rabbit."
The promise of a _story_ was quite sufficient to insure ready obedience;
so the little ones were soon tucked warmly into their beds, and their
colored nurse, seating herself on the floor beside them, greatly pleased
at the eager gaze of the bright eyes fixed upon her face, began her
story:
"Mr. Fox and Mr. Rabbit had been off workin' all de week, but Saturday
dey come home and cleaned up deir house and yard, and got ready for
Sunday.
"When ebenin' come, Mr. Fox dressed heself up and went to de rabbit's
house.
"'Mr. Rabbit,' he says, 'I'm goin' fishin'. Won't you go 'long, Mr.
Rabbit?'
"'No,' says Mr. Rabbit, 'I won't go. I generally stays at home Saturdays
and rests myself, and den eats as many fish as dem as goes fishin'.'
"Mr. Fox didn't know how dat could be, but he didn't say nothin', and
went on by heself to de pond, and cotched a nice string of fish, and den
started for home.
"Now Mr. Rabbit, as soon as he thought it was time for de fox to come
home, he ran down de path and stretched heself out like he was dead.
"Presently de fox come 'long wid his string of fish. He fa'rly jumped
when he seed de rabbit, and den he said: 'Well, if here ain't a nice fat
rabbit! I'll go home and put my fish down, and den come back and git
him, and to-morrow I'll have a big, fish fry and a rabbit stew for
dinner.'
"So Mr. Fox he went on down de path, and de rabbit he jumps up and runs
through de woods and gits ahead of him, and stretches heself out ag'in
like he was dead. When de fox come 'long and seed him, he give a bigger
jump dan before, and says: 'If here ain't another nice fat rabbit! I'm
'most home now, so I'll lay my string of fish down by dis rabbit, and go
back and git de other rabbit, and to-morrow I'll have a big fish fry and
_two_ rabbit stews.' Mr. Fox laid his fish down by de rabbit, and went
back to look for de other rabbit.
"As soon as he was gone, up jumped de rabbit, and took de fish, and ran
off as fast as he could go, and went up a hollow tree.
"Presently de fox come back, 'cause he couldn't find no dead rabbit whar
he left it, and--dar now! his fish was gone, and Mr. Rabbit was settin'
up in de hollow, eatin' fish, and throwin' de fish bones down to him
fast as he eat de fish.
"Den de rabbit hollered out, 'I say, Mr. Fox, didn't I tell you I stays
at home and rests myself, and den eats as many fish, _if not more_, dan
dem dat goes fishin'?'
"De fox was so mad he didn't know what to do wid heself. He danced
'round de tree, and barked at de rabbit, and said, 'I'll pay you for
dis, Mr. Rabbit!'
"'Pay me _now_, Mr. Fox.'
"Presently a buzzard came flyin' by, and de fox called him, and told him
how de rabbit had stole his fish.
"'Mr. Buzzard, will you stay here and nuss dis hollow till I go to de
house and get a chunk of fire to smoke de rabbit out?'
"Mr. Buzzard said, 'Yes'; so he come down and set close to de hollow to
nuss it till de fox come back.
"Time de fox was gone, de rabbit peeped out of de hollow, and said, 'Dat
you down dere, Mr. Buzzard?'
"And de buzzard said, 'Dis is me.'
"'Mr. Buzzard, dey tell me you is got gold eyes. Is dat so, Mr.
Buzzard?'
"'I s'pose so, Mr. Rabbit.'
"'Mr. Buzzard, I never seed any gold eyes in my life. Won't you jes' put
your eyes up to de hollow so I kin see 'em?'
"Den de buzzard he got up and put his eyes to de hollow, and de rabbit
throwed a whole lot of fish bones and trash in his eyes, and fill his
eyes _full_ of trash and fish bones. So de buzzard had to fly down to de
ground and set down wid his back to de tree to pick de trash and fish
bones out of his eyes. Den Mr. Rabbit he jumped down, and away he was
gone through de woods long 'fore de fox come back wid de fire.
"When Mr. Fox come wid his chunk of fire, he set to smokin' de hollow
right away. 'Is he up dere, Mr. Buzzard?'
"'He was up dere de last time I seed him,' said de buzzard; and he kept
pickin' de trash and de fish bones out of his eyes.
"De fox smoked and he smoked, but de rabbit didn't fall.
"'Is he up dere, Mr. Buzzard?'
"'He was up dere de last time I seed him;' and de buzzard kept pickin'
de fish bones and trash out of his eyes.
"Den de fox he smoked and he smoked, but de rabbit didn't fall, and--den
he run to de buzzard, and _scratched all de skin off his head_, and ever
since den all de buzzards been bald-headed.
"But de buzzard he didn't tell no lie; de last time he seed de rabbit he
was up dere, sure enough. He couldn't see after de rabbit throwed de
fish bones and trash in his eyes, and he wa'n't goin' to tell de fox dat
he was a fool like _he_ was. Now dat's all de story: you go to sleep
directly."
"Oh, please tell us some more! tell us some more!" cried the children,
as wide awake as ever.
"I never seed sich chillen! You never gits tired. Well, I will tell you
one little piece of po'try, and den if you is good, to-morrow night I'll
tell 'nother story 'bout de fox and de rabbit."
"Tell us the poetry, please do," cried all the children at once. "Don't
go before you tell us the poetry."
"Bless me! you won't give me time to draw my breff. I never seed sich
chillen. Now listen, and den don't say 'nother word to me dis night, for
I's gwine. I ain't gwine to fool here wid you all no longer. Here is de
po'try:
"De squirrel he hopped from limb to limb,
De ole har sot and look at him;
De ole har say unto heself,
"Dat squirrel don't mind he kill heself."
"Dar now, I's gwine. I ain't gwine to tell you no more nohow."
[Illustration: GULLIVER SAILING HIS YACHT FOR THE AMUSEMENT OF THE
COURT.]
GULLIVER AMONG THE BROBDINGNAGS.
Probably most of our readers are familiar with Dean Swift's tales of the
travels of Mr. Lemuel Gulliver, and will remember that among other
wonderful countries, he visited that of the Brobdingnags--a race of
giants eighty feet in height. Those who have read of his remarkable
adventures in this country will at once recognize the accompanying
picture as that of Gulliver sailing his yacht for the amusement of the
King of the Brobdingnags and his court. Gulliver is made to tell the
history of his yacht as follows:
"The Queen, who often used to hear me talk of sea-voyages, and took all
occasions to divert me when I was melancholy, asked me whether I
understood how to handle a sail or an oar, and whether a little exercise
of rowing might not be convenient for my health. I answered that I
understood both very well; for although my proper employment had been to
be surgeon or doctor to the ship, yet often, upon a pinch, I was forced
to work like a common mariner. But I could not see how this could be
done in their country, where the smallest wherry was equal to a
first-rate man-of-war among us, and such a boat as I could manage would
never live in any of their rivers. Her Majesty said, 'If I would
contrive a boat, her own joiner should make it, and she would provide a
place for me to sail in.' The fellow was an ingenious workman, and by my
instructions in ten days finished a pleasure-boat, with all its
tackling, able conveniently to hold eight Europeans. When it was
finished, the Queen was so delighted that she ran with it in her lap to
the King, who ordered it to be put in a cistern full of water, with me
in it, by the way of trial, where I could not manage my two sculls, or
little oars, for want of room. But the Queen had before contrived
another project. She ordered the joiner to make a wooden trough three
hundred feet long, fifty broad, and eight deep, which, being well
pitched to prevent leaking, was placed on the floor along the wall in an
outer room of the palace. It had a cock near the bottom to let out the
water when it began to grow stale, and two servants could easily fill it
in half an hour. Here I used often to row for my own diversion, as well
as that of the Queen and her ladies, who thought themselves well
entertained with my skill and agility. Sometimes I would put up my sail,
and then my business was only to steer, while the ladies gave me a gale
with their fans; and when they were weary, some of their pages would
blow my sail forward with their breath, while I showed my art by
steering starboard or larboard as I pleased."
[Illustration: THE YOUNG CONVALESCENT.]
POLYPOD'S CAT.
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.
Her real name was Mary; but there never was such a family for nicknames
as the Dyers. Why they ever called pretty Nelly, the oldest girl,
"Norken," instead of her royal name Eleanor, nobody could tell; or sober
John, "Jinky," or Alice, the "big little girl," as Mary called her,
"Pob" and "Phoebus"; but they did, and there are a great many things
in this world one has to take as they are, without rhyme or reason. But
she always was called Polypod by all the family; and when a stranger
said, "_What_ is your little girl's name?" whoever he asked only said,
"Mary," and laughed.
Polypod was a dear little soul, as rosy and jolly and loving as a child
could be; but sometimes she wanted a playmate. Nelly taught her every
day, the school was so far off; and Jinky and Pob always took their
dinner when they went, and were too tired or too grown up to play with
Polypod when they came home at night; so she racked her brains for
amusement. The Dyers lived on a great farm, and back of the house was a
hill covered with woods. Polypod had a wild garden, as she called it,
under the edge of these woods, where she planted all the pretty wilding
flowers, adder's-tongue, squirrel-cups, Dutchman's-breeches,
spring-beauty, Quaker-ladies, wet-root, jack-in-the-pulpit, columbine,
blue and white violets--everything she could find, except trailing
arbutus, which she could not make grow at her pleasure any more than
other people can. Then she had a play-place in the big wood-shed for
rainy days; a house furnished with broken crockery and nutshells, and
inhabited by squash dollies and ladies made out of hollyhock petals. She
could stay here all summer whenever she was tired of her garden, or it
rained; but in winter was the hard time. She had her rag doll Miss
Rosalinda Squires, to be sure, but there was no place to play except in
the kitchen or the sitting-room, and Grandpa Dyer always sat by the
sitting-room stove asleep, or smoking his pipe, or trying to read the
newspaper; he did not like little girls; he was too old, and they made
such a noise. Then everybody else was in the kitchen, and mother kept it
so awfully clean! All Polypod could do was to go under the dinner table
with Rosalinda and play they were living in a cavern, or shut up in
jail; for when the leaf was down, and the brown cover on, they found it
naturally quite dark under that table.
"Oh dear!" she said, one day, "I do wish I had somefing or somebody to
p'ay with me."
Nelly came into the room just as she spoke, and heard her. It never had
occurred to anybody in that house that Polypod could be lonely before.
She was a little thing, and they all loved her, but they didn't stop to
think much about her. If she had warm clothes, plenty to eat, and a
dolly, why shouldn't she be satisfied?
"Why, child," said Nelly, "haven't you got the doll?"
"Yes, I've got her, an' she sits there an' sits there, Norken; she don't
go a 'peck, she don't talk a singal wingal mite, not the very leastest
word. I wish somefing would make her mad an' strike, she keeps so
still;" and Polypod heaved a deep sigh as she looked at Rosalinda with
melancholy disapproval.
"Mother," said Nelly next day, "can't Polypod have a kitten? The child
gets lonesome for something to run about and play with her."
Polypod's eyes sparkled under the table where she was just putting
Rosalinda to bed with the measles and scarlet fever--maladies she had
herself experienced, and knew how to treat.
"I don't know," answered mother, stopping on the door-sill to consider.
"She might for 't I know, but I'm afraid 'twould get into the
keepin'-room and plague grandpa. I guess 'tain't best to resk it; she
can play with Dolly;" so she shut the door behind her, and Nelly went
out into the shed.
"Danpa's real mean an' horrid," sobbed Polypod, making a very bad face
at the wall behind which he sat, the better to express her hurt
feelings. She did not know how tired old folks are, how their bones
ache, and their eyes get dim after they have lived and worked so long
and so hard; and poor grandpa could not remember how he felt when he was
a rosy naughty little boy himself. He did not think of much now but how
to keep warm and quiet, and not have anybody push against his chair, or
hit his lame foot that lay up on a carpet stool all the time. No wonder
he did not like kittens, they jump about so everywhere!
But before spring came grandpa died one day, and there was a funeral.
Nobody cried much: grandpa was too old to cry for; they all knew--all
the grown-up people--that he must be glad not to ache any more, and he
had been pretty cross, poor old man. The day of the funeral Polypod
noticed her mother putting some black ribbon on Nelly's felt hat, and
trying on to her own head a new black bonnet.
"What is you putting that ugly black bow on to Norken's bonnet for,
muvver?" she asked.
"It's mourning, Polypod; people wear black when their folks die."
"What for?" curtly inquired the child.
"Oh, well, I s'pose to show they feel bad."
"I don't feel bad one mite," said Polypod, thoughtfully. Her mother in
her busy hurry did not hear this comment, or Polypod would have been
reproved, no doubt. But nobody puts black on so small a child for the
loss of a grandfather, so Polypod made no more remarks.
The next week Nelly came into the sitting-room where the child had for
once established herself in a corner of the old chintz-covered sofa.
"Polypod," she called out, "what do you suppose I've got in my apron?"
Polypod did not stop to guess; she jumped down and peeped in at a
corner.
"Oh, Norken, a real live kitty! Oh! oh! oh! My vely own kitty?"
"Yes, you little goose," laughed Nelly; she could not comprehend what a
wonderful and delightful treasure the kitten was to her little sister.
Polypod was not lonely any more; she hugged her precious kitty with all
the tender passion of her warm little heart, she paddled out to the barn
in all weathers to get it new milk, she taught it all sorts of tricks,
it slept on her bed at nights, played hide-and-seek with her in the
day-time, knocked Rosalinda Squires down from her silent state every
time it found that neglected lady anywhere, and made things lively
generally in the Dyer house. Even Pob and Jinky, solemn as they were
with age and learning, could not help laughing at kit's tricks, and
father Dyer, tired, and wet, and hungry as he might be when he came in
from doing the chores, owned gruffly that, "That 'ere kitty's the
spryest of all the critters I ever _did_ see."
This was great praise from father, the most silent of men generally, and
so little given to expressing his feelings that Polypod could not
remember that he ever kissed her but once, and that was the day grandpa
died.
Great was his mistress's joy when kit caught his first mouse; she did
not like mice; but oh! how she cried and scolded when he fetched in a
young robin panting, quivering, bleeding, its beautiful eyes dark with
death. Polypod was almost ready not to love kit any more, but the tender
little heart soon forgave her darling on the wistful plea that he was
"only a kitty."