[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 88. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, July 5, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: CANOEING IN NEW YORK BAY.--DRAWN BY J. O. DAVIDSON.]
CANOES AND CANOEING.
BY NAUTILUS.
On the preceding page are several spirited pictures illustrating scenes
during the annual regatta of the New York Canoe Club, which took place
last week in the Upper Bay, off the club-house on Staten Island. The
central picture is of the sailing race, with several of the leading
canoes passing the light on Robbin's Reef. The tiny craft, none of which
is over fifteen feet in length, carry enormous sails for their size, and
only the greatest skill and care on the part of their skippers prevent
them from upsetting. A few years ago, only leg-of-mutton sails were used
on canoes; then came various forms of sprit-sails, lateens, and
lug-sails; until now, for racing purposes and light winds, the sail
known as the "balance-lug," and shown in the illustration, is the most
popular. Although it is a large sail, it is very easily handled, and can
be quickly reefed or lowered. It has two battens, or thin strips of
wood, sewed into pockets running horizontally across it, and these cause
it to set very flat, so that the canoes can sail close into the wind.
With these large sails, the racing canoe must, of course, carry heavy
ballast, which is usually in the form of several bags of shot of from
twenty to fifty pounds weight each, and often the ballast carried weighs
as much as the canoe itself. Sometimes the skipper sits up on the
windward gunwale of his canoe; but as a general thing he is content to
sit as low down in the bottom of his little craft as possible.
The small illustrations show the other races of the regatta, the
paddling, and the upset race. The latter is a race in which, at a
signal, all competing canoes must be capsized so that they are
completely upside down. The owners, who are thus left struggling in deep
water, must right their boats, get into them, if possible, and paddle to
the float, the one who reaches it first winning the race. This race not
only affords much amusement to the spectators, but is excellent practice
for the canoeist, who may thus teach himself how to act when
accidentally upset while on a cruise.
Canoeing is a sport which is rapidly increasing in popularity in this
country, and early next month the Annual Convention of the American
Canoe Association will be held on Canoe Island, in Lake George, where a
large number of canoeists will gather. Much business will be transacted,
a number of races will be contested, and canoes of every known model
will be exhibited during the three days of the Convention. During their
stay the canoeists will camp out on the island, and they expect to have
a jolly good time.
Canoes are of many styles, and range in price from $20 to $100. The
former are canvas canoes, and the latter are of cedar and oak or birch,
beautifully finished in every detail.
A number of boys have already written to the editor of this paper asking
him what style of canoe is the best. This question can only be answered
when it is accompanied by a description of the water on which the canoe
is to be used, and the purposes for which it is wanted. For paddling on
inland waters, and large carrying capacity, the birch is a good canoe;
but being open, and without a keel, it is a "wet" craft, and not adapted
for sailing. The canvas canoe, of which a description and directions for
building have already been given in YOUNG PEOPLE, is also good for
inland waters, is easy to paddle, can carry sail, and being decked over,
will keep a cargo dry. The "Racine" and "Nautilus" canoes are the best
for both paddling and sailing, and will stand heavy weather. The
"Shadow" and "Jersey Blue" canoes are the best for sailing, and are
generally preferred for salt-water cruising.
Any of the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE who desire further information
concerning canoes may address "Nautilus," and he will try to furnish it
through Our Post-office Box.
THE BELL-RINGER OF 1776.
BY MARY A. P. STANSBURY.
Up from the gateway of the dawn
The great sun lifted slow,
And touched with fire the State-house spire,
To eyes that watched with strong desire,
A hundred years ago.
The ringer's foot was on the stair--
A gray-haired man was he,
But firm of step and strong of arm,
With heart that, warm through night and storm,
Beat time to liberty.
"I'll climb the tower," he said. "My son,
Stay thou to bring me word,
And ere the glorious page be dry,
My bell and I, 'twixt earth and sky,
Shall bid the news be heard."
The boy's face from his father's eyes
Reflected radiance wore:
Hour after hour, the annals tell,
Young sentinel, he guarded well
The Senate-chamber door.
Hour after hour the shadow crept
Along the State-house wall:
The old man from his lofty seat
Saw in the street the people meet,
And looked upon them all--
Looked down upon the waiting throng,
And up with burning eye
To where the great bell silent hung,
And from the tongue a spider swung
Her slender thread on high.
He read the legend graven there--
His trembling lips were pale--
"Freedom through all the land proclaim."
"God keep its name and spotless fame,
Or rend it with His gale!"
The gray-haired ringer called aloud,
And backward thrilled again
A low vibration on the air,
As if, aware of that wild prayer,
The bell had cried, "Amen!"
Still crept the lengthening shadows on:
Hope from his sinking heart
Had well-nigh fled. He shook his head;
"Alas! they will not sign," he said;
His clasped hands fell apart.
But hark! a step that spurned the stair,
Glad hands that clapped for joy,
And upward still, and yet more near,
A young voice shouting full and clear--
"Ring, father!" cried the boy.
He sprang aloft; with both his hands
He grasped the iron tongue;
The strength of ten was in them then.
He swung it once--again--again,
And suddenly there rang
From every steeple round about
Such answering triumph-note,
It seemed that all the world must hear,
And cheer on cheer, afar and near,
Went up from every throat.
Was never such a glorious peal!
As when a cloud somewhere
Has burst around o'er all the ground,
So little rills of mellow sound
Went trickling here and there.
And still the people shouted loud;
No soul had room for fears;
Even she whose son at Lexington
The patriot-martyr's crown had won
Smiled through her falling tears.
The ringer's hand has turned to dust,
His hoary head lies low,
But still the Independence Bell
Is left to tell who rang so well
A hundred years ago.
[Begun in No. 80 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, May 10.]
THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST."
BY W. L. ALDEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," ETC.
CHAPTER IX.
The Great South Bay, the eastern half of which is often called Moriches
Bay, is separated from Quantuck Bay by a neck of land less than a mile
wide. Through this neck a narrow channel was cut many years ago, and the
ebb and flow of the tides have scoured it out, until it is now ten or
twelve feet deep in many places. The _Ghost_, after passing Sunday at
anchor, sailed gayly up the channel on Monday morning, until she was
unexpectedly stopped by a bridge, and her crew found themselves again
compelled to take the mast out. She was brought close to the side of the
bridge, and made fast, for the tide was running rapidly, and the boys
went ashore to devise means for unstepping the mast.
"It's going to be hard work," said Charley, "but I think we can do it.
We can take the throat halyards and use them for a tackle, and we ought
to be able to hoist that mast out."
"Let's try the plan we tried at the Coney Island bridge," said Joe.
"We had two colored men to help us then," said Charley, "but they're not
here."
"Somebody will be here before long. Look at the road. There's a great
deal of travel on it, and if we wait a while we'll be sure to have some
help."
"But we don't want to ask people to help us," urged Charley. "We ought
to be able to get along without help."
"If people want to help us, why shouldn't we let them?" said Harry.
"Let's get everything ready for hoisting the mast out, and then if
anybody comes along and offers to help us, it would be ridiculous for us
to say no."
By the time the halyards were unrove, a wagon-load of men on their way
to the beach, drove up, and stopped to look at the _Ghost_. "You can't
get that mast out alone," said one of the men; "we'll just lift it out
for you." They did so, and then, after the boat had been brought to the
other side of the bridge, they were about to step the mast, when one of
them said, "If you boys are going right through to Shinnecock Bay, you'd
better not step that mast till you get to the other side of the Quogue
bridge."
"Is there another bridge that we've got to go under?" asked Charley.
"There's one on Quogue Neck, about a mile from here, and it won't be
worth while for you to try to sail that distance, and then have to get
your mast out again."
This was so evident that the boys at once decided to pole across
Quantuck Bay. The mast was therefore laid along the deck, and after
rowing the _Ghost_ through the deep channel into the shallow water of
Quantuck Bay, they poled her swiftly toward the entrance of the channel
that led to Shinnecock Bay.
It was easy enough to see where the entrance to the channel was, but it
was not an easy thing to reach it. The water was so shallow that the
boat continually ran aground. A dozen times the boys had to turn back
and try a new route, and more than once they had to get overboard to
push the boat clear of a sand-bank. It took them nearly four hours to
cross a bay that was less than a mile wide, and when they at last
reached the entrance to the Shinnecock ditch, it was long after their
lunch-time.
"There's another fog coming up," exclaimed Charley, looking toward the
southwest. "This is too bad."
"And what makes it worse is that the wind has all died out," remarked
Tom.
"We have had all kinds of weather since we started on this cruise,"
continued Charley. "Now I made sure that after the gale we had
yesterday, we should have clear weather for a while."
"Let's get through to Shinnecock Bay, anyhow," said Harry. "We may be
able to get as far as the light-house before the fog shuts down on us."
The oars were immediately got out, for the water was now too deep for
poling, and Tom and Harry rowed the _Ghost_ slowly up the ditch. It was
literally a ditch, having been lately dug to connect the two bays,
between which there had been no water communication for many years. Half
way to Shinnecock Bay was the Quogue bridge. Here too the boys met some
gentlemen, who had been snipe-shooting, and who helped them step the
mast. It was not, however, worth while to set the sail, for there was
not a breath of air stirring, and so the oars were resumed, and through
the thick fog the _Ghost_ proceeded into Shinnecock Bay.
"We might as well keep on till six o'clock," said Charley. "If we steer
about north-northeast by compass, we will get somewhere. I don't know
exactly where, but at any rate we can't go far out of our course. The
chart doesn't show any inlet into Shinnecock Bay, so we can't possibly
get out to sea."
"The tide is running into the bay, and it was running pretty strong at
the bridge. We can drift along with it, and row very easy," said Tom.
"How far down is the light-house?" asked Joe.
"Well, it's half way down the bay, so it can't be more than five miles
from where we are. We can certainly get there before night."
So the two oarsmen rowed easily onward, without bending their backs
enough to tire themselves, and frequently resting altogether and letting
the boat drift. Joe grew restless after a time, and threw himself down
on his back on the bottom of the boat, and began to sing. This was more
than Harry could stand, for Joe's singing reminded every one who heard
it, of the singing of a cat on the back fence. Harry tried to poke him
gently with an oar, but unluckily he hit the compass, knocked it over,
and broke it.
"Now we're in a nice fix," exclaimed Charley. "We won't find the
light-house to-night, and the best thing we can do is to try to find the
shore."
"Here's a little cat's-paw," said Tom. "Sha'n't we get the sail up?"
"I suppose we might as well. The wind is probably from the southwest,
for that is the way it was blowing this morning."
The sails were set, and as the breeze increased, the _Ghost_ began to
skim over the water.
"What are we going to do when we reach the east end of Shinnecock Bay?"
asked Charley, after a while.
"Why, I suppose," Harry replied, "we'll have to turn round and sail back
again."
"Why not get over into Peconic Bay, and come home through the Sound?
According to the chart, the two bays are only a mile apart at Canoe
Place, and there is a pond half a mile wide lying just in the middle of
the neck of land that separates them, so we should only have to make two
carries of a quarter of a mile each."
"But how do we know that there isn't a big hill, or something of that
kind, in the way?" asked Harry.
"The reason why it is called Canoe Place must be that the Indians used
to carry their canoes across from one bay to the other. Now if canoes
can be carried across, the road can't be very hilly. The chances are
that we should find nothing worse than a level meadow, and if we could
get a team of horses, I believe we could get the _Ghost_ into Peconic
Bay."
"It strikes me," interrupted Joe, "that we'd better find out where we
are now before we lay plans for what we're going to do next week. We may
sail around in this fog and never find the shore for three or four
days. This must be a pretty big bay, for there's a regular long swell
here."
"Oh, nonsense, Joe! we'll come to land in a few minutes now," replied
Charley.
"You weren't with us the time we were lost in a fog on Brandt Lake.
That's a little bit of a lake, but we rowed nearly all night before we
struck the shore."
"Never mind about that now, Joe," said Tom. "We want to talk about
Charley's plan for getting into the Sound. I'm in favor of it if it can
be done, for it would be a great deal better than sailing back over the
same ground twice."
"Same water, you mean," suggested Joe.
"Of course I do. Boats don't sail on the land, do they? Hullo! here is a
young squall."
"And a very lively one it is. I wish it would blow the fog away,"
exclaimed Charley.
"It's getting chilly," said Harry. "I should like to get ashore and
build a good fire.'"
"What do you say about going home through the Sound, Harry?" asked
Charley.
"I say let's do it by all means, if we can."
"What do you say, Joe?"
"The Sound can't be any wetter than the South Bay, so I'm in favor of
trying it," replied Joe.
"Then we'll consider it settled that we sail to the end of Shinnecock
Bay, and then go to Canoe Place and cross over to Peconic Bay. Slack
those peak halyards a little, will you, Tom. If this squall lasts, we
shall have to put in a reef."
The wind was now blowing so fresh that in almost any other circumstances
the young Captain would have reefed the mainsail, but he was in constant
expectation of reaching the shore. The long swell which gently rocked
the boat was very unlike the short swells of the Great South Bay.
"There's something very strange about this," said Charley. "We must have
sailed at least ten miles, and the bay is only ten miles long. Why
haven't we struck the shore?"
"How long ago was the chart made?" inquired Tom.
"I've had it--or rather father has had it--over three years," said
Harry.
"An inlet may have opened into Shinnecock Bay since that chart was
made," said Tom. "New inlets do open into these bays in winter storms,
for I've read of such things in the newspaper."
"Try if you can touch bottom with an oar. I'm pretty sure you can't,"
said Charley.
Tom tried, but could find no bottom.
"Then, boys, we'll haul down the mainsail and jib, and let her drift for
a while."
[Illustration: OUT AT SEA.]
The _Ghost_ came up in the wind, and the sails were dropped and furled.
"Now," resumed Charley, "I want you to keep cool, and not to let
yourselves get frightened. The truth is, boys, that we are out at sea."
"But we can't be," cried Harry. "There isn't any inlet."
"There must be an inlet," Charley replied, "and we've drifted out
through it. This swell is the swell of the Atlantic. It's impossible to
have anything like it in a little shallow bay."
"What shall we do?" asked the boys, all together.
"We can't do anything till the fog lifts, and we find out where we are.
The compass is gone, we don't know which way the wind is, and we can't
even hear the surf. The only thing to do is to wait for clear weather."
While they were talking, the sea had begun to break into white caps, and
Charley ordered the mainsail to be set close reefed. "If we don't get
some sail on her," he explained, "we shall have the water coming
aboard."
"But we may be running further away from the land all the time," said
Harry.
"Very likely; but we can't help ourselves, for we must keep steerage-way
on her, and keep her from getting swamped. We'll sail as close to the
wind as we can. If the wind is southwest, and if we keep it on our port
bow, we shall be drifting in toward the shore, and if it's blowing from
some other direction, we sha'n't be making headway enough to do much
harm."
"You know best," said Tom. "We'll do as you say."
"I would give almost anything," continued Charley, "if the fog would
only lift. However, the wind must blow it away."
"We must have gone out of the inlet when we were letting her drift with
the tide; but why we didn't notice it I can't understand," remarked
Harry.
"There was no wind at the time, and we were busy talking," said Charley.
"Come to think of it, we never noticed that we couldn't hear the surf
until just now. I remember hearing it when we were in the ditch, but I
haven't the least idea when we lost the sound of it."
"The fog is breaking," cried Joe. "It's clear overhead."
"And the wind is rising fast," added Charley, "and the sea is getting
up. In another half-hour we sha'n't dare to keep the mainsail on her,
for there will be too much of it, even though it is close reefed."
Joe and Charley were both right. The fog was growing thinner, and the
wind was rising, but the wind rose even faster than Charley had
predicted. In the course of the next twenty minutes it was blowing so
hard that it was no longer safe for the _Ghost_ to carry her mainsail.
Charley ordered it to be hauled down, the jib to be set, and the boat to
be put before the wind. The moment the jib filled, the _Ghost_ started
away like a runaway horse, but whether she was heading for the beach or
for the Bermuda islands it was impossible to guess. For another
half-hour the fog hung around them, and then all at once it vanished
like a curtain that is suddenly drawn up. The boys eagerly looked in
every direction for land. None was visible except in the northwest,
where the low gray line of Long Island, and the slender tower of a
light-house, could be faintly seen at a distance of at least twelve
miles. The wind blew directly from the land, and the impossibility of
beating back to the shore was manifest.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: "AND BLEW AS HE'D NOT BLOWN SINCE HE WAS BORN."]
JEREMY BLACK'S FOURTH OF JULY.
BY HOWARD PYLE.
"I'll make a noise," said Jeremy Black,
As the days drew nigh
To the Fourth of July;
"I'll make more noise than a cannon, or pack
Of fire-crackers, or pistol, or gun,
Or cannon-cracker; I'll have more fun,
With fifty cents, than the rest of the boys
With a dollar's worth of powder and things--
With fifty cents I will make more noise
Than all the rest of the town, by jings!"
So he went down
To Abraham Brown,
The tinker back of the Blue Bell Inn,
Who mended the pans for all the town,
And he got him to make a Thing of tin.
Then both of them tinkered and talked and planned,
Between the mending of pot and kettle.
And drew the patterns with chalk in hand,
Until they managed the thing to settle;
And all the boys were eager to know
What kind of a Thing they kept tinkering so.
Was it anything like a cannon, or rocket,
Or Roman candle, or pin-wheel, or gun?
Was it small enough to go into his pocket?
Or could he lift it when it was done?
Would the thing go off, or would powder go in it?
And a dozen of such like questions a minute.
But Jeremy Black just gave a sly wink,
And they could not tell what in creation to think.
So Fourth of July came around at last,
And the day was fresh and the sun was bright;
Then just as soon as the night was passed,
At the earliest dawn of the dewy light,
The boys turned out
With noise and rout,
And loud halloo and lusty shout,
And racket of crackers, and boom and pop,
And ringing of bells, and sizz and splutter,
Till good folks trying to sleep would stop,
And get up and close the window and shutter.
But Jeremy Black just turned in his bed,
And down in the pillow he nestled his head,
And thought, with a grin,
How the Thing of tin
Would make enough noise to drown the din.
At length he arose and dressed himself.
And afterward managed his breakfast to eat;
Then took the Thing from the wood-house shelf,
And carried it with him out in the street.
Now all the boys came running to see
What ever the wonderful Thing could be--
And, lo! 'twas a fish-horn six feet long.
"Now stand a little away," said he,
"And you'll hear a noise so loud and strong
And deep and mighty that it will drown
All popping of guns and cannons in town."
Then all the boys stood back, while he
Stepped up to the fire-plug under the tree,
And rested thereon the end of the horn,
Then took a breath that was long and deep,
And blew as he'd not blown since he was born;
And out from the Thing came--never a peep!
He stopped, and wiped his mouth for a minute,
Then blew as if the dickens were in it.
He blew till the hair stood up on his head;
He blew till everything swam around;
He blew till his forehead and ears grew red;
But out of the horn came--never a sound.
At first the boys were half afraid
Of the terrible sound that would soon be made;
But after a while they began to chaff.
And then to giggle, and then to laugh.
Poor Jeremy knew that the noise was there--
It only required a little more air.
Once more he blows, till his muscles strain:
Not a sound. And then he began to know,
Though he had endeavored with might and main,
The horn was too large for _him_ to blow.
_L'Envoi._
As one goes over this world of ours
One frequently finds a Jeremy Black,
Who overrates the natural powers
The Fates have granted him--somewhat slack.
Those people who build, though they may not know it,
A horn so large that they never can blow it.
WAS THE DAY A FAILURE?
BY KATE R. McDOWELL.
Had you known the Oliver family, many things would have shown you that
Fourth of July was near at hand. Especially did the Oliver wood-shed
herald its approach. That heap of tin cans in the corner had accumulated
by Maggie the cook's promising the boys that she would open all winter
the vegetables, soups, and fruits with greatest care, and see that not
one of the cans found its way into the ash-barrel.
"We can't have too many," said Hugh, taking one from the pile; "for you
know we all agreed that sending them up was the most fun of all last
year. How we did keep them whizzing!"
In another corner stood a good-sized hand-cart.
"Halloo!" exclaimed Hugh; "you've got that on hand in good season. Now
are you sure of the place, Dug? If we go so very early, it may be rather
dark, you know."
"Oh, I can find it. I was there with Eugene the day before he went away.
It's where a basket shop used to be, and the chips are in piles, some of
them three feet high. We couldn't ask anything better--ash, too, regular
blazers. They'll make a glorious bonfire."
"And as we are going in to Boston in the evening to see the fire-works,
why, we must have it early as we can in the morning," remarked Hugh.
The next morning, as Douglas fancied himself on the point of lighting a
huge fire-cracker that was to send up an enormous can with a picture of
thirty-eight tomatoes on it, Hugh substituted a sound shaking for the
expected explosion.
"Hush," said he, in answer to Douglas's remonstrances. "It's been
raining."
"_Raining!_" repeated Douglas, in a tone as though rain on the Fourth of
July were an impossible occurrence, and as unseasonable as a snow-storm.
"Raining!"
Five minutes later, Hugh and Douglas were out of sight and hearing, as,
each with a hand on the cart, they ran lightly down the hill, and turned
off at the first side road, walking and running by turns until Douglas
announced, "Here we are!"
"And so evidently is somebody else," added Hugh, as two little figures
were noticed by the chip pile, rapidly filling a large basket.
"They've come!" the boy had just whispered to his sister.
"Halloo!" cried Douglas. "Goin' to celebrate?"
"No, sir," in a girl's voice; "we uses 'em, sir."
Whether the announcement that any one could be gathering chips without
intention of celebrating was a revelation to Douglas, or whether the
"sir" pleased him, is uncertain, but something had the effect of making
him ignore Hugh's "Do come ahead, Dug, and help fill," as, suiting
action to word, his brother threw an armful of the light wood into the
cart.
"You don't get up so early as this every morning?" queried Douglas, with
surprise.
"Only since the day we heard you and another talk of coming here to get
wood for to-day. Since then we've worked pretty steady," said the girl,
with a weary smile.
"Hear this, Hugh, will you!" cried Douglas. "They overheard Eugene and
me planning to come here, and we're taking their wood."
"Oh no, you're not," said the girl, quickly. "It's nobody's but those as
gets it."
"Of course, Dug," frowned Hugh, impatiently. "Don't stand talking there.
Come on and fill, can't you. They've probably their wood-house crammed
by this time, anyway."
"Oh no," said the girl, turning to Hugh. "It's so far, sir. We can't lug
more nor ten baskets a day."
"Far!--where?" still questioned Douglas, as Hugh went to work again.
"You'll see when the fog lifts. The red cottage by the brook."
"What! not 'way down by the mill?"
"Yes, sir," said the girl, as she shook the basket, and piled some more
chips on top. "Come, Dick, this is your side," and off they started in
the light rain that was beginning to fall.
"Poor little things," said Douglas, "I haven't the heart to take their
wood," and he threw some chips indifferently into the cart. "Oh, Hugh,
I've a plan," and his face lit up. "Let's give 'em a lift--this cartful;
will you?"
Hugh deliberated. It was raining. The bonfire might as well be given up.
As the cart was filled, the mill children might as well have it. He only
wished it had been his plan instead of Douglas's.
It seemed but an instant later that the chips were shaking merrily in
the cart, as the boys started to overtake the little laborers; and they
were not entirely quieted when both children were carefully lifted to a
seat and told to hold on firmly.
"Ain't it splendid!" whispered Dick Ransom, loudly, to his sister. "Now
I can play on me bones and hunt fire-crackers all day; can't I, Jinny?"
almost losing his hold in delight at thought of a holiday. "Oh, _ain't_
it splendid! We're 'goin' as fast as Dr. Phisterer, ain't we, sis?"
Jenny smiled. "Won't granny be pleased?" was all she said, while the
chips seemed to dance again at her thought.
As you may have guessed, more than one load found its way to the red
cottage that morning. Three times did the Oliver boys heap the cart, and
three times did little Dick Ransom fancy he was Dr. Phisterer as he sat
perched up on the chips, having the best Fourth of July he had ever
known.
As the Oliver family was breakfasting it commenced to rain hard.
"The day is going to be a perfect fizzle," announced Hugh. "It'll be no
fun staying out; besides, nothing will go off. Imagine being cooped in
the house all day!"
The twins looked disconsolate.
"Cheer up," said Douglas. "We can put off some torpedoes in the attic if
it comes to the worst; and, best of all, we'll be back with the two
Wills in less than no time, and they always think up something."
The boys were at the station soon after, Hugh keeping two bombshells in
readiness to be fired the moment the two Wills got off the train.
"I'll signal," said Douglas, his eyes on the off-coming passengers; but
he had no need, for there was no Will Edson and no Will Hammond aboard.
"Missed the train," decided Douglas, a shadow on his usually happy face.
"Let's see if there's a telegram. Good! there is," as the operator
handed him an envelope.
Both read it, and each looked blankly at the other.
"Well, I never thought of their _not coming_."
"A perfect fizzle," said Hugh, pocketing the bombshells with a frown of
disappointment. "The whole day--just as I told you."
"We may as well go home"--in Douglas's voice, but without its usual
ring, as they slowly left the waiting-room.
"We mustn't let the weather get the best of us," said Douglas, as they
reached home. "We can at least give the others a good time."
So they went up stairs, and played nine-pins with the boys, and were
targets for their torpedoes, until the attic rang with merry shouts.
"The little ones are having quite a day, after all," thought Mrs.
Oliver, a pleased smile on her face, "and Bridget at last has that
long-promised _morning out_."
Another disappointment came with dinner--a dispatch from Mr. Oliver,
stating that he was called on urgent business out of Boston, and
preferred the boys did not come into town alone.
"That caps the climax," said Hugh, abruptly leaving the table. "And it's
clearing up, too. I should think papa might take one holiday in the year
for a change."
The boys had their heads together after dinner. Hugh had made up his
mind to accept the situation; indeed, he had done more than that in
going on with the train of thought that Douglas's unselfish suggestions
of the morning had opened to him.
"Why, it's a splendid idea, Hugh," Douglas was saying. "Maggie will get
us cloths and water, and we'll lock the library doors."
"They're fixin' the magic lantern," said the twins, as the children
stood three or four deep outside the door.
"P'r'aps tabberlows," ventured little Edith, remembering her success at
the Child's Hospital benefit, and determining to stay within call all
afternoon.
"Listen," advised the twins.
"Shakspeare here," they heard in Hugh's voice, "and Dickens there.
That's just exactly as they were."
"It's tabberlows," sobbed tired Edith on nurse's shoulder, as they all
went up for an afternoon nap.
"Yes," said the twins, as they toiled up the stairs after her. "We
remember that very one."
It was about four o'clock when Mrs. Oliver came to the door. "What is
going on?" she inquired. "Can not you let me in? I've some news for
you."
"We're just about through," they called, and a moment later opened the
door.
The mother's face expressed just the surprise and pleasure the boys had
looked for.
"If you knew how I had been dreading it," said Mrs. Oliver, after they
had talked it all over, "I could give you some idea of the relief I
feel. I'd been thinking that I must send for Mrs. Sanleitner, and give a
day right up to it, have every book taken out, the shelves dusted,
and--But you've done it all," her eyes again on the boys' work of a few
hours past; "and now that the children are asleep, Bridget can come in
with her chamois, and polish the doors."
"Yes, do have her," urged the boys, "and give papa a thorough-going
surprise."
"To match the one I have for you," said Mrs. Oliver. "Dr. Phisterer has
been here, and asked if I had two boys that would answer to his
description, and I had to confess I had. He then went on to say that he
and Freddy were going into town at half past four, and asked if he might
take charge of my boys as well."
"You don't mean it! Hurrah!" they cried, waving their dusters. "Hope
he'll take the bays; they're awfully fast."
"I don't care what he takes, so long as we get in town in time for the
fire-works. Dr. Phisterer evidently thinks it is going to clear."
"Clear!" exclaimed Mrs. Oliver, throwing open the blinds. "You're so
shut up in here, you don't know the state of the weather."
The sun had come out.
"I wonder if we'll have time-- But there he is this minute;" and Douglas
rushed out on the piazza, calling, "Dick! Dick!"
The boy approached slowly, his hands behind him. "It's one as has been
used," he said, producing a fire-cracker he had picked up in the yard.
"I didn't call you for that," said Douglas, hurriedly. "Didn't know you
had it. Here are some good ones--wait; these too. Give some to--"
But two bare feet were flying in the air. The putting into Dick Ransom's
hand of three unopened packs of crackers had deadened his sense of
anything else. He gave a sort of a whoop as he darted down the mill
road, which had the effect of rousing the neighborhood, and of making
scores of flying feet the principal things to be seen.
The Oliver boys talked in something of this strain when they got back
from town that night:
"Didn't those horses fly!"
"Isn't Dr. Phisterer splendid!"
"I never knew Fred was so nice a fellow."
"Will you ever forget the surprise of the two Wills as we dashed by the
Edson's?"
"'Twas rich; and then our meeting father before we'd gone a mile."
"And with Colonel Yale! I thought of the library right away."
"So did I; and you heard how delighted papa was; said he'd been thinking
all the way out if he'd only attended to having those books
straightened; for Colonel Yale has one of the finest collections, you
know."
"Oh yes; but do you know," interrupted Douglas, "that we haven't yet
touched upon the best thing of all?"
"What do you mean?" asked Hugh.
"Why, when they put off that big piece of 'General Washington on his
Horse,'and the crowd were all 'Ohs' and 'Ahs' over it, I thought, 'If
mamma could only be here!' for 'twas so much grander than I expected;
and then to look up, and see not only her, but papa and Colonel Yale,
each holding up one of the twins, why, I just joined in the
hip-hip-hurrah with all my might."
"The twins' verdict of the day wasn't bad?"
"What was it?"
"That they didn't believe anybody could ever have a better _Fourth o'
Ju' New-Years_."
[Illustration: GRANDPA'S DRUM.--DRAWN BY J. E. KELLY.]
[Illustration: YOUNG SOLDIERS.--"CHARGE BAYONETS!"]
FOURTH OF JULY IN KERIM.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"Now, you boys, what on airth are you a-doin' with that there ellum?"
"Is that you, Squire Garnsey?" responded a very youthful voice from the
darkness, many feet above the pile of rubbish at the foot of the tree,
and against which more was at that moment heaping. "Now, Squire, don't
you think this dead wood has stood here long enough?"
"What are you a-doin' with it?"
"We're going to let all Kerim know Fourth of July's come, quick as it
strikes twelve."
"That's it, is it? I declare! what a swarm of 'em there is, and how they
do work! Never saw the like of it. It's a fact, though, that old dead
ellum's been an eye-sore on the green these three year."
It was not far from the centre of the broad but somewhat ill-kept open
space in the middle of the village of Kerim, and the fact of its
deadness may have been due to its use as a hitching-post for country
people coming to church on Sundays, and for the academy boys to try
their knives on of week-days. It was about thirty feet high, but it had
never borne any fruit. Elms rarely do, but there were boys enough in
that one now.
"Squire Garnsey," piped another voice at his elbow, "they're a-greasin'
the tree so's it'll burn good."
"I declare! And I kem out here on purpose to put a stop to bonfirin'.
It'll make the tallest kind of a blaze, it will."
He was a tall man himself, and broad-shouldered, and grim-faced, but he
was puzzled for once. What should he do? All the great men of Kerim had
solemnly decided that there should be no Fourth of July that year; no
fire-works; no bonfires; no parade; no cannonading; no anything. People
with too much patriotism were free to go over to Plumville, three miles
east, and join the goings on there; but Kerim was to be a quiet village
all day.
The boys had not been taken into that council of great men. Not one of
them had been permitted to utter his voice in it; but they all uttered
as much voice as they had as soon as the tyrannical decision was made
public. Even now another of the shadowy speakers in the dead elm-tree
defiantly announced:
"Yes, sir. We've been a-gatherin' of grease and tar and things these
three weeks. It's after 'leven o'clock, now. Just you wait and see."
"I declare! Here's another lot of 'em comin'. There's a heap of public
spirit into our boys. My grandfather he fit at Bunker Hill. I say,
boys?"
"No, we won't. It's pretty nigh greased now, and the branches are tied
full of things. It'd be a shame not to fire it off."
"So it would--so it would. Washington was a great man. I say, boys,
there's a half-bar'l of tar over in my wood shed, and it's more'n a
quarter full. If you'd git it, and paste the trunk of that ellum with
tar--"
"Hurrah for Squire Garnsey!" shouted a pretty deep voice near him.
"That's the talk. We're going to have a celebration tomorrow, Squire.
None of our boys are going over to help the Plumvillains have a good
time."
"I like that. I'm for home industry myself."
Four boys and a wheelbarrow were already on a clean run toward the
Squire's front gate, across the green; but just then the sharp piping
note at his elbow broke out again with, "Yes, sir; and Mr. Mortis is
going to give us a 'dress, and Bill Allen's going to read the Decoration
of Inderpendence."
"Good!" again remarked the Squire. "I don't know exactly what to make of
myself, and I don't know what folks'll say, and somehow I feel as ef I
was beginnin' not to keer. Boys, it'll be Fourth of July in less 'n half
an hour."
"We're 'most ready. We've kept still about it, Squire, but we've laid up
stuff to burn, we have."
The pile at the foot of the old elm looked like it, and no one could
guess how they had daubed the branches. That, too, was nothing to the
way they daubed the trunk of it after the tar came.
"Look a-here! how are we to get down? We can't climb over all that tar."
"Stay up there," responded the deep tones of Mr. Mortis, the "speaker of
the day" that was to be. "You'll look first-rate when you're lighted
up."
"I declare!" exclaimed Squire Garnsey. "Boys, throw a rope around that
lower limb. They'll have to come down sailor fashion."
So they did, and no less than seven boys, of different sizes, were
compelled to make use of that rope. There was evidently a good deal of
"public spirit" among the younger generation of the people of Kerim.
The older people, with the single exception of the broad-shouldered
Squire, had gone to bed at a healthy hour that evening, well assured
that for once no patriotic racket would disturb their open-windowed
slumbers. A quieter village there was not in the whole United States
until just before the town clock prepared for the duty of telling them
it was midnight.
The clock got ready. So did the Kerim boys. Squire Garnsey remarked,
"I'll walk away a little, boys, so's I can see it burn."
Then a dozen matches were scratched at the same moment, and as many
wisps of tarred paper were lighted and put in positions to do the most
good.
How they did flash up, and how the fire did run! It was well there were
no boys in that tree.
Bang! bang! bang!
"If they haven't managed to git out three anvils!" remarked the Squire.
"Hear them guns. Crackers, too. Tin horns. They're workin' a hoss-fiddle
on the back fence. There never was sech a racket in this 'ere town
before. No, nor sech a blaze either. It beats a house a-fire."
So it did, but there was no insurance on the old elm.
When the good and quiet people around that square, on all sides except
the one where the meeting-house and the academy stood, sprang out of bed
and rushed to their windows, you could have read print, if it were large
enough, anywhere about the middle of the green. And every head out of
every window had something special to say about "those boys."
Up shot the flame over the pile of boxes and barrels, and the heap of
broken boards and fence rails; up the well-tarred trunk, with a fierce
fizzing and spluttering, and then it sprang along the boughs, and
mounted and mounted, until every head at the windows was compelled to
remark, also, "What on earth's got hold of that there tree?--it burns as
if it was rosin."
Fourth of July had come, and all Kerim knew it; but before
breakfast-time it was equally well known that the boys were going to
have a "celebration," with all the regular honors.
"Mr. Mortis?" said everybody; "why, he can't make a speech. Bill Allen?
It ought to have been one of the trustees, or somebody."
Perhaps so; but the old folks had thrown the day away, and the boys had
picked it up, and they worked at it like a swarm of bumble-bees.
By noon there was a big lumber wagon pulled out close to the spot where
the elm-tree had been.
It was a curious fact, but there were numbers of other wagons pulled up
near that one before two o'clock, and a good many of the Kerim people
had unexpected visitors of country friends from beyond Kerim, who said
"they'd a sight ruther stay and hear the home doin's than go on to
Plumville."
There was public spirit in them, and the thing spread so fast that when
two o'clock came, and Mr. Mortis climbed into the wagon, followed by
Bill Allen, and as many more of the boys as could get in, every man in
Kerim who thought himself at all eloquent envied them the very
respectable audience gathered around the elm-tree ash heap and the
"celebration."
Mr. Mortis was barely twenty, but he was studying law, and the boys had
picked him out because, as Bill Allen said: "He's got more voice than a
bull. What we want is noise."
They got it from Mr. Mortis, and the whole crowd got a big surprise with
it, for the "'dress" was wonderfully good. Bill Allen, too, did his part
well, and read the "Decoration of Inderpendence" as if it were something
in which he took a personal interest. Old Squire Garnsey stepped right
forward at the end of it to say,
"Bill Allen, you read that thing just prime."
"I didn't make it up, though."
"And, Mr. Mortis, I'm proud of you. All Kerim is. We'd no idee you could
do it."
"I knew it was a good one," said Mr. Mortis, calmly. "It's one Governor
Skyward made ten year ago. There wasn't any use of me trying to get up a
better one, so I took his'n. Guess I made everybody on the green hear
it."
That was precisely what he had done for the great speech of Governor
Skyward, and it was more than anybody else had ever done for that crowd.
As for the boys, they had won the day. That is, they had kept it from
the very minute it began--only there was no dead elm-tree left in the
middle of the green.
"There'll be heaps of public spirit in Kerim after this," said Squire
Garnsey to the other trustees; but they all shook their heads very
solemnly, and made no reply.
CHERRIES.
BY EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.
Who can tell how cherries grow,
From the blossoms' fragrant snow;
From the balls of green that hide
Under glossy leaves, spread wide,
Till they glisten, every one,
Red as rubies in the sun;
Swelling, warming, till they shine,
Filled with summer's rosy wine?
Five little babes in a basket,
Up on a swinging bough:
"Open your mouths," said the mother,
"Here is a feast for you now."
Mother and babies think it prime
That cherries ripen in robin-time.
Five curly heads at a window,
Watching the merry crew:
"Don't you wish we were birds in a nest,
So we could have some too?
Wings are better than legs to climb,
And robins are thickest in cherry-time."
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 87, June 28.]
AUNT RUTH'S TEMPTATION.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
CHAPTER II.
The final morning arrived at last, and as I drove away in papa's gig all
the children crowded the gateway, and Winifred, in their midst, strained
her eyes to see the last of me, and smile and wave a good-by.
Mrs. Ludlow's brother-in-law was to meet me at the station: he was on
his way from Albany to New York, and had agreed to look out for me at
C----, as the train passed through our town. The cars had hardly
stopped, when a tall young man appeared on the platform, and was soon
shaking hands with my father.
"I haven't seen you since you were a boy," my father said; "but I don't
see that you have changed much. Now, Mr. Ludlow, will you take charge of
my little girl?"
Mr. Ludlow declared himself well pleased to do so, and he was so genial
and good-humored that I quickly got over the sudden shyness which had
taken possession of me, and in half an hour I felt as if I had known him
all my life. He seemed a little old, it is true; he was twenty-eight,
and he had a dark, handsome face, with bright eyes and a merry laugh. I
was perfectly astonished when I heard he was preparing to be a
clergyman. I was soon chatting comfortably with him, and had told him
all about our home and the boys, and Winny and my father, and how
delighted I was to go to New York.
"And is Winny the housekeeper?" Mr. Ludlow asked. He knew that mamma was
dead.
I started and laughed. "Why, she is our sister," I said. "But then," I
added, "she does everything for us."
How well I remember our arrival! It was nearly dark, and the city
confused me with its many sights and sounds, the endless streets, and
lamps, and throngs of people. A carriage was waiting for us at the
dépôt, and we drove through a great many streets, stopping finally
before a big brick house with a low doorway, near Washington Square.
I had never been in New York before, and could not remember my one visit
to Albany, so the fine town house, the long beautiful hall we entered,
seemed to me like something I had read of or dreamed about. There was a
great staircase winding away to the left, and down this Cousin Mary came
hurrying, and I remembered having seen her at my mother's funeral--a
sweet, gray-haired lady, with a faded pretty face, a great deal of old
lace about her dress, and a quiet, friendly voice. Other voices sounded
in a room near by; young voices laughing and talking; and Cousin Mary
took me into a large beautiful room with fire-light dancing on the
walls, and where half a dozen gay people were playing some merry game:
they all stopped short as we entered.
"This is Ruth Grahame," said Cousin Mary; "your cousin from C----,
Milly."
Upon this, Milly Ludlow came forward and welcomed me kindly. She was a
tall girl about my own age; not so fashionably dressed as I had expected
a New York cousin to be, but very lady-like and gentle in her manners.
She soon introduced the others--Gray Roberts, Nelly and Jessie Price,
and Jack Ludlow; they were all cousins, and all seemed delighted to see
Mr. Ludlow, who was soon discussing the game with them, and entering
into all the fun like a school-boy. What an evening that was! I was soon
thoroughly at home, and very talkative, I assure you, for in our own
house I had been encouraged to talk a great deal too much. I was to
sleep with the Prices in a big room up stairs, and I was very much
struck by their fine clothes and city-bred manners when we were dressing
for the late dinner at which we were all to be present. The Prices were
rather silly girls, but good-natured, and they seemed interested in all
I had to say, though they criticised me very freely, and one said I must
"friz" my hair, and the other asked if I wore French heels, and openly
lamented the fact that I did not.