Chapter IV.

Produced by Annie McGuire

[Illustration: HARPER'S

YOUNG PEOPLE

AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]

* * * * *

VOL. I.--NO. 49. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR

CENTS.

Tuesday, October 5, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50

per Year, in Advance.

* * * * *

[Illustration: FRED'S PERILOUS ESCAPE.--DRAWN BY C. GRAHAM.]

HANGING BY A THREAD.

A Canadian Story.

BY DAVID KER.

"Well, boys, what do you think of _this_ for a play-ground? Something

like, ain't it?"

And well might Tom Lockyer say so. To be out in the woods on a fine

summer morning, with the whole day clear, is a pleasure which any boy

can appreciate, more especially such an active one as Master Tom; and he

and his two cousins had certainly enjoyed it to the utmost. Ever since

breakfast they had been scampering through the woods like wild-cats,

climbing trees, tearing through briers, scrambling up and down rocks,

chasing each other in and out of the thickets, and making the silent

forest ring with their shouts and laughter.

Tom had good reason to remark, with a broad grin, that nothing was left

undamaged except their lunch bags; for all three were muddy from head to

foot, ragged as scarecrows, and so scratched that their hands and faces

looked just like railway maps done in red ink. But none the less were

they all fully persuaded that they had been enjoying themselves

immensely, and were quite ready to begin again as soon as they could

find breath to do so.

"Here's the place for us to lunch, my boys!" cried Tom, flinging himself

down upon the soft turf that carpeted the summit of the ridge which they

had just climbed. "This is one of our best views, and you can feast your

eyes and teeth together."

It was, indeed, a splendid "look-out place." The opposite face of the

ridge went sheer down to the edge of the river, which, narrowed at this

point to less than half its usual width by the huge black cliffs that

walled it in, went rushing and foaming through a succession of furious

rapids for nearly a quarter of a mile, plunging at length in one great

leap over a precipice of nearly a hundred feet--a perfect Niagara in

miniature.

"I say, Tom, old fellow, didn't you tell us that you went canoeing along

this river every summer? You don't mean to say, surely, that you can

take a canoe over that water-fall?"

"Not _exactly_," laughed Tom; "that _would_ be a little too much of a

good thing. Whenever we come to anything of this sort, we make a

portage, as the French boatmen say--carry our canoes round by land, and

then launch them again below the fall. There's a snug little path just

round the corner, and as soon as we're through with lunch we'll just go

down and look about us."

Tom's "snug little path" proved to be very much like the stair of a

ruined light-house, and would have seemed to most people almost as bad

as going down the precipice itself. But Charlie and Harry Burton, though

new to the rocks of the Severn, had had plenty of climbing elsewhere,

while as for Tom himself, he could have scaled anything from a church

steeple to a telegraph pole.

The view was certainly well worth the trouble. Just at the break of the

fall the stream was divided by a small rocky islet crested with half a

dozen tall pines, the "Goat Island" of this toy Niagara. In the few rays

of sunlight that struggled down into the gloomy gorge the rushing river

with its sheets of glittering foam, and the bright green ferns and

mosses that clung to the dark cliffs around, and the shining arch of the

fall itself, and the rocks starting boldly up in mid-stream, tufted with

clustering leaves, made a splendid picture.

Close to the water's edge ran a kind of terrace, formed by the sliding

down of the softer parts of the cliff; and along this the three walked

till they came right abreast of the fall.

"Hollo!" cried Harry, suddenly, "didn't you say that nobody ever shot

these rapids? Why, there's a fellow trying it now!"

There, sure enough, as he pointed up the stream, appeared a canoe with a

single figure in it, shooting down the river like an arrow, and already

close upon the edge of the rapids.

"Good gracious!" cried Tom, with a look of horror, "it's some fellow

being swept down by the stream! See, he's broken his paddle, and can't

help himself!"

Instinctively all three sprang forward at once, although the doomed

voyager was manifestly beyond the reach of help. But even as they did

so, the crisis came. With one leap the boat was in the midst of the

rapids, banged to and fro like a shuttlecock by the white leaping waves,

amid which it appeared and vanished by turns, till a final plunge sent

it right toward the edge of the fall.

The lookers-on turned away their faces; but all was not over yet. By a

lucky chance the boat's head had been turned straight toward the island,

upon which the current drove it with such force as to dash it in among

the sharp rocks, that pierced its sides and held it firm, while its

occupant was flung forward on his face among the bushes.

"Phew!" said Tom, drawing a long breath, "what a shave! Ugh! wasn't it

horrid, just that last minute? I'm awfully glad he's got off."

"But how's he to get ashore?" asked the practical Charlie. "It seems to

me he's in just as bad a fix as ever."

Meanwhile the unlucky voyager had scrambled to his feet, and was staring

wildly about him.

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Tom, "if it isn't my old chum Fred Hope!

I'd no idea he was home again."

"I don't think he sees us," said Harry; "let's give him a hail, just to

show him there's help at hand. I've heard my father say that if a

fellow's left long alone in a place like that he'll go crazy with the

fright and the motion of the water."

Tom was not slow to take the hint. He sprang upon the bowlder behind

which they were standing, and, putting both hands to his mouth, shouted,

above the din of the water-fall, "Hollo, Fred, old boy! how goes it?"

"Who-o's that?" answered a faint voice, tremulous with terror.

"Why, don't you remember Tom Lockyer?"

"Oh, Tom, is that you? Get me out of this somehow, if you can."

"Never fear, old chap; we'll have you out in no time," replied Tom,

cheerily.

"But how on earth are you going to do it?" whispered Harry, amazed at

his friend's confident tone.

"Haven't the least idea, so far," answered the philosophic Tom, coolly;

"but it's got to be done _somehow_. If the worst comes to the worst, I

can always run home for help, while you two stay here and keep his

spirits up."

"If we could only get a rope across," suggested Charlie. "He's got one

there, I know, for I saw it tumble out of the boat as she swamped; but

how are we to get at it?"

"_I_ have it!" cried Tom, suddenly. "Fancy my not thinking of this old

sling of mine, when I've been using it all morning! I've read lots of

yarns about fellows sending messages by arrows: let's see if a stone

won't do just as well for once!"

He produced a ball of twine from his pocket as he spoke, and fastened

one end of it firmly around a jagged stone which he had picked up.

"See if you've got some more string, boys," said he; "perhaps this bit

won't be long enough."

The cord was soon lengthened sufficiently, and Tom, bidding his comrades

keep a firm hold of the other end, mounted once more upon the bowlder,

and shouted, "Fred, ahoy!"

"Hollo!" responded the islander, whose nerves were being rapidly

steadied by the prospect of help, and the sound of Tom's cheery voice.

"We're going to chuck you a line: mind and be ready to catch it."

"All right."

The stone whizzed through the air, and splashed into the water on the

other side of the islet, while Fred promptly seized the cord attached to

it.

"So far so good, as the hungry boy said when he got half way through the

pie," remarked Tom. "Now, old fellow, just knot the string to that rope

of yours, and the job's done."

Fred obeyed at once, and the two Burtons hauled in. The rope, once

landed, was quickly made fast to the nearest tree, while Fred secured

_his_ end to one of the pines on the islet. The communication was

complete.

"But what next?" asked Harry. "Do you expect the poor fellow to walk

ashore on that rope, like Blondin?"

"Not quite," said Tom, laughing. "It's a case of Mohammed and the

mountain--if he don't come to me, I must just go to him. Here goes!"

And, our hero, swinging himself up on to the rope, began to slide along

it, hand over hand, in true gymnastic style.

Taut as the line was, it yielded a little with his weight, and he came

perilously near the water midway; but the rope held firm, and in another

moment he was safe upon the islet, shaking hands heartily with the

expectant Fred.

"Mr. Robinson Crusoe, I presume?" said Tom, with a grin. "I'm the Man

Friday, at your service; and a nice little island we've got of it. Now,

old boy, there's your road open, and you've just seen the correct way to

travel it; so off with you, and show us the latest thing in gymnastics."

"What, along _that rope_?" cried Fred, with a shudder which showed that

he had not quite shaken off his panic yet. "Ugh! I couldn't. The bare

sight of the fall below me would turn me sick; it looks just as if it

was watching for me to tumble in!"

"Oh, if it's only the sight of the water that bothers you, _that's_

easily settled," rejoined Tom, struck at that moment with a new and

brilliant idea. "I remember hearing a fellow spin a yarn once about how

he had escaped being ill at sea, by tying a handkerchief over his eyes

so that he couldn't see the jiggle-joggling of the water. If I blindfold

you, do you think you can manage it _then_?"

"Ye-es--I should think I might," replied Fred, somewhat doubtfully.

"Here you are, then," said the ever-ready Tom, producing a tattered red

handkerchief, with which he bandaged his friend's eyes most

scientifically. "Now, old boy, push along--think you're in for an

Athletic Cup, with a lot of ladies looking on!"

The device worked wonders. Relieved from the disturbing sight of the

precipice and the rushing water, and hearing Tom's hearty voice behind

him, cheering him on, Fred went forward manfully; and he was quite

surprised to feel his outstretched wrist suddenly seized in a strong

grasp, and to hear the shouts of the Burtons proclaiming that he had got

safe to land.

"Well done, our side!" shouted Tom, arriving a moment later. "That's

what I call blindman's-buff on a new principle, and no mistake!"

A STEAM-ENGINE OUT OF A TIN CAN.

BY THE PROFESSOR.

Few boys seem to be aware of the entertainment they may obtain with a

soldering iron, a pair of shears, and a file. With them it is easy to

manufacture working models of machinery, and philosophical apparatus

almost without limit. Skill in the use of the iron is readily acquired

with a little practice. The quickest way to learn is to observe for a

few minutes a tinman at his work. A good-natured one, politely

approached, will quickly explain all the mysteries in the process, and

take pleasure in filling the office of teacher. For heating the iron, a

charcoal fire is generally preferred; a gas stove is also good; and even

a common coal fire can be made to answer. The first point is to make a

little of the melted solder stick to the point of the iron. For this

purpose the iron is filed bright about the point, to remove the oxide

and expose the clear metal; then the iron must be quickly applied to the

solder. If the heat is sufficient, the iron will get coated, and be

ready for use. The oxide has to be removed also from the surface of the

material that is to be united; it is the chief obstacle to successful

soldering, as the solder refuses to unite with anything but pure metal.

Sal ammoniac dissolved in water is good to cleanse off the oxide; better

still is muriatic acid, with a little zinc and sal ammoniac added. This

is known as the soldering mixture.

One of the most convenient materials for use is common tin, which can be

obtained almost everywhere. A tin box can be melted apart, and cut into

any desired shape. Pipes to convey liquids, steam, or gas can be made by

cutting strips of the tin, and rolling them upon an iron rod. To make a

pipe, say, a quarter of an inch in diameter, get an iron rod of that

size, cut a strip of the tin about one inch wide, roll it upon the rod,

allowing the edges to lap a little. If the tin be not bright, make it so

by applying sal ammoniac with a small brush along the seam. Put on a

little powdered resin, and then solder neatly by drawing the heated

iron, with the solder clinging to it, over the joint. In this way a pipe

strong and tight is obtained; and such pipes can be joined to one

another indefinitely, in a straight line or at any angle. To unite them

in a straight line, pass the end of one into the end of the other before

soldering, or else wind an additional piece of tin over the two ends. To

make a turn, or elbow, file the ends on a bevel, or slant, bring them

together, and apply considerable solder for strength. If the solder be

rightly put on, it will hold surprisingly.

[Illustration]

A pretty device to illustrate the force of steam is shown in the

accompanying picture. The boiler is a simple tin can, which need not be

more than six inches high and four in diameter. To make the wheel, cut a

circle of tin two inches in diameter, and pieces for the buckets, shaped

as in the diagram. Bend each piece at right angles along the dotted

line, and solder them one after another on the circumference of the

wheel, which will then appear as in the picture. Bore a hole through the

centre, insert a piece of wire for a shaft, and solder it fast at right

angles to the wheel. File shoulders on the ends of the shaft, and mount

it in uprights fastened to the top of the boiler. Make a small opening

through the top of the boiler, and place over it a little spout in such

a position as to send a current of steam directly into the buckets of

the wheel. Make also a larger opening in or near the top of the boiler,

and surround it with a neck to receive a cork. Through this the water is

introduced. For this purpose a small funnel will be found convenient.

When all is complete, the boiler may be filled about half full, and set

on a hot stove. When the water boils, the steam will emerge through the

spout, and propel the wheel. As the steam constantly escapes, no

explosion need be apprehended. To remove all possibility of creating too

much pressure, place the cork in the neck very lightly, so that it will

pop out if more steam is generated than can escape through the spout.

Then the miniature steam-engine and boiler may be regarded as harmless

as a tea-kettle. As the quantity of steam that can be produced is very

limited, care must be taken that there be no leaks, that the mouth of

the spout be quite small, and that the current of steam be discharged

accurately into the buckets. The bearings of the shaft should be oiled,

and everything arranged so that there will be the least possible

friction. Then the wheel may be expected to spin very rapidly.

[Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.]

WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON?

BY JOHN HABBERTON,

AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES."

Chapter IV.

WHO WILL TELL?

As Benny Mallow hid himself in a barn in the yard into which he had

jumped, he had only one distinct thought in his mind: he wished that the

Italian had never come to Laketon at all--never come to the United

States, in fact. He wished that the Italians had never heard of such a

place as America: if one of the race had to discover it, he need not

have gone and let his fellow-countrymen know all about it, so that they

should come over with organs and monkeys, and get boys into

trouble--boys that weren't doing a thing to that organ-grinder when he

threw a stick at them. What made the fellow go into the school yard,

anyway? No one asked him to come. Now there would be a fuss made, of

course; and if there was anything that Benny hated more than all other

things, it was a fuss.

But what if the organ-grinder should really prove to be dead? Oh! that

would be too dreadful; all the boys would have to be hanged, to be sure

of punishing the murderer, just as the whole class was sometimes kept in

for an hour because something wrong had been done, and no one would tell

who did it.

Benny could not bear the thought of so dreadful a termination to his

life, for he knew of a great deal worth living for; besides, his mother

would need his help as soon as he grew old enough to earn anything. What

should he do? Wait until dark, and then run away, and tramp off to the

West, where other runaway boys went, or should he make for the

sea-board, and from there to South America, from which country he had

heard that criminals could not be brought back?

[Illustration: BENNY MALLOW IN THE BARN.]

But first he ought to learn whether the man was really dead; it might

not be necessary to run away at all. But how should he find out?

Suddenly he remembered that Mr. Wardwell's barn, in which he was, had a

window opening on the alley; so he crept up into the loft, and spent

several moments in trying to look up the alley without putting his head

out of the window. Finally he partly hid his face by holding a handful

of hay in front of it, and peered out. Between the stalks of hay he was

delighted to see the organ-grinder on his feet, although two men were

helping him. They were not both men, either, Benny saw, after more

careful looking, for one of them was Paul Grayson; but the other--horror

of horrors--was Mr. Stott, a justice of the peace. Benny knew that

Justice Stott had sent many men to jail for fighting, and if Grayson

should tell who took part in the attack, Benny had not the slightest

doubt that half of Mr. Morton's pupils would be sent to jail too.

This seemed more dreadful than the prospect of being hanged had done,

but it could be done more quickly. Benny determined at once that he must

find out the worst, and be ready for it, so he waited until the injured

man and his supporters had turned the corner of a street, and were out

of sight; then he bounded into the alley again, hurried home, seized a

basket that was lying beside the back door, and a moment later was

sauntering along the street, whistling, and moving in a direction that

seemed to be that in which he might manage to meet the three as if by

accident. He did not take much comfort out of his whistling, for in his

heart he felt himself to be the most shameful hypocrite that had existed

since the days of Judas Iscariot, and the recollection of having been

told by his Sunday-school teacher within a week that he was the best boy

in his class seemed to make him feel worse instead of better; and his

mind was not relieved of this unpleasant burden until at a shady corner

he came suddenly upon the organ-grinder and his supporters, when he

instantly exchanged his load for a new one.

"Why, what's the matter, Paul?" asked Benny, with as much surprise in

his tone and manner as he could affect.

Justice Stott had just gone into an adjacent yard for water for the

Italian, when Grayson answered, with a very sober face, "You know as

well as I do, Benny, and I saw the whole crowd."

"I don't!" exclaimed Benny, in all the desperation of cowardice. "I

didn't do or see--"

"Sh--h!" whispered Grayson, "the Justice is coming back."

Benny turned abruptly and started for home. He felt certain that his

face was telling tales, and that Justice Stott would learn the whole

story if he saw him. There was one comfort, though: it was evident that

Grayson did not want the Justice to know that Benny had taken part in

the affair.

There was a great deal of business transacted by the boys of Laketon

that night. How it all was managed no one could have explained, but it

is certain that before bed-time every boy who had taken part in the

assault on the Italian knew that the man was not dead, but had merely

been stunned and cut by a stone; that Paul Grayson knew who were of the

party that chased the man up the alley. Various plans of getting out of

trouble were in turn suggested and abandoned; but several boys for a

long time insisted that the only chance of safety lay in calling Grayson

out of his boarding-house, and threatening him with the worst whipping

that the boys, all working together, could give. Even this idea was

finally abandoned when Will Palmer suggested that as Grayson boarded

with the teacher, and seemed to be in some sort a friend of his, he

probably would already have told all he knew if he was going to tell at

all. Some consolation might have been got out of a report of Benny's

short interview with Grayson, had Benny thought to give it, but he had,

on reaching home, promptly feigned headache, and gone to bed; so such of

the boys as did not determine to play truant, and so postpone the evil

day, thought bitterly of the morrow as they dispersed to their several

homes.

There was not as much playing as usual in the school yard next morning,

and when the class was summoned into school the teacher had no

difficulty in discovering, by the looks of the various boys, who were

innocent and who guilty. Immediately after calling the roll Mr. Morton

stood up, and said:

"Boys, a great many of you know what I am going to talk about. Usually

your deeds done out of school hours are not for me to notice; but the

cowardly, shameful treatment of that organ-grinder began in the school

yard, and before you had gone to your homes, so I think it my duty to

inquire into the matter. Justice Stott thinks so too. When any one has

done a wrong that he can not amend, the only manly course is to confess.

I want those boys who followed the organ-grinder up the alley to stand

up."

No boy arose. Benny Mallow wished that some one would give the bottom of

his seat a hard kick, so that he would have to rise in spite of himself,

but no one kicked.

"Be honest, now," said Mr. Morton. "I have been a boy myself; I have

taken part in just such tricks. I know how bad you feel, and how hard it

is to confess; but I give you my word that you will feel a great deal

better after telling the truth. I will give you one minute more before I

try another plan."

Mr. Morton took out his watch, and looked at it; the boys who had not

been engaged in the mischief looked virtuously around them, and the

guilty boys looked at their desks.

"Now," exclaimed Mr. Morton, replacing his watch in his pocket. "Stand

up like men. Will none of you do it?"

Benny Mallow whispered, "Yes, sir," but the teacher did not hear him;

besides, Benny made no effort to keep his word, so his whispering

amounted to nothing.

"Grayson," said Mr. Morton, "come here."

Bert Sharp, who sat near the front of the room, where the teacher could

watch him, edged to the end of his seat, so as to be ready to jump up

and run away the moment Grayson told--if he dared to tell. Most of the

other boys found their hearts so high in their throats that they could

not swallow them again, as Grayson, looking very white and

uncomfortable, stepped to the front.

"Grayson," said the teacher, "I have known you for many months: have I

ever been unkind to you?"

"No, sir," replied Grayson; then he wiped his eyes; seeing which Bert

Sharp thought he might as well run now as later, for boys who began by

crying always ended by telling.

"You saw the attack made on the Italian; Justice Stott says you admitted

as much to him. Now I want you to tell me who were of the party."

"May I speak first, sir?" asked Grayson.

"Yes," said the teacher.

"Boys," said Grayson, half facing the school, "you all hate a tell-tale,

and so do I. Do you think it the fair thing to hold your tongues and

make a tell-tale of me?"

[Illustration: "MR. MORTON, I WAS THERE."]

Grayson looked at Will Palmer as he spoke, but Will only looked sulky in

return; then Grayson looked at Benny Mallow, and Benny was fast making

up his mind that he would tell rather than have his friend do it, when

up stood Bert Sharp and said,

"Mr. Morton, I was there."

"Bravo, Sharp!" exclaimed the teacher. "Grayson, you may take your

seat. Sharp, step to the front. Now, boys, who is man enough to stand

beside Sharp?"

"I am," piped Benny Mallow, and he almost ran in his eagerness.

"It's no use," whispered Will Palmer to Ned Johnston, and the two boys

went to the front together; then there was a general uprising, and a

scramble to see who should not be last.

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Morton, looking at the culprits and then about the

school-room; "I believe you're all here. I'm proud of you, boys. You did

a shameful thing in attacking a harmless man, but you have done nobly by

confessing. I can not let you off without punishment, but you will

suffer far less than you would have done by successfully concealing your

fault. None of you are to go out at recess next week. Now go to your

seats. Sharp, you may take any unoccupied desk you like. After this I

think I can trust you to behave yourself without being watched."

The boys had never before seen Sharp look as he did as he walked to a

desk in the back of the room and sat down. As soon as the bell was

struck for recess Grayson hurried over to Sharp, and said,

"You helped me out of a terrible scrape, do you know it?"

"I'm glad of it," said Sharp. "And that isn't all; I wish I could think

of something else to own up to."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THREE YOUNG HAWKS.

BY F. M. M.

One bright summer afternoon Bob and I slipped away from the other boys

as soon as school was out, and went gayly down the road that led to the

big bridge.

We were going birdnesting, and were determined to add something handsome

this time to the collection of eggs that we had been gathering since

spring.

The bobolinks knew us perfectly well; and you would have thought by the

way they rose out of the meadows on each side of the road, and sang as

if they were too happy for anything, that they were delighted to see us.

Not a bit of it. Their singing was meant to attract our attention, and

give the Mrs. Bobolinks time to glide through the tall grass, and then

rise up so far away from their nests that we would not know where to

look for them. We were not after their eggs, however, for we had all the

bobolinks' eggs we wanted, carefully blown and laid away in our

collection. Sharp as Mr. Bobolink was, we knew all his tricks, and had

outwitted him often.

"Where shall we go, Bob?" said I. "We haven't been to see whether that

cedar-bird's nest down by the river has any eggs in it yet."

"Oh, bother the cedar-bird! we can attend to his case any day. Let's go

through the bushes on the other side of the meadow, and then down to the

big bridge. We haven't been to the hill where the old dead tree is for

ever so long."

"All right," said I; so we climbed the fence, crossed the meadow, and

plunged into the bushes, watching every bush, and listening to every

noise. Suddenly we heard a rustling of wings, and then a mournful cry

like the wail of a lost kitten.

"Now, Bob, look sharp," I exclaimed; "there's a cat-bird's nest in here,

and Fred Sprague asked me to get an egg for him the first time I came

across any."

The old bird was fluttering from bush to bush, continually "mewing," and

seeming to be in great distress. "There's the nest, Jack," cried Bob,

pointing to a mass of twigs on the top of a tall bush. "You stand

underneath and hold your hat to catch the eggs if they fall, and I'll

bend down the branch."

The cat-bird was now in a terrible state of mind, and flew around our

heads scolding at a great rate. We told her that we only meant to take

one egg, but she wasn't a bit satisfied with our explanation.

Down came the bush as Bob carefully bent it, and presently we could see

into the nest, where four beautiful eggs were lying. We took one of them

out, and let the branch slowly up again; but the cat-bird did not seem

at all grateful.

"Let's blow the egg now," said I; "'twill be easier to carry. Have you

got a pin with you?"

Bob gave me a pin, with which I made a little hole in each end of the

egg. Then putting one end to my lips, I blew gently and steadily, until

out came the clear white and then the yellow yolk, leaving the empty

shell as light as a feather. Wrapping the egg in cotton, and placing it

in a little pasteboard box that I took from my pocket, I felt certain

that I could carry it home safely.

We found no more nests in the bushes, and after a while Bob said: "Let's

make a bee-line for the bridge, and see if there's anything in that dead

tree."

So we came back to the road, crossed the bridge, and went to the foot of

a great dead elm-tree that stood on the side hill a little way from the

river. It must have been struck by lightning, for it was nothing but a

shell, and a long blackened crack reached from the top nearly to the

bottom of it.

"I don't believe there's as much as a wasp's nest in there," said I.

"We'll see, anyway," replied Bob. "I'll fire a stone at that hole up by

the top, and you stand back and watch if anything comes out."

Bob could throw a stone straighter than any other boy in school. He hit

the trunk of the tree close by the hole, and in an instant something

darted out with a loud whir, and vanished over the tree-tops.

"Bob," cried I, "that was a hawk."

"Hawks don't build in holes," replied Bob. "Perhaps it was an eagle."

"Eagles don't build in holes either," said I; "but I read yesterday that

the pigeon-hawk does build in old dead trees."

"Then that's a pigeon-hawk sure enough," exclaimed Bob. "And there she

is, sailing round in a circle, and watching us. What won't the boys say

when they see us bringing home a lot of hawks' eggs?"

"That's all very well; but who's going to climb the tree?"

"You are," said Bob. "You know you're the best climber. The hole isn't

more than thirty feet from the ground."

I was ready enough to climb, and pulled off my jacket at once; but I

could not get my arms around the tree, and the lowest branch was a dozen

feet from the ground.

"I tell you what we'll do," exclaimed Bob. "Let's get a fence rail, and

lean it against the tree. I'll boost you, and when you get on the end of

the rail, you can reach that branch."

We selected the longest and knottiest rail we could find, and leaned it

up against the tree. Then Bob boosted me, while he kept his foot at the

end of the rail to prevent it from slipping. By this means I managed to

reach the lower branch, and seat myself on it.

"All right so far," said I; "but, Bob, the next branch is beyond my

reach, and I don't see how in the world I'm going to get any higher."

"Jack," replied Bob, in a solemn tone, "you've got to do it. There's a

hawk's nest up there, and we're bound to have it."

After making a good many trials, I found that by putting one hand in the

big crack of the tree I could get a hold that would support me, and

by-and-by I found myself standing on the upper branch, with one arm

around the trunk, and the hole within my reach.

"Now," cried Bob, "don't waste any time, but go for those eggs, or we

won't get home before dark."

He looked very cool and comfortable on the ground, while I was standing

in a very ticklish place, and was afraid that the dead limb might give

way at any moment. I didn't very much like to put my hand into the hole,

for how did I know but that there might be a big snake in it? However,

it had to be done, so in went my hand. Something hit it a vicious dig,

and you can be sure that I pulled it out in a hurry. To tell the truth,

I was badly frightened for a minute, and nearly lost my balance. Then it

flashed on me that the eggs we were in search of were young birds.

"Bob!" I shouted, "there are young ones!"

"Hooray!" cried Bob. "That's better yet. Throw 'em down, and I'll catch

'em in my hat."

Much as I hated to do it, I thrust in my hand again, and out came a

young hawk, biting, scratching, and screaming. I didn't hold it long,

but in less time than you can say "Jack Robinson," down it went into

Bob's hat.

Just as I threw down the third and last bird I heard Bob shout, "Look

out! the old one's coming." Then something hit me on all sides of my

head at once, just as if half a dozen school-teachers were boxing my

ears at the same time. I put up my hands to defend my eyes, lost my

balance, and, crash!-- I didn't know anything more for the next five

minutes.

When I came to myself Bob was dashing water in my face by the hatful. I

could just manage to say, "Don't drown me."

"Then you're not dead!" exclaimed Bob. "You gave me an awful scare. Why,

I couldn't make you speak a word. Don't ever go and do it again."

"I'm not dead yet, Bob, but it was a pretty ugly fall, wasn't it? Where

are the young hawks?"

"Oh, they're all right. I've got 'em tied up in my handkerchief. Try and

see if you can stand up."

I did try, but the minute I bore my weight on my right ankle such a

sharp pain went through it that down I fell, and fainted away again.

When I came to, the second time, I heard a man say, "Guess we'd better

carry him right down to the house, and get the doctor to 'tend to him."

Bob had gone to a farm-house near by, and had brought two men to help

him take care of me.

"I'm all right now," said I, "except my ankle, and I guess Bob can wheel

me home in a wheelbarrow."

"I'll wheel you myself," said one of the men. "You've done a good job

breaking up that there hawks' nest, and I owe you something for it."

You'd better believe that the boys stared when they saw Farmer Jones

wheeling me home, and Bob carrying three young hawks in his

handkerchief. I felt pretty proud, but was laid up for three weeks with

my sprained ankle, and I made up my mind that the next time I meddled

with a hawk's nest, I'd shoot the old hawk first.

OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.

BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.

No. VII.

JOHN STARK AND THE INDIANS.

In April, 1752, David Stinson, Amos Eastman, William and John Stark,

paddled up the Merrimac River in canoes. Just above the junction of the

Contoocook River with the Merrimac they passed the last log-cabin. From

thence all the way to Canada there was not a white man. They made their

way forty miles farther, entered a little stream now known as Baker's

River, winding through a beautiful valley, built a camp, and set their

traps to catch beaver, which were building their dams along the brooks.

There had been war between France and England, but peace had been agreed

upon, and the Indians, who had been on the side of France, came from

Canada and traded with the settlers along the frontier; but the settlers

were ever on the watch, fearing an outbreak of hostilities at any

moment.

The young hunters discovered some tracks in the woods, which had been

made by Indians.

"The red-skins are about," they said.

It was agreed that it would be best to take up their traps and leave

quietly, for the Indians claimed the whole country as their hunting

ground. John Stark went out from the camp to take up his traps, when he

found himself confronted by several Indians, who made him their

prisoner. They had come from the village of St. Francis, in Canada, to

Lake Memphremagog, brought their canoes across the divide between the

lake and Connecticut River, and had descended that stream to the present

town of Haverhill, in New Hampshire, and were on their way to plunder

the settlements on the Merrimac. They did not know that John Stark had

any companions near at hand, nor did he inform them.

"Why is John gone so long?" was the question asked by the others.

"Perhaps he is lost. Let us fire a gun."

The report of a gun echoed through the forest.

The Indians' eyes twinkled. There were more prisoners to be had. They

stole through the woods with John, and came upon his three companions.

Eastman was on shore, his brother William and Stinson in the boat. The

Indians seized Eastman.

"Pull to the other shore," shouted John.

[Illustration: "CRACK! CRACK! WENT THE GUNS OF THE INDIANS."]

Crack! crack! went the guns of the Indians. Stinson fell dead, and a

bullet split the paddle in the hands of John's brother, who leaped to

the other bank, and escaped. Crack! crack! went the guns again, but he

was so far away that they did not harm him. The Indians, enraged at

William's escape, gave John a whipping; but instead of whining, he

laughed in their faces. They gathered up the hunters' beaver-skins, took

their guns and traps, piled them upon John and Eastman, and started for

their canoes, greatly pleased with their luck. The Indians divided, one

party going over the Green Mountains with the furs which they had

captured, going to Albany, where they could get better prices than in

Canada, and the other, with John and Eastman, going up the Connecticut

to Lake Memphremagog, descending the St. Francis River to their village

on the St. Lawrence.

It was a wearisome journey, and John had a heavy pack to carry, but he

was young, strong, brave, and was not in the least down-hearted. He did

not think that the Indians would harm him; they could do better--sell

him to the French.

The Indian town of St. Francis was a collection of miserable cabins and

wigwams. The Jesuit fathers had been among the tribe for many years, and

had won their confidence; had converted them to Christianity; that is,

the Indians had been baptized; they counted their beads, and mumbled a

few prayers that the priests had taught them; but they had learned

nothing of the justice, mercy, or love pertaining to the Christian

religion. They were the same blood-thirsty creatures that they had

always been, and were happiest when killing and scalping the defenseless

settlers.

The whole population--warriors, squaws, and children--came out to

welcome the returning party. True, the French and English were not at

war; neither were the English at war with the Indians; but what of that?

Had they not made war on their own account? There was no one to rebuke

them, for were not the English always considered as their enemies?

The Indians of St. Francis always made their prisoners run the gauntlet.

It is not quite certain what the word comes from, but it means running

between two files of men armed with sticks and clubs, each Indian to

give the runner a whack as he passes.

The Indians, squaws, children, and all, paraded in two lines about four

feet apart. Eastman was the older, and was the first to run. Whack!

whack! went the sticks and clubs, beating him black and blue.

"Your turn now," said an Indian to John.

He is thirty years old, tall, broad-shouldered, his muscles like springs

of steel. He has an iron will, and is quick to think and act.

The Indians grasp their cudgels more firmly to give him a good drubbing.

What fun it will be to bring them down upon his broad shoulders, and see

him cringe!

John comes upon the run. Quick as a flash he seizes the cudgel in the

hands of the first Indian, swings it about his head with the strength of

a giant. Whack! it goes upon the skull of one, whack! again upon the

forehead of the Indian opposite, knocking them right and left. The next

two catch it, the third and fourth. They go down as the Philistines fell

before Samson. His blows fall so fast that the Indians take to their

heels: he breaks up the gauntlet, and marches over the ground like a

conqueror. The Indians, instead of punishing him, are greatly pleased.

It is midsummer, and the corn which the Indians have planted needs

hoeing. They take him into the field, put a hoe into his hands to work

with the squaws.

"You hoe corn," they say. John Stark hoe corn for the Indians! Not he.

He cuts up weeds and corn alike, giving a few strokes, doing what damage

he can, and then flings the hoe into the river.

"Squaws hoe corn. Braves fight," he says.

Do they beat him? On the contrary, they pat him on the shoulder.

"Bono! bono!" (good! good!) they say.

The Indians look down upon work as degrading. They make their wives do

all the drudgery. Women were made to work, men to fight. To humiliate

their prisoners they put them to work, degrading them to the condition

of women. John Stark understood their character, and acted accordingly,

and his captors were so delighted that they wanted him to become an

Indian.

"We make you chief," they said.

"You be my son. I give you my daughter," said the chief.

But John Stark had no idea of becoming an Indian. Nevertheless, he kept

his eyes and ears open. He studied their ways. They showed him how to

follow a trail over the dead leaves of the forest--how the leaves would

be rustled here and there, turned up at the edges, or pressed down a

little harder where men had set their feet. He saw what cowards they

were unless the advantage was all on their side, and how wily they were

to steal upon their enemies. He picked up a little of their language. He

was ready to go with them upon a deer-hunt; but as for working, he would

not.

Little did the Indians think that they were teaching one who would turn

all his knowledge to good account against them a few years later; that

when they were showing him how to follow a trail they were teaching him

to trace their own footsteps; that when the time came he would pay them

off roundly for having taken him prisoner.

He was so brave, resolute, stout-hearted, and strong that they set a

much higher value upon him than upon his comrade Eastman; for when their

friends sent money to Montreal to ransom them, they asked only sixty

dollars for Eastman, while John had to pay one hundred. So much for

being brave! The money was paid, and the two men were sent to Montreal,

and from there to Albany. As they came through Lake Champlain, John

Stark looked out upon scenes with which he was to become familiar in

after-years, and which we shall read about at another time.

[Illustration: THE RIVALS.]

LIL'S FUN.

BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.

"Boys have the best of it always!" said Lil, flinging herself in the

hammock with a sigh, as she saw her two brothers, several cousins, and

their comrades, in battered hats, turned-up trousers, and dingiest of

jackets, going down through the maples with their fishing-poles over

their shoulders.

"I think so too," said Ollie, spreading out her dainty dress, and

picking a daring grasshopper off her silk stocking. "It's just too mean

that we can't have some fun. They say we are always in the way, that we

can't even bait our own hooks--it _is_ horrid to stick those nasty worms

on!--but I can catch fish as well as any one, and if boys are around,

why shouldn't they make themselves useful? And they say we scream so,

and make such a fuss about every thing," went on Ollie, in the same

injured tone.

"Everything is better for boys than for girls. All the stories are

written for them; they can ride, and drive, and play ball, and swim, and

skate, and--"

"Lil! Lillie!" called a soft sweet voice, "are you in the sun? Your

complexion will be ruined."

"There! didn't I say so?" was the somewhat incoherent reply. "Isn't it

always the way? See how we are watched: don't go in the sun, you'll be

burned; don't do this, don't do that--all because you're a girl. I'm

tired of it.--Aunt Kit, I'm not in the sun.--I wish I was," was added

_sotto voce_.

"Country girls' mothers are not so particular," said Ollie. "Look at

those Pokeby girls in their calicoes; they climb trees like monkeys, and

they have lots of good times."

"Let's go over and see them; it is not far. Come, Ollie."

"In my new dotted mull and silk stockings?" cried Ollie, in amazement.

"Aunt Kit won't let us."

"See if she don't;" and Lil bounced out of the hammock, and into the

house, where in the cool darkness of a shaded parlor sat a slender lady,

with a pile of flosses in her lap, and a graceful basket in her hands,

which she was ornamenting. "Aunt Kit, I have come to ask a favor. We are

just bored to death doing nothing."

"Lil, how can you use such an expression? I am shocked. You are really

getting very careless in your use of words."

"Well, then, excuse me, but it's the truth all the same. Ollie and I

want some fun; the boys wouldn't take us fishing, and now I want you to

let us put on some old duds and go over to the Pokebys'. We will promise

to come home to tea, we will be as prim as prunes afterward, and I'll

play two extra exercises to-morrow, and learn three pages of French. Now

you can't say no; there's every reason for saying yes, and you will have

a nice quiet time all day, without being bothered. Please--that's a

darling!" and she smothered her retreating relative with kisses.

After some hesitation, and after many protestations that they would

remember every charge given them, the girls received permission to go to

the farm.

"I never was more surprised in my life," said Ollie, as, after donning

plainer attire, she and Lil started out. "Now I am going in for a day's

fun."

"What are you going to do?"

"Everything. When I get hold of Clara Pokeby--There she is now!"

"Oh, Clara!" broke out both girls at once, "we have come to spend the

afternoon, if we may. Is it convenient?"

"I'll ask mother," said the quiet little maid, with a sincerity which

somewhat dampened Lil's ardor.

They were joined in a few moments more by two other girls, each a year

older and an inch higher; and now Lil, having an audience, began to

talk, as they left the orchard where they had met, and from which they

were walking to the farm-house, which peered out from its thicket of

lilac-bushes, syringas, and overhanging maples. She was waxing eloquent

over her dissatisfaction with boarding-house amusements, the boys'

neglect, and her aunt's strictness, when they reached the door, and

Clara made known her wishes to her mother.

Mrs. Pokeby had heard the conclusion of Lil's speech, and a smile was

dancing around the corners of her mouth.

"A little more work and a little less play would be my remedy, Miss

Lil." But seeing the girl looked somewhat crest-fallen, she said,

kindly: "Come in, come in, all of you, and welcome. If you can wait till

my girls have helped me a little, you may have all the fun you can make

for yourselves."

The farm kitchen was a very spacious room, and Lil and Ollie thought it

ever so much nicer than the one in their city house. The dresser was

filled with shining tins, the cupboard with blue china enough to stock

two or three cabinets, the floor was white as the fine sand could make

it, and the bunches of sweet herbs perfumed the room so pleasantly that

bees had evidently mistaken the place for a branch of the flower garden

by the way they flitted in and out.

Lil and Ollie sat down to watch Mrs. Pokeby, who was preparing to bake;

but in a trice both had on aprons, and were busily assisting Clara and

her sisters. It was so nice to be trusted to break and beat eggs, to

sift flour, to wash currants, and weigh sugar. They whipped the eggs

till they looked like snow, they made the creamy butter dissolve in the

sparkling sugar, they tasted and tried the consistency of the cake, they

buttered the pans, and watched the oven. Mrs. Pokeby even let them mould

some biscuits, and spread the paste over pie plates, and drop in the

luscious fruit. So intent were they in their occupation that they hardly

noticed the lengthening shadows, and heard Clara Pokeby say it was time

to be off if they were going anywhere to play.

"Oh, wouldn't it be nice to give the boys a supper?--a supper all cooked

by ourselves?" said Lil, with a sudden inspiration.

"Jolly enough," said Ollie.

"And have it in the woods," said Clara. "Do you know where they have

gone?" she asked.

"Yes, they were to fish in Black Creek--down where we gathered

pond-lilies last week."

"That is not too far. Mother, may we do it?"

"To be sure. You may have a share of everything we have made. Let me

see, there's an apple-pie, a pan of biscuit-- I can whip up some

corn-bread--"

"Oh, please let me do it," said Lil.

No sooner said than done. Again they went to work. By the time the

corn-bread was finished, Mrs. Pokeby had packed the baskets. Lil had

looked about fifty times in the oven, and fifty times more at the

receipt-book, to see if she had followed the instructions properly,

while Clara and Ollie and the other girls had provided glasses and

spoons and napkins.

"Now we are all ready--come on, girls," was at last the order issued by

Lil, and away they went. Mr. Pokeby gave them a lift on the empty

hay-cart, and carried the heaviest basket to the woods. They chose a

lovely spot, grassy and smooth, not far from the path where the boys

would have to pass. They could hear their voices now, and the occasional

splash of an oar. They spread out their table-cloth, made a fire, and

Lil said she was going to scramble some eggs; meanwhile Ollie and Clara

could be on the watch to secure the guests.

It was a delightful afternoon, and a cool breeze was fluttering the

grasses. The water of the creek reflected the overhanging boughs in its

dark surface, water-spiders were spinning their little whirls, crickets

were singing, and swallows had begun their evening hunt.

The boys, tired and hungry, pushed their boat up on the bank. One or two

were elated with their success, and had quite a string of fish to show;

the others, disappointed, had been arguing as to their want of luck, and

had subsided into silence.

"Whew!" said Lil's brother Charlie; "I smell something good; wish I was

home; awful hungry. How is it with you, Ted?"

"Voracious."

"And you, Sam?"

"Tired as that trout I chased and didn't kill."

"My! how gamy you are!"

Here the group came to a sudden halt. Two small maids appeared from the

woods, and making a profound courtesy to Charlie as leader, began a

speech.

"Those bothersome girls again!" whispered Billy Brittain.

"The Misses Pokeby and the Misses Sinclair have the honor to--to-- Oh,

Clara, what was I to say?" asked Ollie, blushing tremendously.

"Cut it short, please; we're so hungry," put in Charlie.

"Well, I will. We want you boys to come and get some supper which _we_

have prepared for you--a sort of picnic, you know."

The boys gave a shout, flung down their traps, and made for the water to

wash hands and faces, only Ted looked ruefully at his string of fish.

"What is the matter, Ted?" said Lil, coming up, with her face all

flushed from being over the fire.

"Why, I was wishing we could have some of these for supper; but it's no

matter, after all."

"Oh yes, it is. If you'll scrape and fix them, I can put them in the

frying-pan in a jiffy."

So Ted went to work with a will.

Never had the boys tasted anything half so nice as that supper; they ate

till they could eat no more. Lil scrambled eggs, and fried fish, and

made tea, till Ollie insisted upon it that she should sit down and be

served like a princess. Then they sang, and danced, and played games

till Mrs. Pokeby and Miss Sinclair came after them, and carried them all

home in Mr. Pokeby's big wagon.

"Really I never had more fun in my life," said Lil to Mrs. Pokeby, as

they bade her good-by at the farm gate; "and I am so much obliged to you

for letting us give that supper, though the getting it ready was the

best part."

"That's because you seasoned it."

"What with?" asked Lil, wondering.

"With work--actual work."

"Do you think so? Perhaps that's the reason boys have such good times."

"I dare say."

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 47, September 21.]

"MOONSHINERS."

BY E. H. MILLER.