[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 65. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, January 25, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE BREAKDOWN, AND ESCAPE OF THE MONKEYS.]
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER VII.
AN ACCIDENT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Toby's experience of the evening was very similar to that of the
afternoon, save that he was so fortunate as not to take any more bad
money in payment for his goods. Mr. Jacobs scolded and swore
alternately, and the boy really surprised him in the way of selling
goods, though he was very careful not to say anything about it, but made
Toby believe that he was doing only about half as much work as he ought
to do. Toby's private hoard of money was increased that evening by
presents, ninety cents, and he began to look upon himself as almost a
rich man.
When the performance was nearly over, Mr. Jacobs called to him to help
in packing up; and by the time the last spectator had left the tent, the
worldly possessions of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs were ready for removal,
and Toby allowed to do as he had a mind to, so long as he was careful to
be on hand when old Ben was ready to start.
Toby thought that he would have time to pay a visit to his friends the
skeleton and the fat woman, and to that end started toward the place
where their tent had been standing; but to his sorrow he found that it
was already being taken down, and he only had time to thank Mrs. Treat
and to press the fleshless hand of her shadowy husband as they entered
their wagon to drive away.
He was disappointed, for he had hoped to be able to speak with his
new-made friends a few moments before the weary night's ride commenced;
but failing in that, he went hastily back to the monkeys' cage. Old Ben
was there getting things ready for a start; but the wooden sides of the
cage had not been put up, and Toby had no difficulty in calling the aged
monkey up to the bars. He held one of the fat woman's doughnuts in his
hand, and he said, as he passed it through to the animal:
"I thought perhaps you might be hungry, Mr. Stubbs, and this is some of
what the skeleton's wife give me. I hain't got very much time to talk
with you now; but the first chance I can get away to-morrow, an' when
there hain't anybody 'round, I want to tell you something."
The monkey had taken the doughnut in his hand-like paws, and was tearing
it to pieces, eating small portions of it very rapidly.
"Don't hurry yourself," said Toby, warningly, "for Uncle Dan'l always
told me the worst thing a feller could do was to eat fast. If you want
any more, after we start, just put your hand through the little hole up
there near the seat, an' I'll give you all you want."
From the look on his face, Toby confidently believed the monkey was
going to make some reply; but just then Ben shut up the sides,
separating Toby and Mr. Stubbs, and the order was given to start.
Toby clambered up on to the high seat, Ben followed him, and in another
instant the team was moving along slowly down the dusty road, preceded
and followed by the many wagons with their tiny swinging lights.
"Well," said Ben, when he had got his team well under way; and felt that
he could indulge in a little conversation, "how did you get along
to-day?"
Toby related all of his movements, and gave the driver a faithful
account of all that had happened to him, concluding his story by saying,
"That was one of Mrs. Treat's doughnuts that I just gave to Mr. Stubbs."
"To whom?" asked Ben, in surprise.
"To Mr. Stubbs--the old fellow here in the cart, you know, that's been
so good to me."
Toby heard a sort of gurgling sound, saw the driver's body sway back and
forth in a trembling way, and was just becoming thoroughly alarmed, when
he thought of the previous night, and understood that Ben was only
laughing in his own peculiar way.
"How did you know his name was Stubbs?" asked Ben, after he had
recovered his breath.
"Oh, I don't know that that is his real name," was the quick reply; "I
only call him that because he looks so much like a feller with that name
that I knew at home. He don't seem to mind because I call him Stubbs."
Ben looked at Toby earnestly for a moment, acting all the time as if he
wanted to laugh again, but didn't dare to for fear he might burst a
blood-vessel, and then he said, as he patted him on the shoulder, "Well,
you are the queerest little fish that I ever saw in all my travels. You
seem to think that that monkey knows all you say to him."
"I'm sure he does," said Toby, positively. "He don't say anything right
out to me, but he knows everything I tell him. Do you suppose he could
talk if he tried to?"
"Look here, Mr. Toby Tyler," and Ben turned half around in his seat, and
looked Toby full in the face, as to give more emphasis to his words,
"are you heathen enough to think that that monkey could talk if he
wanted to?"
"I know I hain't a heathen," said Toby, thoughtfully, "for if I had
been, some of the missionaries would have found me out a good while ago;
but I never saw anybody like this old Mr. Stubbs before, an' I thought
he could talk if he wanted to, just as the Living Skeleton does, or his
wife. Anyhow, Mr. Stubbs winks at me; an' how could he do that if he
didn't know what I've been sayin' to him?"
"Look here, my son," said Ben, in a most fatherly fashion, "monkeys
hain't anything but beasts, an' they don't know how to talk any more
than they know what you say to 'em."
"Didn't you ever hear any of them speak a word?"
"Never. I've been in a circus, man an' boy, nigh on to forty years, an'
I never seen nothin' in a monkey more'n any other beast, except their
awful mischiefness."
"Well," said Toby, still unconvinced, "I believe Mr. Stubbs knew what I
said to him, anyway."
"Now don't be foolish, Toby," pleaded Ben. "You can't show me one thing
that a monkey ever did because you told him to."
Just at that moment Toby felt some one pulling at the back of his coat,
and looking around, he saw it was a little brown hand, reaching through
the bars of the air-hole of the cage, that was tugging away at his coat.
"There!" he said, triumphantly, to Ben. "Look there. I told Mr. Stubbs
if he wanted anything more to eat, to tell me, an' I would give it to
him. Now you can see for yourself that he's come for it," and Toby took
a doughnut from his pocket, and put it into the tiny hand, which was
immediately withdrawn. "Now what do you think of Mr. Stubbs knowing what
I say to him?"
"They often stick their paws up through there," said Ben, in a
matter-of-fact tone. "I've had 'em pull my coat in the night till they
made me as nervous as ever any old woman was. You see, Toby, my boy,
monkeys is monkeys; an' you mustn't go to gettin' the idea that they're
anything else, for it's a mistake. You think this old monkey in here
knows what you say? Why, that's just the cuteness of the old fellow; he
watches you to see if he can't do just as you do, an' that's all there
is about it."
Toby was more than half convinced that Ben was putting the matter in its
proper light, and he would have believed all that had been said if, just
at that moment, he had not seen that brown hand reaching through the
hole to clutch him again by the coat.
The action seemed so natural, so like a hungry boy who gropes in the
dark pantry for something to eat, that it would have taken more
arguments than Ben had at his disposal to persuade Toby that his Mr.
Stubbs could not understand all that was said to him. Toby put another
doughnut in the outstretched hand, and then sat silently, as if in a
brown-study over some difficult problem.
For some time the ride was made in silence. Ben was going through all
the motions of whistling without uttering a sound, a favorite amusement
of his, and Toby's thoughts were far away in the humble home he had
scorned, with Uncle Daniel, whose virtues had increased with every mile
of distance which had been put between them, and whose faults had
decreased in a corresponding ratio.
Toby's thoughtfulness had made him sleepy, and his eyes were almost
closed in slumber, when he was startled by a crashing sound, was
conscious of a sense of being hurled from his seat by some great force,
and then he lay senseless by the side of the road, while the wagon
remained a perfect wreck, from out of which a small army of monkeys
were escaping. Ben's experienced ear had told him at the first crash
that his wagon was breaking down, and without having time to warn Toby
of his peril, he had leaped clear of the wreck, keeping his horses in
perfect control, thus averting any more trouble. It was the breaking of
one of the axles which Toby had heard just before he was thrown from his
seat, and when the body of the wagon had come down upon the hard road,
the entire structure had been wrecked.
The monkeys, thus suddenly released from their confinement, had
scampered off in every direction, and, by a singular chance, Toby's aged
friend started for the woods in such a direction as to bring him
directly upon the boy's senseless body. As the monkey came up to Toby he
stopped, through the well-known curiosity of his kind, and began to
examine the body carefully, prying into each pocket he could reach, and
trying to open the half-closed eyelids in order to peep in under them.
Fortunately for Toby, he had fallen upon a mud-bank, and was only
stunned for the moment, having received no serious bruises, even though
he had been thrown such a distance. The attentions bestowed upon him by
the monkey served the purpose of bringing him to his senses; and after
he had looked around him in the gray light of the coming morning, it
would have taken far more of a philosopher than ever old Ben was to have
persuaded the boy that monkeys did not possess reasoning faculties.
The monkey was picking at his ears, nose, and mouth, as monkeys always
do when they get an opportunity, and the expression of his face was as
grave as possible. Toby firmly believed that the monkey's face showed
sorrow at his fall, and he believed that the attentions which were being
bestowed upon him were for the purpose of learning whether he had been
injured or not.
"Don't worry, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, anxious to reassure his friend, as
he sat upright and looked about him. "I didn't get hurt any, but I would
like to know how I got 'way over here."
It really seemed as if the monkey was pleased to know that his little
friend was not hurt, for he seated himself on his haunches, and his face
expressed the liveliest pleasure that Toby was well again--or at least
that was the way the boy interpreted the look.
By this time the news of the accident had been shouted ahead from one
team to the other, and all hands were hurrying to the scene for the
purpose of rendering some aid. As Toby saw them coming, he also saw a
number of small forms, looking something like men, hurrying past him,
and for the first time he understood how it was that the aged monkey was
at liberty, and knew that those little dusky forms were the other
occupants of the cage escaping to the woods.
"See there, Mr. Stubbs! see there!" he exclaimed, quickly, pointing
toward the fugitives; "they're all going off into the woods. What shall
we do?"
The sight of the runaways seemed to excite the old monkey quite as much
as it had the boy. He jumped to his feet, chattered in the most excited
way, screamed two or three times as if he was calling them back, and
then started off in vigorous pursuit.
"Now he's gone too," said Toby, disconsolately, believing the old fellow
had run away from him; "I didn't think Mr. Stubbs would treat me this
way."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A LITTLE ARAB GIRL'S MISSION.
BY F. E. FRYATT.
Many of the readers of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE will be both surprised and
sorry to learn that there are parents who are not only willing to sell
their baby girls for a few pennies, but when this can not be done, to
cast them out upon the highways to perish either by the wild beasts that
prowl about at night, or by the fiercely glaring sun that heats the sand
so that even a dog will not venture out at noonday for fear of burning
his paws.
"Where do these cruel people live, and who are they?" I hear a bright
little girl ask.
They are the Arabs who inhabit the deserts of Kabylia and the Sahara, in
and south of Algiers, the most northern country in Africa.
"Ah, but the Arabs live in Arabia, don't they?" objects my young friend.
Yes, they do; but centuries ago the Arabians, or Saracens--desert
dwellers, as they were then called, Sara meaning desert--sent out large
armies to conquer other nations. These Saracens swept victoriously
through Northern Africa up to the heart of Spain.
Algiers is now a French province, but the greater part of its people are
descendants of its ancient inhabitants, called Moors, and their
conquerors, the Arabs, together with negroes from Soudan, French
colonists, and a sprinkling of Turks, Maltese, and Spaniards.
Neither the Moors nor the Arabs think much of little girls. The
latter--especially the poor ones--are sorry when one is born; but when a
boy baby comes, they make him presents, and a bowl of "mughly"--a
compound of rice flavored with sugar and spices, and sprinkled with
delicious nuts--is given to each relative.
A Moorish girl of even rich parents is considered well enough educated
if she can make preserves, and dye her finger-nails with henna leaves.
She is not treated as unkindly, however, as the little Arab damsels, who
are compelled when quite young to work very hard. They have to draw
water from the wells in heavy leathern buckets; to churn; to feed and
water the young camels and horses: in fact, they live more like slaves
than daughters of the family.
[Illustration: MARIA IMMANUEL.]
The subject of my sketch, little Maria Immanuel, is a young Arabian girl
twelve years of age, who, accompanied by a French Missionary Sister, or
nun, has been all through Europe, and is now travelling through this
country, on a curious but praiseworthy mission: she is trying to raise
money to buy and support little Arabian children who are sold or cast
out on the desert.
Maria Immanuel was herself one of these unfortunates. When a mere baby,
not yet two years old, she was picked up on the highway by some good
women, and taken to their mission-house, where she has lived ever since.
I dare say my readers would like to know just how she looks, so I will
describe her to the best of my ability.
Imagine a dark-complexioned, plump young girl, with rather heavy but
pleasant features; fluffy, dark, silken hair floating around her head
and overshadowing her eyes like a little cloud; red lips and milky-white
teeth; and eyes that light up her whole face, so soft are they, yet
brilliant and full of mischievous fire.
Immanuel--for so her friends call her--is very like many American girls
in disposition, being intensely lively, merry as a cricket, and a great
tease when in the society of children of her own age.
She has two accomplishments--she speaks French fluently, and sings
sweetly, having a fine contralto voice.
Immanuel dresses just as she did at the mission-house in the desert of
Kabylia, wearing an Arab cloak of white wool, called a "burnoose," with
a hood for stormy weather, over a white cashmere gown, which hangs in
folds to her ankles, and is made with a yoke at the neck, and full
flowing sleeves. A double row of scarlet and white beads; a girdle, or
sash, of scarlet, blue, and yellow silk, knotted at the waist, and
falling in long fringed ends in front; and a scarlet "fez," or cap,
ornamented with a band of embroidery and a golden tassel, complete her
gay and picturesque costume. Dark or solemn colors offend an Arab's eye,
for he regards them as omens of misfortune.
There are two sorts of Arabs among whom the missionaries work--the
farmer Arabs, who live in mud villages, and the Bedouins, who dwell in
tents, and roam the deserts a little farther south, and keep large
flocks of sheep and camels.
These shepherd Arabs despise the milder farmers, but condescend to visit
them, after harvest-time, to barter camels and goats for their barley
and other grains, for _they_ never stoop to till the soil or do work of
any kind; their girls and women--at least such as they see fit to
rear--do all their necessary work, such as cooking, sewing tent and
saddle cloths, making mats, dyeing wool, and tending the animals, with
which they live almost in common, and which are often ranked above them.
The shepherd Arabs live in tents, removing in winter to the farther
south, but the farmer Arabs live in mud houses, called "gourbis." The
"gourbis," like all native dwellings, are only one story high, on
account of earthquakes; they are made of branches of trees and stones,
cemented together by mud, a thick layer of which covers the roof.
Sometimes forty or more of these houses are united in a village, and
hedged in by tall cactus plants armed with sharp thorns.
The animals live under the same roof with the family; so what with this
and the smoke, the smell of cookery, and the want of ventilation, you
may imagine the "gourbis" anything but a pleasant place to visit.
The mission-houses, some of them in the neighborhood of these miserable
villages, and some farther south, are square wooden buildings, with a
court-yard in the middle, on which the windows and doors of all the
rooms open. There are small doors on the outside of the building, but
these are carefully guarded, on account of robbers and wild beasts,
either of which may make attacks at night.
Now I must explain about the little Arab boys who are being educated and
taken care of by the Missionary Brothers.
The Arabs, as I have said, love their boys very much indeed, but some
families are so wretchedly poor that they have to dispose of the boys as
well as the girls, when there are too many of them.
The Brothers, when they pick them up or buy them, teach them to read and
write, and to till the ground, so that they may become farmers.
The Missionary Sisters teach the girls to read and write, to do plain
sewing and house-work.
The work of the missions does not stop when the children have grown to
be men and women; they are then allowed to visit each other socially
under proper supervision. If a young couple fall in love with each
other, and wish to marry, the consent of the Superior is asked, and
given; for she knows the youth has been well brought up, and is worthy
to have her young charge for a wife.
In speaking of these weddings, which are quite festive occasions, little
Maria Immanuel recently said to a lady, in her lively French, which I
will translate: "I do love to have weddings going on, we have _such_ a
good time. Oh, the music! it is fine; and then there is _such
feasting_!"
No wonder she laid such stress on feasting, for the mission people live
only on the very plainest fare, never seeing butter, meat, or any of the
delicacies American children have every day.
At weddings--and they generally manage to have them double, triple, or
quadruple weddings--I suppose they have fruit and honey and other fine
dishes for the great occasion.
To each newly married couple a house, an inclosed acre of land, a horse,
an ass, and a pair of goats are given; also some farming implements; six
each of dishes and bowls, knives and wooden spoons; a bed; and the few
other necessaries for simple housekeeping.
They now commence life as farmers, and, what is still better, as
Christian young people. Already two Christian Arab villages have sprung
up on the desert, while a third is being built.
Are the young fathers and mothers sorry when a dear little girl baby
comes into the world? No, they are glad, and love it tenderly, as you
may tell by this little nursery song here translated. I wish I could
give you the wild, sweet music too. Listen--a young Arab mother sings:
"Come, Cameleer, as quick as you can,
And make us some soap from green Shenan,
To bathe our Lûlû dear;
We'll wash her and dress her,
And then we'll caress her:
She'll sleep in her little screer."[1]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Cradle.
LUCKY TOM'S SHADOW; OR, THE SEA-GULLS' WARNING.
BY FRANK H. TAYLOR.
[Illustration: A LIFE-SAVING STATION.]
"Be still, Meg, be still. Don't trouble me. Go and play. Young 'uns like
you are good for naught else;" and so saying, Meg's grandmother turned
fretfully toward the window of the cottage, and resumed her listless
watching of the sea-gulls across the inlet, as they fluttered, dipped,
and arose over the wavelets, picking their dinner from the shoals of
little fish the mackerel had chased inshore.
"But I'm of some use, granny; you said so yesterday, when I fetched the
blueberries. An' I'll go fur some more if you like. I know where there's
lots of 'em--acres of 'em."
"Do as you please, child, but don't tease your granny," replied the old
woman.
There was little need to tell Maggie, or "Meg," as she was generally
called, to "do as she pleased," for in all of her short life of ten
years she had never done otherwise. She had roamed unmissed all the days
among the sand-hills of the beach, wading in the "mash" for lily pods,
or hunting in the scrub for birds' eggs. Such a place as school had
never been named to her. The alphabet was unknown to her, but she
understood the rough talk of the fishermen, and could mend a net or
'tend a line with the best man among them.
Meg lived with her "granny" in a little unpainted hut made from ships'
planking, and set among a few low twisted pines, within a short distance
of a cove where Lucky Tom, her father, who was a pilot, kept his boats
and moored his sloop, when not sailing out on the blue sea watching for
ships to give him employment.
Meg's mother had died while she was a baby; her "granny" was almost
always cross; so the child had grown up with but a single affection. It
was all for her father, and he returned it in a rough, good-natured way.
So these two were seldom apart when the pilot was ashore, and Meg came
to be known among the beach people as "Lucky Tom's Shadow."
Now just why the pilot was called "Lucky Tom" does not appear: but it
was said among the folks on the coast that fish would nibble at his
hooks, and obligingly allow themselves to be caught by the dozen, when
nobody else could catch even a porgy.
Near the cottage, Lucky Tom had raised the mast of a ship once wrecked
on the bar, and made a platform at the top, with steps leading to it;
and Meg was never so happy as when she sat high up in her "bird's nest,"
as she called it, with her father, and listened to his surprising yarns
about foreign ports, while they scanned the horizon with a glass for
incoming ships.
Meg tried hard to behave kindly toward her grandmother; but the old
woman never smiled, and seldom troubled herself about Meg's goings or
comings.
"She's purty certain to git 'round at meal-times, an' that's often
enough," was about all she would say when Lucky Tom scolded about the
child's "bringin' up."
Nearly twenty years before, Lucky Tom's father, Jack Bolden, had gone
off in his schooner, the _Petrel_, to catch cod, and from that day
neither the _Petrel_ nor her crew were ever seen. After months had gone
by, poor Mrs. Bolden fell into a fever, and when she was able to move
about, she sat all day by the window, looking out upon the waves, and
the neighbors gazed at her sorrowfully, for they said she had lost her
reason; but in Meg's eyes, to whom she had always been the same, she was
a very wise and mysterious person, and the tales she repeated to the
little girl, woven from her deranged fancy, were full of strange
sea-monsters, talking fish, and birds that whispered secrets to those
who watched for long-absent friends. All these were listened to and
believed with the full confidence of childish innocence.
Meg tied on her old and faded bonnet, picked up her basket, and walked
away with a light step to the blueberry pasture.
She soon became so busy picking the clusters of round little fruit, as
they peeped from beneath the dark and glossy leaves, that she did not
see how dark the eastern sky had become, until a cool gust of wind
caught her sun-bonnet, and sent it half across the field. Then she
noticed that the sun was already hidden by the advancing clouds, and
away out across the black fretted sea a long line of foam revealed the
white-caps leaping in great haste over each other, just like a flock of
sheep, in their race to reach the sands.
The only near refuge for poor Meg was the Life-saving Station--one of
those lonely buildings that the government has placed along the coast,
with boats and crews, whose duty keeps them on the watch all winter for
shipwrecks. It was midsummer now, and the station was locked up tight;
but Meg knew how to get the better of locks and bars. She reached the
building just in time to escape a wetting from the thick rain that now
shut out the sea and land alike, beating fiercely against the stout
structure, and running in many little rivulets down the sand, to be
swallowed up, as all water is at last, by the great ocean.
At one corner the winds had blown away the sand, so Meg found room to
crawl with her basket beneath the floor, and a loose board she had long
ago discovered admitted her to the interior. What a gloomy, close place
in contrast with the wildness of the scene outside! Have you ever
visited a station of the Life-saving Service? No? Well, then, I'll try,
with the aid of the picture, to explain what it is like.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE LIFE-SAVING STATION.]
First, there is the life-boat, light but very strong, and shaped so it
will rise over the tops of the waves rather than go through them. This
one is handled by about six men; one, the captain, to steer, four men to
row, and one with a pike-staff and lines in the bow. You notice that the
wheels of the truck holding the boat are very wide; that allows them to
roll over the sand without sinking into it. Under the boat is a leathern
bucket, a coil of rope, and a grapnel or hook, and in front an ingenious
device, consisting of a board with a row of pegs about the edge, upon
which a line many hundreds of feet in length is placed, with the end
tied to a projectile in the queer-looking cannon above. This is intended
to be shot over the rigging of ships ashore, and used to haul out the
larger rope upon the cart to the left of the picture, and to which the
canvas bags hanging from the ceiling are fastened, to bring people from
the wreck. Back of the cart you see rockets and signal torches, with a
long tin trumpet, all neatly kept in a rack. There are lanterns too, and
against the partition a mortar and some balls, two axes, and many other
tools. With all of these and their uses Meg was well acquainted.
Sometimes she had seen the crew run with the boat down to the water, and
go through with their drill, when the Superintendent came there; and
once the men hauled it out in the night, everybody greatly excited, and
put out into the waves to pick up the crew of a sinking steamer; but a
schooner was there first, and they only brought back a woman and little
girl. How scared they did look, the poor things! and how thankful the
child was for the use of Meg's only spare frock!
There seemed no prospect of the rain ceasing, and so Meg sat down in the
back room upon a bench; and as it was not in the nature of such an
active little girl to sit still long and keep awake, she very soon fell
asleep.
When she started up from a dream full of strange sea-goblins, it was to
find that everything was dark. The rain had ceased, and Meg, after
rubbing her eyes, concluded to go home. When she lifted the board she
discovered, to her terror, that the rain had washed her burrow full of
sand, and she was a prisoner. The strong doors and windows resisted her
puny efforts, so she sat down upon a coil of rope to consider the
situation.
Now most children would have cried; but Meg hadn't done such a thing
since she was teething. No, she only taxed her little head for some
means of escape. First, she must have a light. She well knew where the
matches were kept, and in a moment she had a lantern burning brightly.
Then it occurred to her to try the roof. It was a difficult matter to
lift the heavy trap leading to the little platform from which the men
usually watched during the winter days; but she soon stood out in the
bleak night, the salt spray driving against her face, and the gale
rushing by, as though it would tear her hold from the railing to which
she clung.
White sea-gulls whirled about her head, attracted by the light,
screaming hoarse and discordant notes in her ears. They terrified her at
first, but she soon recalled what her "granny" had said, and felt sure
the birds were trying to tell her something, and that it must be about
her father, who was still out in the terrible storm, unable to find the
inlet.
From far out on the sea the wind brought a moaning sound, as though some
unhappy creature called in vain for help. It came nearer and more
distinct from the northward, finally dying away in the distance upon the
other hand.
Fierce lightning flashes broke from the retreating storm-clouds, and by
the weird electric glare Meg saw a wild figure, with arms upraised,
which seemed to come out of the surf, and speed along the sands. By the
same light she thought she saw the topmasts of a vessel on the sea.
The gulls wheeled and screamed now more excitedly than ever. Meg was
nearly overcome with terror, but losing not a moment, she sprang down
the stairs, returning with an armful of torches. And now the lurid flare
of the life-saving signal burned up fiercely, the winds catching the
flame, and bearing thousands of dancing sparks away across the beach,
while the shape of the station and the heroic little girl upon the roof
stood out boldly, just in time for Lucky Tom to put his helm down, and
head his boat away from the fatal breakers he was nearing in the
darkness.
And now suppose we let good-natured Lucky Tom tell the rest of the story
in his own style.
"Well, sir, you see, the blow came up kind o' unexpected like, an' I
knowed we couldn't make port; but I didn't much care for that, as pilots
has to take all sorts o' weather, but we reckoned we could keep the
craft off an' on about the blowin' buoy; but, bless you! the buoy got
adrift, an' floated away down the beach. We heard it groanin' ahead of
us all the time, an' afore we knowed where we was, we got nigh into the
breakers. Just then I seen a twinkle on the beach, an' shortly a torch
showed us the station, with an angel o' mercy a-wavin' it from the roof;
an' it wa'n't a minnit too soon, nuther.
"We kept away till daylight a-watchin' an' wonderin' at the torches
burnin' all the time from atop o' the station, and then we made the
inlet. Mebbe it'll seem queer to you, but none of us thought of Meg when
we saw the light; but the whole thing was plain enough when one of the
crew came runnin' to the house, after we'd been ashore a bit, an'
hollered:
"'Why, Lucky Tom, the angel we saw was nobody but your own Shadow,
little Meg, an' she's there yit, wavin' a flag.' So we went over an' let
her out. The young'un told us all about hearin' the sound o' complainin'
on the sea, the black figure that ran along the beach, an' the warnin'
the birds give her. You see, that was a notion her granny put into her
head, the one about the birds. Speakin' of the old woman, there was
another queer thing that happened on the same night. We couldn't find
marm high nor low; but when Meg spoke of the wild spirit on the beach,
we knowed it must be her, and sure enough we found the poor old body
'way up by the point, 'most dead. She had an idee, you see, that when it
blowed hard the _Petrel_ would come ashore, though I reckon the _Petrel_
has been at the bottom more'n twenty years now. We took her home an'
'tended her, but she didn't last long after that."
The story of Meg's adventure came to the ears of a lady on the mainland,
and she soon afterward paid a visit to the little girl, who was now left
all alone when her father went away, and it was arranged that she should
live in the lady's house, and go to school. And now the school-master
says she promises to prove as bright as she is brave.
HOW IT HAPPENED TO SNOW.
BY I. M.
What Jack Frost said to the trees, dear,
It never would do to tell;
He whispered the magic words, dear,
To oak and maple as well.
Some of them blushed bright red, dear,
And some of them turned to yellow,
While Jack he laughed in his sleeve, dear,
The good-for-nothing old fellow.
What Jack Frost did to the leaves, dear,
I never would dare to say;
They wrung their little brown hands, dear,
In a pitiful, helpless way.
The kind sun felt so sad, dear,
To see the leaves in pain,
That he hid his face for a week, dear,
And wept great showers of rain.
But Jack Frost's cruel breath, dear,
Grew colder day by day,
And chilled the leaves, until, dear,
They withered and dropped away.
Then the tall trees stood amazed, dear,
Lamenting, when they found
That their green and rustling robes, dear,
Lay faded on the ground.
The angels too were grieved, dear,
When the trees looked cold and bare,
So they gathered the soft white clouds, dear,
That floated in upper air,
And tossed great armfuls down, dear,
In the stillness of the night,
And were glad to see how pure, dear,
The world looked clothed in white.
What the children said next day, dear,
I think you must surely know;
But please don't say that I told, dear,
Just how it happened to snow;
For that wicked old Jack Frost, dear,
Would nip my nose in spite,
And pinch my poor ten toes, dear,
The next cold winter's night.
[Illustration: A MOTHER'S DEVOTION.--FROM AN ETCHING BY DE MARY.]
THE ADVENTURES OF A RUNAWAY KING.
BY I. D. WILDER.
A king running away from his kingdom, with all his courtiers and people
in hot pursuit to catch him and bring him back! Did you ever hear of
anything more absurd?
There was a reason for it too, or at least the King thought so. The
truth is, this unfortunate monarch was embarrassed by the possession of
two kingdoms at once, and it so happened that the kingdom where he was
was not the kingdom where he desired to be, so he made up his mind to
run away.
Now I suppose, before I go any farther, I may as well let you into the
secret of his name and country, if you have not already guessed it. He
was Henry III. of France and Poland, son of Catherine de Medicis, one of
the wickedest Queens who ever ruled over any country, and brother of
Charles IX., King of France.
Only a few months before his flight from Cracow he had been elected King
of Poland. He had been received with great magnificence by the Polish
nobles, and the festivities had lasted many days. After everything had
settled down into the usual quiet, Henry found life in Poland rather
dull; so when he received a letter from Queen Catherine announcing the
death of Charles IX., and saying that his presence in France was very
necessary to maintain his rights as his brother's heir, he was quite
ready to abandon his Polish kingdom, and start at once for Paris.
But it was very far from being the intention of the Polish magnates to
let him off so easily. They naturally considered the well-being of their
kingdom as important--to them at least--as that of France could possibly
be. So they voted an address of condolence to the King on the death of
his brother, prayed him still to remain King of Poland, and entreated
him not to leave the kingdom without giving notice to the Senate, and
first appointing some one to act as Viceroy.
Henry returned a courteous but rather vague reply, thanking the nobles
for their good wishes, but giving them little satisfaction as to his
intentions.
In the mean time Henry's French attendants were urging upon him the
necessity of returning at once to France, lest he should lose the French
crown. His mother, Queen Catherine, sent messenger after messenger,
urging him to hasten, and his own inclinations were entirely in favor of
instant departure. So during the night a council of the French nobles
was held in Henry's apartments, and it was settled that they should
arrange matters for a secret departure. They must go secretly, if they
went at all, for the Polish Senate was determined to keep their King in
the country, and the people were equally determined not to let him go.
Then the preparations began. In the first place, the French Ambassador,
as had been agreed upon, asked permission to return immediately to
France, as his mission had ended with the death of Charles IX.
Permission was granted, and he left Cracow at once. He took with him the
King's jewels and valuable papers, and made arrangements at all the
principal towns on his route for horses and provisions to be got ready
for illustrious members of his suite, who, as he said, were not able to
leave as soon as he did. Next the King sent off M. Chémerault (the
messenger who had brought him the news of Charles's death), on the
pretense of carrying letters to Queen Catherine, but really to wait at a
short distance from the capital until the King could join him. He was to
act as guide, and conduct Henry in safety across the border.
The next step was rather unfortunate for the King. A train of ten mules
laden with coffers was observed to leave the city, and when it was found
that the baggage belonged to the Grand Master of the King's household,
the suspicions of the people were aroused, and they became wild with
excitement. It was in vain that Henry assured them that he had no
intention of leaving the kingdom. They did not believe him--and with
very good reason--and the tumult increased, until at last the Senate
ordered guards to be placed at all the entrances to the palace, and gave
instructions to arrest any one who should that night attempt to stir
out, not even excepting the King himself.
After supper the King retired, and kept all his courtiers about him for
a long time, chatting merrily with them, and appearing so easy and
unconcerned that he fancied he must have entirely deceived the Poles,
and then he made a sign that he wanted to go to sleep. The Chamberlain,
Count Teuczin, drew the curtains of the King's bed, and a page put his
sword and a candle on a table close by--a ceremony which all understood
as a signal to leave the room, except the Chamberlain, whose duty it was
to stand at the foot of the bed until the King was asleep. It had been
agreed that the King and a few of his nobles should meet at a ruined
chapel, half a mile from the city gate, where one of Henry's equerries
was to be waiting with horses.
The nobles supped together, and then quietly left the palace. They were
permitted to pass the sentinels on their assurance that they were bound
for a frolic in the town.
Henry, in the mean time, was doing his best to make the Chamberlain
believe him asleep, and when he was at length convinced of the fact, he
left the room. In a moment the King's attendants had softly entered the
room and barred the door against all intruders, had hurriedly dressed
the King, and made all their preparations for departure. Fortunately,
Souvré, one of the King's gentlemen, happened to remember a small
postern-door at the end of a passage leading from the kitchen, which
opened at the back of the castle on a faubourg of Cracow outside the
walls. This door, which had been made for the use of the servants of the
palace, had often been found useful by the cavaliers of Henry's court
when they wished to go out and in unobserved. Souvré having found that
no sentinel had been posted there, sent Miron, the King's physician, to
reconnoitre, and see if they could get out by that way. He found the
door ajar, and was joyfully returning to report, when suddenly the
steward of the household, Alemanni, appeared from the kitchen, where he
was evidently on the watch, and carefully looking about him--though
without discovering Miron, who was sheltered by the staircase--gave
orders for the postern to be locked and the key to be brought to him.
This was a terrible blow to all their hopes. The King was in despair and
was about to return to bed, but Souvré encouraged him to persist, and
rely upon him to get him out of the dilemma.
So they cautiously left the apartments of the King, and crept softly
down the stairs until they came to the passage, where another flight of
steps led down to the kitchen. Here they got a great fright from hearing
the voice of the steward just at the foot of the stairs. He heard their
steps, and called out, "Who goes there?"
"It is I, monsieur," said Souvré, boldly descending a few steps, while
he made a sign to the others to go on toward the door.
"And what do you want?" asked the steward.
"The key of the postern-door," replied Souvré. "I have a private errand,
now that the King my master can dispense with my services."
"What errand?" persisted the steward.
"The truth is," replied Souvré, haughtily, "I have an appointment in the
faubourg. I pray you therefore, monsieur, give me the key of the little
door without further parley."
This haughty manner impressed the steward, who knew that Souvré was high
in his master's favor, and he somewhat reluctantly gave the key, and
offered to accompany Souvré to open the door for him. He, however, only
laughed at this, and bounding up the staircase long before the steward,
who was old and infirm, could reach the top, he found the King and his
companions concealing themselves as much as possible in the shadow of
the walls, opened the door, through which they hurriedly passed, and
locking it behind them, they made all possible speed toward the little
ruined chapel, the place of rendezvous.
The night was pleasant, though very dark, and after losing their way
once or twice, they finally reached the chapel. There they found the
equerry with the horses, but Chémerault, who was to be their guide, and
several other gentlemen of the King's household, had not made their
appearance. They waited for them as long as they dared, but finally
Souvré persuaded the King to mount, and trust to God and fortune for
safety.
They set out, therefore, but their difficulties had only just begun. In
the first place, not one of them knew the way, being all absolute
strangers in Poland; and they did not even understand the dialect of the
country, so that they could inquire. The night was dark, and the roads
were horrible, though that did not matter so much, as they could not
keep in them, but continually found themselves wandering away and
floundering in deep morasses, blundering about in pine forests, and
getting entangled in brambles.
So they went on, stumbling over stones, sinking into bogs, and wading
through brooks, till I think they must have wished themselves safe back
in their beds in Cracow.
At length Souvré saw a faint light glimmering in the distance, and on
approaching it he found it came from the hut of a charcoal burner deep
in the forest.
The poor charcoal burner was so terrified by the approach of the
horsemen that he darted up into his loft by a ladder on the outside,
which he drew up after him. The cavaliers shouted and knocked, and
knocked and shouted, but all in vain. Not an inch would the charcoal
burner stir; so at last they began to batter down the door.
Finally Souvré managed to scramble up to the loft, where he found the
poor man crouching in a corner in a perfect agony of terror. He tried to
calm his fears by speaking gently, but the strange language only made
him more terrified.
So there was nothing for it but to drag him down, and carry him off to
the King, which they accordingly did. Henry had learned a few words of
the peasants' dialect, so he soon re-assured the poor man, and made him
comprehend that they only wanted him for a guide--an office which he
readily took upon himself.
He was swung up on a horse in front of one of the cavaliers, and guided
them safely to the town of Liszki. Soon after this they came up with
Chémerault and the others, who had missed the King in the darkness, and
had arrived before him.
In the mean time you can readily imagine that there was a great uproar
in the palace at Cracow when the King's flight was discovered. The
Senate and the nobles were absolutely beside themselves with rage at
having been so outwitted. The French who had been left behind in
ignorance of their master's intended flight were deeply indignant with
the King for his treacherous betrayal of them. The mob howled and yelled
in the streets, and everybody scolded poor Alemanni.
Karnkowski, the Grand Referendary of Poland, was dispatched in a coach
and six to bring back the King, accompanied by a troop of Tartar cavalry
armed with bows and arrows, and a howling mob, with sticks, stones, and
javelins, followed after.
They came in sight of the fugitives at the town of Osweicin, where some
of the gentlemen had dismounted to rest and refresh themselves for an
hour. But when they caught sight of the Tartar troops they did not tarry
long, you may be sure, but put spurs to their horses, and fled as fast
as they could.
Then there followed a royal chase, in which the King was the hunted
instead of the hunter--the King and his cavaliers urging their tired
horses to their utmost speed in front; following fast behind,
Karnkowski, in his coach and six, the wild troop of Tartar bowmen, and
the disorderly mob bringing up the rear.
Henry and his gentlemen rode fast and well. They crossed the Vistula on
a bridge of planks, which the cavaliers destroyed just as their pursuers
came up; and as they rode on they left their Tartar enemies howling with
rage and gnashing their teeth, as they saw the river rolling between
them and the fugitives, and knew they must go six miles around in order
to come up with them.
The danger was over now. They did not overtake Henry until after he had
passed the frontier town of Plesse, and they dared not capture him on
Austrian territory.
Count Teuczin therefore approached the King, accompanied only by five
Tartars, and delivered his message from the Senate to entreat him to
return, and offering his own fealty to the King. Henry refused to
return, but he sent back fair words to the Senate, and they parted
amicably, Henry to pursue his journey to Vienna, where he arrived
without further adventures, the Count to return sadly to Cracow to
announce the escape of their King to the magnates of Poland.
But in my opinion if they had had Henry to rule over them four years
instead of four months, far from grieving over his loss, they would have
considered themselves well rid of him; for lazy, selfish, cowardly,
false, and cruel as he was, they might have sought the wide world over
without finding a worse King than Henry III. of Valois.
THE NEW SCHOLAR.
BY EMILY H. LELAND.
Elbert Collins had never been marked absent or tardy since his first
going to school in September, and it was his ambition to finish the
whole year without a "mark," partly because he really liked to be
prompt, and partly because he thought it would be so nice to see his
name in the paper at the end of the school year.
December had come, and the short mornings were very lively ones in his
mother's little kitchen, because of so many things to be done before the
nine-o'clock bell. There was the wood-box to fill, the canary to feed,
and generally the cradle to rock, while the mother attended to such work
as could be done best while there was some one to look after the baby.
On this particular morning, however, the mother had gone to Mrs.
Brown's, around the corner, for a cup of yeast, and had become so
interested in a recipe for chocolate cake, a pattern for a boy's
blouse, the pound party at the Methodist minister's, and some new ways
for trimming Christmas trees, that she entirely forgot the time of day.
Meanwhile little Elbert, with his overshoes and scarf on, and cap in
hand, rocked the cradle, and kept his eyes on the clock. Five, ten,
minutes passed away. The long hand was crawling alarmingly near
last-bell time. He tied his scarf, pulled his cap over his ears, and
rocked harder than ever. Still no mother. Then he went to the door,
looked anxiously toward the corner, and sent out a lusty
shout--"Mamma-a-a, come ho-o-ome!" but no one responded except the baby.
"Oh dear! dear!" he exclaimed, as he rushed back to the cradle; and just
then his expectant ears heard the first slow cling-clang of the last
bell. It would ring for five minutes; the school-house was only three
streets away, and there was time enough yet, if he could only start. One
thing was certain--he would never leave his little baby sister. He
remembered a story of a poor baby who was almost burned to death because
her brother, who had promised to take care of her, left her, and ran out
on the street to play.