line, and so rapidly does it travel that it always presents to the eye
the appearance of an unbroken line. It has not yet been possible to
measure its rate of speed, but it exceeds that of light, which is
185,000 miles in a second. Some of the flashes of lightning have been
estimated at more than ten miles in length, while those from five to
eight miles long are not so uncommon. The brilliancy of some of these
flashes is so great that cases are on record where a flash has rendered
the beholder incurably blind.
The idea that electricity and lightning were one and the same seems to
have been first entertained about the middle of the seventeenth century.
Many experiments were made to establish the relationship, but without
any decisive result, when one of our own countrymen, Benjamin Franklin,
gave a new impulse to the science. After a number of experiments, he was
impressed with the idea that a metal point raised to a great height in
the air would form a conductor for the electricity stored in the
thunder-clouds.
Too impatient to wait for the completion of a church steeple which he
intended to make use of in his investigations, he prepared a kite, using
silk to enable it to withstand rain, and with it made his early
experiments--at first privately, because of the fear that his neighbors
would ridicule an old man's kite-flying. He raised the kite during a
storm, and was delighted to feel, on applying his finger to the string,
a slight spark. For the first time man had succeeded in coaxing the
lightning from the clouds, and playing with it. This occurred in 1752.
Scientific men everywhere now began to devote themselves to the study of
electricity. It was discovered that lightning burns its way, setting
fire even to metals, and melting sand into glass by momentary contact. A
striking illustration of its intense heat are the fulgurites, or curious
glass tubes, produced from sand by lightning as follows: In certain
places, where the ground is formed of a particular kind of sand, and
lightning enters it from a cloud, the expansion of the air, as the
electricity rushes through, forces it back in all directions, and the
heat melts it into glass at the same time. These tubes have a diameter
of one or two inches, and ordinarily a length of two or three feet. The
interior surface is glazed, while the outside is formed of sand. Many
have been taken out of the ground entire, and placed in museums as
curiosities. It is said that fulgurites twenty to thirty feet in length
have been discovered.
The experiments of the men to whom we are indebted for our knowledge of
these marvels of nature are not always unattended with danger. In 1753,
Richman, a member of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences, had an iron
rod for the attraction of electricity erected on his house and continued
down into his study, in order to be better able to observe its effects.
During a violent storm he was working at some distance from the
conductor in order to be out of the way of the large sparks. He at last
incautiously approached too near, when a globe of bluish fire struck him
on the forehead, killing him instantly.
The following incident illustrates the danger of being in a direct line
with any article of iron during a storm. A number of people were
assembled in one room of a house, conversing and watching the play of
the lightning, when one of their number was struck and instantly killed
by a flash that came from overhead. The death of this one man and the
escape of all the rest were at first regarded as one of the freaks of
which lightning is frequently guilty, but a close search revealed the
fact that the accident was strictly in accordance with natural laws. It
was found that in the room above, there hung a saw, one end of it nearly
touching the floor directly over the man's head, while in the cellar
below were a number of iron tools, among them a crowbar standing in such
a position that the upper end of it was directly beneath his feet. His
body had therefore only been a connecting link in the chain along which
the lightning had travelled.
Another incident, but of a less tragic character, is the following.
During a violent thunder-storm lightning struck a farm-house; a ball of
fire descended through the chimney, and rolled across the floor of a
room in which three women and a child were sitting without injuring
them. It then rolled out through the kitchen, passing close to the feet
of a young man, and passed out through a crevice in the wall. It next
appeared in the pig-sty, and killed the pig without burning the straw on
which it lay.
In olden times, before the study of the natural sciences was undertaken,
every occurrence out of the common was thought to be an act of Divine
power. Even in our days this idea has not entirely died out, and in
those countries where people are ignorant lightning is still regarded as
a mark of God's anger and a visitation sent for the punishment of sin.
But with the spread of scientific knowledge it has been robbed of its
terrors, and in the lightning-rod a means has been given us of
attracting and controlling the electric current, and thus protecting
ourselves from harm.
[Illustration: POOR OLD DOBBIN!]
JUBE'S WATER-MELON.
BY WADE WHIPPLE.
It was one of the happiest moments of Jube Rosewood's life when, as he
was passing Farmer Tappan's melon patch one day, the owner hailed him,
and exclaimed:
"Jube, I promised you a reward for driving old Brindle home the other
morning, and now if you will jump over that fence and take your pick of
those water-melons, you can tote it along home with you."
Jube was one of the blackest little fellows that had ever basked in the
sunlight of a Georgia plantation, but his eyes and teeth flashed out
such a gleam of joy at this golden promise that his swarthy face seemed
like a dark lantern with the slide suddenly turned as he made the
delighted response:
"Mars' Tappan, you's fetched me right whar I's lierble ter feel mo'
bleedzd to yer dan ef yo'd sot me down in a merlasses bar'l. I'll be dar
'fo' yo' min' gits a chance ter drif out o' dat rut." With this Jube
bounded over the old rail fence, and in a moment was at Farmer Tappan's
side, gazing critically and with some little wonderment at the streaked
delicacies rounding out here and there from their lowly canopies of
green.
So eager was the happy boy to show his appreciation of the situation,
and of the possibility of the farmer's regretting his generosity, that
he sprang toward the first plump specimen of the oblong fruit which he
saw, and tapping its dainty shell, exclaimed:
"I reckon dis'n's 'bout my meshur, an' ef yo' sez de word, I'll onhitch
de goodie, an' 'scort it down to der Rosewood shanty wid yo'
compelments."
"All right, Jube," returned the farmer; "take it along if you can carry
it. The fruit isn't any bigger than the thanks I owe you, but I'm afraid
it _is_ a size or two beyond your strength to carry."
"Don't let dat onsettle yo', Mars' Tappan," said Jube, as he got down on
his "hunkies" to pick his prize package. "Dis chile's 'fection fo' dis
wegetable am strong 'nuff ter gar'nty dat it won' get outer reach atter
der grip's been tuk on it, an' dat yo' kin 'pen' on." With this remark
Jube broke the stem, and thrusting his arms under the curving ends of
his game, staggeringly lifted it from the ground.
Now Jube had a little brother at home who was every bit as big as that
water-melon, and because he had carried _him_ about very often in mere
play, he thought there would not be any trouble about managing this
inoffensive specimen of garden truck. Jube forgot, however, that the
water-melon didn't have any arms to catch hold with, and no wrinkly
trousers to catch hold of, and besides it was smooth and bunchy, and
would spoil a good deal easier if it should happen to drop. He had no
more than tottered through the rails that Farmer Tappan had let down for
him than he began to feel as if he had a baby elephant in his arms, and
before he had struggled a hundred feet down the road, he imagined the
elephant had grown big enough to be its own grandfather.
"I 'clar' ter sakes!" he exclaimed, as, turning a bend in the highway,
he was enabled unseen by the farmer to put his burden in keeping of a
moss bank for a while--"I 'clar' ter sakes ef dat ar' 'freshment don'
'pear ter be stuff' wid cookin'-stoves. 'Pears like ef a man wuz lookin'
fo' sumfin dat wuz easy ter drop, dis yarb'd come closer ter de mark dan
a bees' nes'." Then, apparently addressing the melon, he continued: "But
yo'm gotter come 'long wid me. I sot out ter see yer hum, an' dar's whar
yo'm gonter lan' up, 'less yo' grows till yo's de size ob a fo'-hoss
wagon."
Hereupon, Jube bent down to gather up his burden again, and after
bracing himself as if he was going to pull up a tree by the roots, and
gritting his teeth in a way that might have frightened a smaller melon,
he began to joggle himself along his journey once more. He had fixed his
trophy in such a way that his chest was made to form part of the
support, and with arms beneath for a prop, he bobbed along with his head
thrown away back to the rear of the procession, and his waist poked far
enough out in front to give the idea that he was sending it on ahead to
let the folks know he was coming. It was jostle and sway, and tug and
stagger, every inch of the way, and I am not sure but it would have
suggested to you a lone tumble-bug working his dirt-ball along a dusty
highway.
Coming to the top of a hill, the overburdened boy was obliged to rest
again, and depositing his responsibility upon a convenient brush heap,
he straightened out the kinks in his back, brushed the perspiration from
his brow with his shirt sleeve, and taking a long breath, again
addressed the unconscious water-melon.
"Well, dar! ef yo' hain't been swallyin' a stun fence, den my gumpshun's
slip out froo a crack somewhars sho 'nuff. Whatsumever's inside dat ar'
speckle hide o' yo'n dis chile dunno, but ef yo'm as wuff eatin' as yo'm
heaby totin', dar's mo' sweetmeats waitin' fo' der fam'ly whar I's gwine
ter interduce ye dan dey's had in a mont' er Sund'ys."
Here Jube took another survey of the situation, and as his eye followed
the range of the rather steep roadway, and rested on a whitewashed cabin
at its foot, a look of pleasure and confidence spread over his face as
he said:
"Dar's mammy's cabin, sartin. An' dar's whar dis yar water-million's
gwinter fotch up; an' ef dar's any mo' easier way o' gettin' it dar dan
losin' it, Jube hain't one o' der Rosewoods dat's 'quainted wid der
fac'."
It was but the work of a moment for Jube to get the melon to the brow of
the hill, and, poising it there, he gave it a rather smart push with his
foot, and away it went down the steep. At the start, the wobbly,
end-to-end movement by which it progressed indicated a rather tardy
arrival at the Rosewood estate, but rounding the first knoll, and
getting the sudden impetus of its dip, the enterprise of that fruit was
so remarkable that Jube, with his legs going like a pair of drumsticks,
could hardly keep up with it. Another bulge in the roadway jumped, and a
livelier pace was imparted to the melon, and, panting like a winded
hound, Jube threw out his half-shod feet with frantic energy, shouting
all the time:
"Hol' on dar! Hol' on dar! Yo'll lan' in de stun fence sho', an' squash
all yo' nat'al senses!"
Alas that the water-melon didn't take warning! As it reached the foot of
the hill, and passed the Rosewood cabin, where Jube's brothers and
sisters were wonderingly watching the chase, the boy's foot slipped on a
cobble-stone, and as the melon rolled into a little gulley, head-first
into its bulging surface landed the unfortunate Jube.
Was he hurt? Bless you, no. He was a little staggered, perhaps, but as
between him and the water-melon, had you been there to have witnessed
the result, you would surely have given your every ounce of sympathy to
the melon. It was turned completely inside out, and spread over the
grass-plot in every direction. Wasn't there a scene when Jube got
himself to rights, shook the melon pits out of his hair, and shouted:
"Hey! Heyo! Clem! Cuffle! Mimy! Zekal! Pheby! Shuffle ober here libely
an' he'p me sop up dese 'freshments. Dey's goin' to waste."
Almost in the wink of an eye about a dozen dusky youngsters were
assembled at the scene of the wreck, and as they distributed themselves
about the remains, and began a-feasting, the looks that gleamed from the
eyes bulging over the green rims of an array of fruit fragments told how
thoroughly they appreciated the inquest of Jube's water-melon.
[Illustration: JUBE'S WATER-MELON.]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
A dear little girl writes the Postmistress that she is very much
frightened whenever there is a thunder-shower. The sharp flashes of
lightning and the loud claps of thunder terrify her, and she always runs
and hides in her mamma's lap.
Well, darling Effie, you could not find a better place to hide. But I
want you to remember that the beautiful summer showers do a great deal
of good. Have you ever noticed how pure and sweet the air is after the
storm is over, and do you not love to watch the rainbow when its arch is
in the sky?
Once, dear, a long while ago, when I was a little girl, a very heavy
thunder-storm came up in the afternoon. It grew so dark that in the
school-room, where we girls were gathered for our lessons, we could not
see each other's faces. We put away our books, and our kind teacher told
us a story to divert our minds. By-and-by, when the sun shone, and the
sky looked blue, and the rain-drops glittered on the bushes and the long
blades of grass, we sang a beautiful German choral, and I have never
forgotten the opening words:
"It thunders, but I tremble not,
My trust is firm in God;
His arm of strength I ever sought
Through all the way I've trod."
* * * * *
GALVESTON, TEXAS.
Galveston is on the sea-coast, and has a splendid beach. There is a
beautiful pavilion on it, and a great many bathing-houses. I have
been bathing twice this summer, and it is perfectly delightful.
Several nights in the week they have music, and sky-rockets are
shot off. The beach is a great place for driving. Every evening
carriages and vehicles of every description are passing up and
down. The last time I was there a buggy ran over a little boy, and
he was badly hurt.
ETHEL T. S.
* * * * *
NEW YORK CITY.
I am a little St. Louis girl, but am now living in New York.
I am ten years of age, and have taken music lessons three years,
and like music very much.
I have a pet bird named Jimmie; he will eat out of my hand, and is
very tame.
My little brother Edgar is five years old, and mamma has just put
his first pants on him, and he looks so cunning marching round with
his hands in his pocket, and thinks he is quite a man. I almost
envy the little boys and girls who have nice gardens. I have one,
but it is a funny one; it is in a window, for we have no yard. We
live in a flat, but I am very fond of flowers, and so keep them in
a window. Some of your little readers may laugh at this, but it is
the best I can have, and it affords me a great deal of pleasure.
Mamma was reading in No. 138 a letter signed "C. Harold C.," from
Mount Vernon, New York, of a little boy who could not pronounce
_F_. If _his_ mamma will take him to a physician and have his
tongue examined, she may find that he is _tongue-tied_, although
you would hardly believe it. But my little brother was troubled the
same way; he would say _sishes_ for fishes, _shogs_ for frogs, etc,
etc. The doctor said he was tongue-tied and cut his tongue, and in
a few minutes he said _fishes_ as plain as any one. Mamma used to
try and make him say words with _F_ in in this way: she would say,
"Edgar, say _F_." He would pronounce _F_ very distinctly. Now mamma
would say, "Say _fishes_." But he could not. So one day _he_ says
to mamma, "Mamma, say _F_; now say mustard."
ROBIN D.
The little boy who can not pronounce "f" may be tongue-tied, and then
again he may not be. I knew a little girl once who spoke so very
peculiarly until she was ten years old that people wondered what queer
foreign language Minnie used. But all at once she began to talk plainly,
as she has done ever since without the help of a physician.
* * * * *
MONTREAL, CANADA.
I wrote you a letter some time ago, and asked you to print it; but
you did not, and you don't know how sorry I felt. I do hope you
will print this. I am ten years of age. I have two dear little
brothers, one named Mello and the other Garibaldi, and a sweet
little sister named Minnie; they all like YOUNG PEOPLE very much,
especially little Mello, who delights to sit for hours looking at
the pictures. I have two dear little pet squirrels, which we caught
on the mountain in little traps. We put a small piece of apple in
the trap, and set it on the fence that runs up the side of the
mountain, and it is great fun to watch them go in the traps. We
have caught more than a dozen that way. I have been to New York two
or three times, and to Philadelphia to see the Centennial
Exhibition. Did you go to it? and if so, don't you think it was
splendid? I go to school, and like it very much. I got the prize
for Grecian history this year. Don't you think that was very well
for a little girl only ten? I am going away next week to visit a
dear little girl named Dagmar, but I am only to stay about two
weeks, and when I return I hope to see my letter in YOUNG PEOPLE. I
think "Toby Tyler" is splendid, but I like Jimmy Brown's letters
best.
MAY R.
Of course, dear May, you set the little squirrels free soon after
catching them. Although they are very cunning pets, I can not help
feeling sorry for them when shut up in cages, for they so dearly love
their liberty, and are so merry when leaping from bough to bough in the
woods.
* * * * *
The cunning little letter which follows was the first effort of a wee
bit of a girlie whose papa had gone from home on a visit:
BIGELOW PLACE, CINCINNATI, OHIO.
DEAR PAPA,--I miss you _so_ much! We are going to have a
water-melon for dinner to-day. I love water-melons. But I love you
the best. We had a nawful storm yesterday, and it blew the roof off
a house on Walker Street. I guess the people got wet. My neck is
tired bending over. I wish you many happy returns.
Your little baby LULA.
* * * * *
Here is another bright little letter from a wee girlie to her papa:
Bridgehamton, Long Island.
DEAR PAPA,--I hope you will come this afternoon, and bring me
home--come after two o'clock; I will be all ready. I want to know
how many tricks you have taught Gip [Scotch terrier]? How large is
Gip? How are my kittens? I don't know whether they are dead; are
they? Are they fed? How is Tom [cat]? Please bring the puppy with
you when you come down, but don't fill his stomach with meat--'tis
too indigestible. I helped to hunt the eggs yesterday, and we got
over a hundred. Papa, I have a great many little mats, pretty as
silk, made out of thistles flattened out, and they are the
prettiest little thistles you ever did see, but they were the
coarsest little thistles when Mary [nurse] picked them, just like
"needles and pins." There are some little pet birds here, but we
don't have to feed them. We can't bring them home; we will have to
leave them here. This is the last of my letter; I can't write any
more. Do you want to know why? The flies are bothering me so.
LISA D.
* * * * *
UTICA, NEW YORK.
I am nine years old to-day. I received as a present a card album
that will hold 700 cards. We have a large yard, and in it a large
tent. I had a birthday party last year, and we had a supper in the
tent, at which fifty sat down at one time. I like "Mr. Stubbs's
Brother," and am so glad Abner did not die.
ARTHUR E. J.
* * * * *
BRADFORD, NEW HAMPSHIRE.
DEAR POSTMISTRESS,--I am a little girl of eleven, living in
Massasechem Valley beside a beautiful lake, which affords great
pleasure to many. I have three sisters and one brother. We have
twelve English Jacobin doves, a little shepherd dog, a lamb, and a
kitty for pets. I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE ever since it
was first published, and I enjoy the stories very much. I think
Ninetta's poem was real nice. She is just the age of my sister Ida.
I think Toby Tyler has a hard time losing his pets. He must feel
very sad and lonesome now Mr. Stubbs's brother is gone, but I hope
he will recover him soon.
MARIAN F. D.
* * * * *
THYATIRA, MISSISSIPPI.
I have written two letters to Our Post-office Box which have not
been published; however, I will try again. I have been taking YOUNG
PEOPLE for nearly two years. I like all the stories, but "Toby
Tyler" and "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" are the best of all. I am a
little boy ten years old. I work on the farm, but have just
finished, and began to go to school last Monday. I have no pets
except one sweet little sister; her name is Lucy, and she is just
the sweetest child in the world. She is fourteen months old, can
walk and talk some, and says, "Just lookie dar," and "Who is dat?"
JACK C.
* * * * *
SALEM, OREGON.
I am a little girl twelve years old. I live with my papa and mamma
on a large farm. I have three little sisters and one brother. I
have been taking HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for almost a year now, and
like it very much. I have not very many pets. I have a horse, a
little colt, and a cow with a calf. Mamma has two little Maltese
kittens, and they are very pretty. We spent one winter out in
Southern Oregon, where my papa owns a gold mine. It was very
lonesome there, as there were very few neighbors. My two sisters
and I go to school. The school-house is almost a mile from home. My
youngest sister is the baby; she is thirteen months old, but she
can not walk yet.
DEADIE A.
* * * * *
SUMMIT, NEW JERSEY.
I am a little boy eleven years and a half old. I have been taking
YOUNG PEOPLE since October, 1881, and like it very much. I have a
sister and brother, each younger than I, and we have three birds'
nests in our yard, and each one of the birds has four little ones.
We fed them when they were little, but the mother did not like it,
and one rainy day she threw one of them out of the nest, and we put
it back again, and she kept it, and we never fed the birds again. I
like "Talking Leaves" and Jimmy Brown's stories best, and I hope
Jimmy Brown will write some more soon.
R. M. G.
What a naughty mother-bird! But maybe she knew better than you did what
was good for her children. I think the little birdie must have fallen
out by accident.
* * * * *
LANSING, MICHIGAN.
The schools in our city have closed, and I am so glad, for we are
going away to spend vacation. We are going to a pleasant resort
called Harbor Point, on Lake Michigan, in the northern part of the
State. We have a cottage there, and have delightful times boating
and bathing in the surf. Does the Postmistress like the stories of
Charles Dickens, and if so, which is her favorite one? Here are two
verses I made up to-day:
Only a silver spoon,
Thin and battered and old,
Yet he thought he'd keep it for ever and e'er,
For ever and e'er to hold.
"Oh, take it not," said the maiden--
"Oh, take it not away,"
But the tramp put it in his pocket.
And went upon his way.
CHUB.
Yes, dear, I am very fond of all Charles Dickens's stories, and my
favorite one is, I think, _Our Mutual Friend_. Yet I am not sure, for I
like _The Tale of Two Cities_ very much, and I am about to read _Bleak
House_ for the fifth or sixth time. The little maiden in your verses
should have taken better care of her spoon.
* * * * *
WARETOWN, NEW JERSEY.
I am eight years old. I live in the country. I have a little
brother Fred, and a little baby sister Alice. We had for a pet a
shepherd dog named Colonel, but he ran away. I took YOUNG PEOPLE
last year, and Fred takes it this. I like "The Cruise of the
'Ghost'" best. Grandpa gave Fred and me a nice fishing-pole, and
takes us fishing, and sometimes we catch lots of fish. I have been
to school part of a term; it is vacation now. I wrote this myself.
I like to read the letters from the little girls and boys.
RALPH H. C.
* * * * *
CARROLLTON, MISSOURI.
My papa gave me YOUNG PEOPLE for a Christmas present; I like it
very much. I am ten years old. I have twenty-five dolls; my largest
is a wax doll thirty inches long. I have a play-house, a set of
furniture, a set of dishes, a little trunk, and a real little cook
stove that I can cook on. We have a swing and a hammock. I have a
dear papa and mamma, but no brother or sister. We have a
canary-bird. I wish the Postmistress would tell Jimmy Brown to
write some more.
EDITH C.