CHAPTER XXI.

WASHINGTON RESIGNS HIS COMMISSION.

After the surrender of Yorktown and the departure of the French,

Washington established his headquarters at Newburgh on the Hudson. There

he remained with the army until it was disbanded; and the house in which

he lived is carefully preserved and shown as an historical museum.

[Illustration: SURRENDER OF LORD CORNWALLIS.]

There is a pleasant story of La Fayette’s affectionate remembrance of

the life there. Just before his death, which occurred in 1834, he gave a

dinner party in Paris to the American Minister and some friends who had

been old associates. Later in the evening, when it came time for supper,

the guests were ushered into a room which was in strange contrast with

the elegance of the apartments they had been in. The ceiling was low,

with large beams crossing it; there was a single small, uncurtained

window, and several small doors. It looked more like an old-fashioned

Dutch kitchen than a room in a French house. A long, rough table was

meagerly set. A dish of meat stood on it, some uncouth-looking pastry,

and wine in decanters and bottles, ready to be poured out into glasses

and camp-mugs.

“Do you know where we are now?” asked La Fayette as his companions looked

about puzzled, and as if in a dream. “Ah! the seven doors and one window!

and the silver camp-goblets! We are at Washington’s headquarters on the

Hudson, fifty years ago!” He had reproduced the room as a surprise to his

friends.

* * * * *

Peace did not come at once after Yorktown; there was still fighting in

a desultory way, but all knew that the end was not far off. Yet the

soldiers could not go back to their homes, and Congress was shamefully

remiss about paying them. Murmurs deep and loud arose, and Washington

suffered keenly from the neglect shown to the army. It required all his

patience and tact to keep the murmurs from breaking out into violent

action. With no military duty to perform, and with the impatience of men

who were suffering injustice, the officers and men began to form all

sorts of plans.

One of the officers—and how many agreed with him is not known, but the

sentiment easily took this form—one of the officers wrote to Washington

that it was clear that Congress was a failure. The army had won

independence, but no reliance could be placed on the Government. How much

more stable was the Government of England! Would not such a government

be after all the best for America? It might not be necessary to call the

head of the government a king, though even that title many would prefer,

but the head ought to have the power of a king. There was much more to

the same effect, and the letter was really a feeler to see how Washington

would look upon such a movement, which, of course, aimed to make him the

monarch of the new nation. Washington did not hesitate a moment, but

wrote a letter which must have made the officer’s ears tingle, however

honest he may have been in his opinion. Washington said:

“With a mixture of great surprise and astonishment, I have read

with attention the sentiments you have submitted to my perusal.

Be assured, sir, no occurrence in the course of the war has

given me more painful sensations than your information of there

being such ideas existing in the army as you have expressed

and I must view with abhorrence and reprehend with severity.

For the present, the communication of them will rest in my own

bosom, unless some further agitation of the matter shall make a

disclosure necessary. I am much at a loss to conceive what part

of my conduct could have given encouragement to an address,

which, to me, seems big with the greatest mischief that can

befall any country. If I am not deceived in the knowledge of

myself, you could not have found a person to whom your schemes

are more disagreeable. At the same time, in justice to my own

feelings, I must add, that no man possesses a more sincere

wish to see ample justice done to the army than I do; and as

far as my powers and influence in a constitutional way extend,

they shall be employed to the utmost of my abilities to effect

it, should there be any occasion. Let me conjure you, then, if

you have any regard for your country, concern for yourself or

posterity, or respect for me, to banish these thoughts from

your mind, and never communicate, as from yourself or any one

else, a sentiment of the like nature.”

A graver peril arose, and Washington redeemed his promise to stand by

the army. In spite of the united effort of the army and its friends

in Congress, no satisfactory arrangement was made for paying the

long-delayed wages due to the soldiers. On March 10, 1783, a notice was

issued in the camp at Newburgh, calling a meeting of the officers. The

notice was not signed by any name, and with it was sent out an address

which rehearsed the wrongs suffered by the army and hinted that the time

had come when the soldiers must take matters into their own hands and

compel Congress to attend to their demands. It was an appeal to which

the officers were ready to listen, and every one was in so excited a

condition that it was impossible to say what might not be done.

Washington, at any rate, saw there was great danger, and he at once

seized the occasion. He issued an order calling attention to the address,

and asking that the meeting should be postponed four days and then should

convene at his invitation. This was to give the men time to cool off.

When the day came, Washington, as soon as the meeting was called to

order, made a long and powerful speech. He was not a ready speaker, and

so, feeling the importance of the occasion, he had written out what he

had to say, and he began to read it to the officers. He had read only a

sentence, when he stopped, took out his spectacles, and said, as he put

them on:

“Gentlemen, you will pardon me for putting on my glasses. I have grown

gray in your service, and I now find myself growing blind.”

It was a simple thing to say, and simply said, but it touched the

soldiers, and made them very tender to their commander, and more ready

even than before to listen to his counsel. Washington went on to say:

“If my conduct heretofore has not evinced to you that I have

been a faithful friend to the army, my declaration of it at

this time would be equally unavailing and improper. But, as I

was among the first who embarked in the cause of our common

country; as I have never left your side one moment, save when

called from you on public duty; as I have been the constant

companion and witness of your distresses, and not among the

last to feel and acknowledge your merits; as I have considered

my own military reputation as inseparably connected with that

of the army; as my heart has ever expanded with joy, when I

have heard its praises, and my indignation has arisen, when

the mouth of detraction has been opened against it; it can

scarcely be supposed, at this late stage of the war, that I am

indifferent to its interests.”

He used all his personal influence to heal the breach between the army

and Congress, and he brought the officers back to a more reasonable mind.

All the while he was writing to members of Congress and doing his utmost

to bring about a just treatment of the army.

[Illustration: WASHINGTON BIDDING FAREWELL TO HIS GENERALS.]

When the time came to disband the army, Washington, ready as he was to go

back to his home, could not forget that the work of the past seven years

would not be completed until the people which had become independent

was united under a strong government. He was the foremost man in the

country; he was also profoundly aware of the difficulties through which

they were yet to pass, and he addressed a long letter to the governors of

the several States. Congress was weak and unable to take the lead. The

States were each provided with governments, and were the real powers, but

Washington saw clearly that it would not do to have thirteen independent

governments in the country, each looking only after its own interests. So

in this letter he tried to show the States the importance of four things:

1. An indissoluble union of the States under one head.

2. The payment of all the debts contracted by the country in the war.

3. The establishment of a uniform militia system throughout the

country.—He did not advise having a standing army, but he thought all the

men should be drilled in their neighborhoods, formed into companies, and

be ready in any peril to take up arms again.

4. The cultivation of a spirit of confidence between different parts of

the country. He had seen so much jealousy and prejudice that he knew how

dangerous these were to the peace of the country.

* * * * *

At last the time came when the army was disbanded. A few of the troops

only and their officers went with Washington to New York when the British

left the city. There was rejoicing everywhere; but it was a sorrowful

moment when Washington took leave in person of the officers who had

stood by him through the long, dreary years of the war. He was about to

leave the city to be ferried across the North River to the Jersey shore,

and his old friends gathered to say good-bye at Fraunces’ Tavern, in

Broad street. When he entered the room he could scarcely command his

voice. He said a word or two, and they all drank a farewell toast, as the

custom was in those days. Then Washington said: “I can not come to each

of you to take my leave, but shall be obliged if each of you will come

and take me by the hand.”

General Knox stood nearest, and he held out his hand. The tears were in

Washington’s eyes as he turned to his old comrade and grasped his hand.

He drew the strong man to him—Knox was nearly twenty years younger than

Washington, and very dear to him—and kissed him. Not a word could either

of them speak. Another general followed and another, each greeted with

the same affection; and then Washington left the room, passed through the

corps of infantry which stood on guard, and walked to Whitehall, followed

by the whole company, a silent procession. He entered the barge, turned

as the boat pushed off, and waved his hat in silent adieu. The officers

returned the salute in the same way, and then turned and in silence

marched back to Fraunces’.

Washington went to Philadelphia. Congress was in session at Annapolis,

but the Treasury was in Philadelphia. On receiving his commission as

Commander-in-Chief, Washington had announced that he would receive no

money for services, but would keep an exact account of all his expenses.

That account he had kept as carefully and scrupulously as any book-keeper

in a bank, and he now rendered it to the Comptroller of the Treasury. It

was in his own handwriting, every item set down and explained. I know of

few incidents in Washington’s career which show the character of the man

better than this. He held that a sacred trust had been reposed in him,

and he meant to be faithful in the least particular.

On December 23, 1783, Congress was assembled at Annapolis. The gallery

was filled with ladies. The Governor, Council, and Legislature of

Maryland, several officers, and the Consul-General of France were on the

floor. The Members of Congress were seated and wore their hats to signify

that they represented the Government. The spectators stood with bare

heads. General Washington entered and was conducted by the Secretary of

Congress to a seat. When all was quiet, General Mifflin, who was then

President of Congress, turned to Washington and said:

“The United States, in Congress assembled, is prepared to receive the

communications of the Commander-in-Chief.”

Washington rose and read a short address, in which he resigned his

commission. He delivered the paper into the hands of the President, who

replied with a little speech; and Washington was now a private citizen.

The next day he left Annapolis, and made all haste to return to his

beloved Mount Vernon.

(_To be continued._)

ON THE WILLEY-BROOK TRESTLE.

BY WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.

There had been rain among the mountains for almost a week. Every day the

newspapers brought reports of clear, warm weather in Boston and New York,

while the Crawford House guests gathered in shivering groups around their

open fires and applied themselves to indoor occupations, discontentedly

or cheerily, according to their various dispositions. Among the most

impatient in the hotel was a group of young people, who, as the season

drew to its close, were more eager than ever to improve each shining

hour. The hours, however, refusing to shine on any terms, that gloomy

September week, the bees were left “to hum,” as Lou Elwin plaintively

remarked.

When, therefore, the sun at last looked over the mountain-tops one cool,

delicious morning, and with his shining fingers gently drew aside the

misty draperies that had so long overhung the little valley of the Notch,

great was the delight of old and young at Crawford’s, and it was an eager

company of boys and girls that assembled about the big parlor fireplace

after breakfast. As soon as they were fairly together, half a dozen were

chattering at once.

“Isn’t it glorious?”

“What shall we do——?”

“Where shall——?”

“Fabyan’s!”

“Tennis!”

“Bugle Cliff!”

“A walk down the track.”

A shout of laughter greeted this last proposal, which was offered by a

delicate-looking youth of about eighteen.

“Fred is afraid that he’ll rub the shine off his boots!” cried one of his

companions, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Or tear that tennis suit on the rocks,” suggested Lou Elwin, with a toss

of her pretty head, as she leaned back in her chair and planted her own

stout little boots emphatically on the hearth. Lou was the acknowledged

leader among her set at Crawford’s, that season, in all the jaunts and

good times that were planned. She was a Boston girl, and she had her

full share of the independent spirit that characterized her ancestors.

Whenever the party set out on a scramble over the rough mountain-paths,

her joyous laugh was sure to be heard far in advance of the rest; it was

always her tennis-racket that met and returned the ball when the play was

apparently lost; it was Lou Elwin whose name zigzagged all over the cards

of the best partners an hour before dancing began.

Fred Seacomb did not quail, however, before her little broadside of

irony, but just looked straight into her eyes for a moment, and said

quietly, “You know better, Lou.” And then he proceeded to argue his

proposal, with such effect that in five minutes more the whole party of

young folks were racing down the plank walk toward the railroad.

At the little rustic shop beyond the station, the girls stopped for

caramels, packages of which the sterner element dutifully tucked into

their coat-pockets, ready for instant use. Thus provisioned, they all

struck off in the direction of the Notch, walking in twos and threes, on

the railroad ties, or balancing with little shrieks and a great deal of

laughter on the narrow rails. Lou, as usual, was ahead, but Fred soon

caught up and took his place at her side.

For several minutes, nothing was said by either. Then Lou exclaimed,

almost pettishly:

“Why do you try to be so quiet, and exact, and—and _different_?”

“You know, Lou, I can’t stand quite so much as some of the other fellows.

The doctor——”

“Oh, yes, I know. You’re up here for your health, and all that; but you

might ‘fly around’ a little more, get a little bit—just the least little

bit—rumpled, once in a while, like the rest of us!”

Fred laughed now, merrily enough, and perhaps would have defended

himself, had not another boy of about his own age joined them at that

moment, having caught the import of the girl’s words.

“If you think Seacomb _can’t_ ‘fly around,’ Miss Elwin, you ought to see

him in the gymnasium, at Harvard! He’s the best man on the bars in the

Freshman class, and he can——”

“There, there, Arthur!” interrupted Fred, “girls don’t care about such

affairs as that. My blackest sin, just now, is the shine on my boots,

isn’t it, Lou?”

Fred had known her long, and as an intimate friend, and so he used her

first name easily—a liberty rather envied by some of the later comers.

At the end of the Crawford plateau, they all turned away from the

track for a few moments, to visit “The House that Jack Built.” Of the

mysterious “Jack,” who was popularly believed to subsist on toads and

snakes, the girls stood rather in awe, and so they left the boys to do

the talking. Somewhat to Lou’s surprise, Fred Seacomb seemed to be on

excellent terms with the bluff Jack, who had been an English sailor. The

party soon chorused good-bye, and ran back down the path to the track, to

resume their excursion. They now entered the Notch itself, and for a few

minutes even their gay laughter was hushed in the presence of those gray

cliffs towering high, high above their heads. It seemed as if they were

leaving the land of sunshine behind them, and were entering the very home

of storm and avalanche. The iron track, clinging to the crumbling slope,

gave no sense of security or conquest over the terrible forces of nature;

rather, it was a frightened thing, like each one of themselves, at the

mercy of the stern, granite-browed hills overhanging it.

They emerged from the dark ravine, and gazed on the fair valley opening

before them, with a keen sense of relief which showed itself in a renewed

chorus of happy, thoughtless talk and laughter. Once they sprang aside,

and stood in a gay-colored group against the embankment, to let the nine

o’clock Portland train pass. Then they went on, more merrily than ever,

the girls gathering clusters of brilliant golden-rod and purple asters

for their hats and belts. It was Fred who discovered a single blue violet

blossoming serenely and cheerfully at that late day directly between the

iron rails, and with all the desolateness of Mount Willard stretching up

into the sky above it.

Lou took the offered flower without a word, and—wished it had been

golden-rod.

“Isn’t there _any_ manliness about him?” she thought fretfully. “That was

just like a girl. I believe I’m more a boy than he is, now!”

She saved the violet, however, and tucked it away carefully, where it

could not be injured or lost.

About a mile below the Notch, a small house stood beside the track,

occupied by a young married couple and their two children, who were held

up to the open window to look at the strangers. Fred handed in a spray

of asters to the baby, and the bashful little mother took them with a

nod and a pleased expression in her face. Lou had started to do the

same thing, but drew back sharply, vexed again, when she saw Fred step

forward with his flowers. The woman, however, had noticed her movement,

and after a moment’s hesitation beckoned to the girl. Lou was by this

time some distance down the track, and shook her head, pleasantly enough;

for, however much out of sorts, she rarely forgot herself so far as to

be really rude to any one. The woman seemed anxious, as Lou was about to

join her party, and leaned out of the window, pointing up the track and

making gestures which were quite incomprehensible. But Lou was in no mood

for trifling or lingering. She gave the baby a parting wave of her hand,

and ran off after the rest, who had not noticed this little episode. Fred

Seacomb was just in front, provokingly unconscious of her unfavorable

opinion, and—what? yes, actually racing with one of the girls! Well, the

morning was so bright, and Lou’s own nature so like it, that the clouds

soon blew away, and she was one of the merriest of the party as they drew

near the agreed limit of their excursion.

The sun was well up over the mountains when they reached the upper end of

the trestle-bridge which spans the deep chasm of Willey Brook. It was an

uncanny sort of place, and as the girls crept up to the edge and looked

down at the jagged bowlders eighty feet below, they shuddered and shrank

back, with their hands over their eyes. One or two proposed starting for

home at once, and the whole party probably would have begun the homeward

march, had not one of the boys in an unlucky moment remarked in a loud

whisper to his neighbor:

“’Twould be just like Lou Elwin to propose to go across.”

“I think she’s scared, though, this time,” replied his companion with a

laugh.

Lou stopped short, and the others with her. She had caught a part of the

foolish words, and guessed the rest. Turning squarely about, she surveyed

the yawning gulf, and the slender road across it, with shining eyes and

flushed cheeks. Her breath came quickly. She _was_ afraid, but should the

others know it—especially Fred Seacomb, whom she had been taunting with

weakness?

Without otherwise announcing her intention, she walked deliberately

toward the trestle, and stepped upon the narrow line of boards which

were placed across the ties for a foot-way. Fred sprang forward and laid

his hand on her arm.

“Lou! Surely you’ll not attempt——”

“Fred Seacomb, I’m going across this bridge. If you don’t wish to go,”

she added, in a tone which implied more contempt than she meant,—she was

so excited,—“you can sit down here and wait till we come back. Who’s

going to follow?” she cried, raising her voice and glancing over her

shoulder. She looked very pretty, standing there with a great cluster of

asters in her belt, her eyes sparkling, and little wisps of hair blowing

about her face. Two or three stout fellows came forward eagerly enough,

and one of the girls. Fred had not moved. Lou could feel his fingers

tremble on her arm. Now he tried to speak again, but she shook off his

hand impatiently, and turned away.

“But, Miss Elwin—Lou——” No, she would not listen. Already she was well

out upon the trestle, and the wind, drawing down through the ravine, had

begun to buffet her slender figure.

“Lou—you’ve forgotten—_the train_!”

She could not hear now, if she would. The wind caught the words and

hurled them away down the valley after the brook.

The boards were wet from the recent rains, and to her dismay she began to

find it difficult to keep a steady footing. One moment, the wind would

howl in her ears, and seize upon her fluttering dress with its powerful

grasp until she was obliged to lean against it with her whole force;

the next, the gust would die away, withdrawing its support so suddenly

that she nearly fell. She could not turn, but she knew that those who

had foolishly started after her must be some distance in the rear, for

she heard nothing from them. She did not know that they had given up the

perilous task and gone back at Fred’s first warning.

Once, and only once, she ventured to look down through the trestle work.

Far, oh! so far below, she could see the waters of the little stream

as it lay among the rocks with no sound, but moving on its white way

silently. At the same moment, a blast of wind grasped and shook her so

fiercely that she well-nigh lost her balance on the uneven boards. There

was no rail or support of any kind on either side or overhead; only

space, space, whirling in the wind, and below, the rocks and the white

brook.

Giddy, half fainting, she paused irresolutely, attempted, perhaps,

to turn back, and sank upon the bridge with a sob of genuine terror,

clinging to the smooth iron track and hiding her face in her hands.

As she did so, she heard a peculiar, vibrating hum in the rail that

sent the blood to her heart. Behind her, in their safe position on the

embankment, the rest heard it, too, and, looking up, saw what was

coming. The Boston express, with a long and heavily loaded train, was

at that very moment rounding a curve not a mile above the trestle, and

rushing upon them, a roaring, resistless avalanche of iron.

[Illustration: “THE TRAIN, TOO, WAS ON THE BRIDGE.”]

Lou felt as if she were in a nightmare. She tried to move, but was as

motionless as if she were lashed to the bridge. As if in a bewildering

dream, she faintly caught the sound of her companions’ cries of terror

and warning; in a bewildering dream, she heard two shrill notes echoing

and re-echoing from the mountains far and near, and knew it was the

agonized shriek of the great, laboring locomotive, powerless to prevent

what the rocks below were waiting for. She had read in books of people

who, in extreme peril, saw the details of their past life like a flash;

with the wet iron rails quivering and twanging more and more loudly under

her hands, she knew what it meant. But even while the last accents of

the whistle were sobbing themselves away in the distance, there came a

sound of footsteps, light and swift. Two strong arms seized the girl

about the waist, and, still, as if in a strange dream, she knew it was

the languid, delicate Fred who was running with her in his arms along

that fearful height.

A few moments later, a hollow roar and tremulous movement under his feet

told that the train, too, was on the bridge.

When Fred leaped from the track, upon the farther side, the locomotive

was not forty feet behind them. The engineer’s pale face stared at them

an instant from the cab; then the train, with groaning brakes, smoking

axles, and a shower of cinders, thundered past and was gone. Not one of

the passengers knew of the escape, or even of the danger.

It was afterward learned, however, that the appliances of the air-brake

on the engine would not work that day, and the train, with its tremendous

acquired momentum, ran to Bemis station, nine miles below, before it

could be brought to a standstill.

With half-closed eyes, Lou lay helplessly on the mossy plot where Fred

had placed her, and, in the slow waking from her dream, she watched him

as he went to and fro, at first beckoning and making motions for the rest

to join him by crossing the bed of the brook, and then confining his

attention entirely to her.

His face was almost as white as her own, as he approached, but she gave

him a smile and a grateful look that seemed to reassure him; and, after

seeing that her position was as comfortable as circumstances would

permit, he took off his thick jacket and laid it over her, in spite of a

feeble protest,—for the September morning was still cool, and the wind

whistled sharply through the ravine.

Next, Fred busied himself in gathering sticks, and, wet as they were,

he succeeded, with the aid of several matches, in coaxing a blaze out

of them, almost at her feet. By the time the rest of the company came

panting up the steep slope, she had so far recovered as to sit up and

hold out her cold hands to the cheery little fire which crackled and

snapped merrily against a big bowlder.

Many were the clumsy inquiries of the boys, and the caresses of the girls

as they came upon her sitting there, with Fred standing silently at one

side—no longer jacketless, for she had pleaded so hard that he had put it

on again.

There was some discussion as to what action should now be taken, some

favoring a slow return to Crawford’s by the road, some by the track, and

some, a short walk further down the valley to the Willey House, where

they could obtain rest and refreshment. After many sober arguments, quite

different from the eager propositions in the parlor that morning, they

decided to return at once to the hotel, and _not_ by the track.

It was a very silent and nervous little group of young people that made

its way down to the wagon road at the bottom of the valley. Fred had been

nearly exhausted, after all, by his efforts, and Lou was so prostrated

that they feared she could not get home at all. But the spirits and

strength of the young are elastic, and by the time they repassed the

Notch, one would hardly know, to look at them, that anything unusual had

happened. It was agreed that all should say as little about the affair

as possible. Accordingly, nearly all the party were in the parlor that

night, dancing, chatting, and laughing as usual.

For the next few days, it was observed that Fred Seacomb did not play

tennis, and that Lou Elwin never again chid him for his mild ways and

moderate excursions. Report says that she told him, in her own frank way,

that she was ashamed of her former treatment of him; at any rate, she

will not hear a word said against him, among her friends; and not once

since that day has she been known to accuse him of unmanliness.

THE GIRAFFE.

Many years ago, a young Italian lad named Gordian, who had been

proclaimed, when but fifteen years old, Emperor of Rome, gave the people

of his native city a splendid entertainment or “triumph.” And among the

many strange and terrible beasts that passed in procession around his

amphitheater, were ten curious animals—long-necked, long-legged, and

small-headed, with tufted tails and queer little horns. They were of a

tawny orange color, beautifully spotted and marked. They were driven

around the arena in gilded chariots by their Ethiopian drivers, and were

such an odd combination of the body of a camel and the spots of a leopard

that the people, who gazed upon them in wonder and surprise, gave to the

strange beasts the name of “Camelopardus,” or camel-leopard.

[Illustration: A HERD OF GIRAFFES.]

This singular animal, however, had long been known to the Arabians, under

the name of “Xirapha,” or “the long-necked.” And from this title comes

our word “giraffe,” the popular name now given to the odd-looking beast

that the boy-emperor exhibited in his circus sixteen centuries ago.

It is indeed a curious animal. Its chief characteristics are its length

of neck and its high fore-quarters. The head is sometimes seventeen feet

from the ground, and specimens have been found measuring over twenty

feet from hoof to nose. The apparent height of the fore-quarters is not

due, as is supposed, to a greater length of the fore-legs, but to the

extraordinary height of the withers or shoulder-bones. The tongue of

the giraffe is long and prehensile—that is, it is adapted to seize and

entwine; it can be tapered so small as to enter the ring of a small key.

This long neck and prehensile tongue, which are found in no other animal,

enable this giant browser to feed with ease upon the foliage and tender

branches of trees.

The eyes of the giraffe are very large, soft, and beautiful, and one

would suppose that their mild, imploring expression would restrain

the hunters from shooting down so attractive-looking and inoffensive

a creature. But the same willful and cruel desire for what is wrongly

called “sport,” that has exterminated the buffalo of our Western plains,

is killing off the giraffe of Africa. Its strong-tasting flesh is not

enjoyable eating, and its hide is of little use; its capture alive is of

no value to man, save as a gratification of curiosity; it can not, like

the camel, be used as a beast of burden; nor does it, like the ostrich or

the elephant, provide either feather or ivory for commerce. In fact, this

curious animal is of no practical use to man, and should be left free to

roam the plains and forests of its African home, unmolested and unharmed,

save for the occasional capture of such living specimens as may help boys

and girls to study and admire one of the most singular and graceful of

the creatures of the earth.

THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN.

BY ARTHUR WENTWORTH EATON.

[Illustration]

A sunflower tall, by the garden wall,

Scornfully nodded his head

To a brilliant poppy, whose cheeks below

Were all aflame with a crimson glow.

“I am the child of the sun,” he smiled;

“His color is mine, you see,

While you are drinking his warm rays in,

You never once try his tints to win.”

But the poppy gay, still blushing away

(And laughing a little too),

Quietly answered, “The sun has told

Me to be red and you to be gold.

“The morning’s hush and the poppy’s blush

Are dear to the heart of day

As the noontide hour, with its triumphs won,

And the flower that rivals the glowing sun.

“Heaven is large, and its chiefest charge

Is that life shall be broad and free,

And it bids the children of sun and storm

Ne’er to a single type conform.”

The sunflower wise looked down in surprise

At the bold little flower below,

But he learned a lesson there and then

That needs to be learned by many men.

[Illustration]

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD.

SIXTH PAPER.

You must have noticed the difference in your own handwriting, when you

are using a pen that does not suit you, and when you have one to which

you are accustomed. Similarly, when you are writing on a slate—a sharp

slate-pencil makes a clear, thin mark, a blunt pencil makes a broad mark

with uneven edges. When the pencil is worn down on one side, if you turn

it over, it makes another sort of a mark. The writing done with a quill

differs from that made with a steel pen. And the differences between the

writings of certain nations of the Old World—which at one time puzzled

people very much—were often caused by their use of different writing

materials, such as: paper and pencils; paper and brushes; bricks and

metal pens; wax and metal nails; wood and knife-blades.

[Illustration: REED AND PEN-CASE OF ANCIENT EGYPT.]

The Egyptians, you remember, had two kinds of writing: one called

hieroglyphs, used mainly on monuments, for sentences of sacred history,

names of kings, and short prayers; the other called hieratic, used on

papyrus paper, chiefly for general and quicker writing. Both these

terms signify that writing was sacred and connected with the priests.

Religion entered very largely into the life of the people of Egypt, and

the priests, who formed the most powerful class, held all the learning,

and, before the Greeks flourished, were the wisest men in the world.

The differences between the rough little sketches that formed the

letters of the hieratic or swift hand and the laborious pictures called

hieroglyphs, arose originally, and kept growing greater and greater,

because of the different materials used in making them. It was natural to

work very slowly and carefully on the hieroglyphs which were carved on

royal monuments; while the scribes who wrote the hieratic characters on

smooth papyrus with a reed pen and thick ink were obliged to disregard

the smaller angles and finer outlines, and were satisfied if their

work conveyed the meaning they intended. There is a fantastic and not

inelegant writing used by the Burmese, a people to the north-east of

India, and south of China. This script is very rounded and is made up of

fine lines. The letters have been found to belong to an alphabet that

looks entirely different; and the difference arose from the custom of

writing on palm-leaves with a fine needle. It was difficult to make the

plain up-and-down strokes without splitting the leaf, so these strokes

were made in curves in circles and half circles.

[Illustration: PORTION OF THE BURMESE ALPHABET.]

The alphabet of the Goths, before and about the time they embraced

Christianity, was formed on a contrary system. All the strokes were

straight, either up and down, or crosswise, or slanting. Many persons

have thought this arose because the Goths lacked a feeling for grace

and beauty. But that was not the reason. When these forefathers of ours

invented or borrowed their runes, and later when they borrowed a true

alphabet from the Greeks, they cut their letters on sticks of wood or on

smooth lengths of bark. Most boys know by experience how difficult it is

to cut a round O on a smooth stick on account of the grain of the wood.

This led to peculiar shapes in the letters.

In the earliest known Runic alphabet, the letters do not stand in the

order of our letters; and they differ so greatly in other ways from the

ordinary Greek alphabet, that it is probable they were borrowed long

before the Christian era, and afterward became greatly changed. This

Runic alphabet was called the “Futhorc,” from the first six letters,

ᚠᚢᚦᚯᚱᚴ—F, U, TH, O, R, C. The third rune, ᚦ (TH), which came from the

Greek Δ, _delta_, or D, survived in English literature until the last

century, and is occasionally used to-day when people wish to write in

an old-fashioned style. And they are apt to make a curious mistake in

its pronunciation. The rune ᚦ remained in Irish and Anglo-Saxon for the

sound TH, and in English it was preserved longest in the word “THE,”

because that word occurs very often, and it was easier to write one

letter than two. But in the course of time it came to be mistaken for

Y; and although our ancestors knew better than to pronounce it like Y,

their descendants do not, but usually give this apparent Y the sound of

the real Y, making YE’s out of all the THE’s. They do not know that this

is a survival of a rune almost to the present generation. The fifth rune

of the “futhorc” is our R, and the sixth is our K without the tail. The

Goths, Angles, and Scandinavians used twenty-four such runes or closely

similar letters. You will notice that the Goth, like an unskillful

schoolboy who carves his initials on wood, and is bothered by the circle

of the O, has solved the difficulty by the bold move of cutting one

downward and two cross strokes. Sometimes, however, the O was made by

four strokes forming a lozenge ᛜ. They usually cut their down strokes

across the grain; and they gave all their cross lines a slant, in order

not to bury the point of the knife too deep, and splinter the wood, in

cutting with the grain. That is the reason that the cross lines of the

letters are rarely horizontal.

[Illustration: THE BUZEO TORQUE.[4]]

Some of our words that are in constant use can be traced back to this

period. The word book was originally the same as the word beech, and

reminds us of the time when our forefathers carved their records on

beech-wood or beech-bark. The similarity of the two words has remained

much closer in German; _Buch_ (book) being almost exactly the same as

_Buche_ (beech). To sing from a stave is the same as to sing from a

staff, because in runic writing the old chants were noted down with a

knife on sticks or pieces of bark, and read from these by the singers.

The Ojibway Indians, though they had not an alphabet like the runes,

until recently had similar staves which they brought out when they

chanted their songs; certain marks on the wood served to remind them of

what they were to sing.

You may remember my telling you how hard it is to distinguish some

of the letters of the Hebrew alphabet from one another, and how the

same difficulty is experienced in the case of the Arabic and Persian

alphabets. This is due to various reasons, among which was the employment

by those nations of pen, paper, and ink for perpetuating records.

This tended to make their writing less and less easy to read; and as

inscriptions on stone were not common, people did not have the ancient

models of letters before their eyes to refer to.

[Illustration: ROMAN WRITING MATERIALS.]

The capital letters of our own alphabet, however, are easily

distinguishable from one another. We owe this fact largely to the

Romans, a clear-headed, practical people, who used for every-day writing

slates or boards covered with a thin film of wax, on which the letters

were engraved, or furrowed, by a sharp-pointed instrument called a

_stylus_, from which we derive the term “style,” in literature. The

yielding quality of the wax encouraged the use of fine, open and legible

characters, and the Romans handed down to us an alphabet improved in many

ways.

But the most curious example of the modifying influence of the writing

materials upon the writing is seen in the cuneiform characters. If, on

a hot summer’s day, you should walk between the long lines of bricks

in one of the many brickyards that line certain sections of the Hudson

river, you would find the fresh-made bricks quite soft, and steaming

under the direct rays of the sun. If one of those soft bricks were given

into your hand and you were asked to draw a rebus on it, and given a

nail with which to do it, you would meet with this difficulty: If, in

drawing the outlines of your pictures, you should press equally along the

whole length of every line, you would raise small ridges on each side;

or, as you became more expert, one ridge on one side, as a plow does

when drawing a furrow. And when you should come to draw one line across

another, there would be two ugly interfering ridges.

But if you should stop your cross line just before you come to the other,

and skip it, beginning again on the other side, your picture would be

smoother and the surface of the brick less uneven. You would succeed

still better if you should not try to draw continuous lines, but should

indicate them with a series of dots made by dabbing the soft brick with

a corner of the iron nail. Now, imagine the Hudson to be the Euphrates,

and yourself a Babylonian of ten thousand years ago, and the nail a

little, smooth, square-pointed piece of copper, iron, tin, or silver,

and the pictures conventional signs representing the various sounds of

the language, and you would be writing cuneiform. The old Babylonians,

in writing, engraved soft bricks with regular and evenly placed dabs.

These hardened quickly under the hot sun of Mesopotamia, or were baked in

ovens, and so preserved the inscribed characters. Very often a coat of

soft clay was wrapped about the original brick, and the same inscription

made on the outside. This was done to prevent forgeries, and to make it

easier to restore the meaning, if part of the brick were destroyed or

lost. Whole libraries of these strange books have been found under the

ruins of the palaces of the old kings of Assyria. Still other libraries

are lying there waiting for their discoverer.

Did you ever try to make an alphabet of your own? I can distinctly

remember inventing one, with a favorite sister, when I was about seven

years old. Great was our diligence while at work on it, and great was our

secrecy! We used to hide it away so carefully that it was easy to forget

about it for weeks at a time. We never learned it well enough to write

the simplest sentences in it off-hand,—and for a very good reason: We

had too recently learned an alphabet infinitely better than any that a

child could think out—one which had been tested and changed and improved

by ages of use. I do not doubt that many other children have tried to

construct private systems of writing. It has never been uncommon for

men to attempt to use secret alphabets. In this respect, the ancient

people of Asia somewhat resembled children; and thousands of alphabets

and syllabaries were invented in those old days. It is rare, however,

that one has been handed down, and only when the people for whom it was

devised had a much poorer system or none at all.

[Illustration: A “TREE ALPHABET.”]

Sequoiah, an intelligent Cherokee Indian, contrived more recently

a syllabary of eighty-five signs, comprising all the sounds in his

language, using the English alphabet as a basis on which to form his

characters. This syllabary is in use to-day by the Cherokees, and

books and newspapers are printed in it. Botanists have given the name,

Sequoiah, to the gigantic trees of California, in perpetual memory of his

genius.

[Illustration: SPECIMENS OF OLD ASIATIC ALPHABETS. (SEE NEXT PAGE.)]

Long ago, when it was dangerous but very profitable to be thought a

wizard, it was customary for any wise man who wished to be feared, and

to keep his wisdom confined to himself and a few chosen disciples, to

write his books in an alphabet or cipher of his own invention. Generally

he took some existing alphabet as a foundation, and made variations on

it, somewhat as Sequoiah did. I have in my possession a queer little

treatise in Arabic, which claims to have been written after a labor of

twenty years, and solemnly deposited in the royal treasury, during the

reign of a certain Caliph who lived in Palestine more than one thousand

years ago. It professes to give a key to the hieroglyphs of Egypt, but

its greatest interest lies in the fact that the author has here brought

together, in an amusing medley, all the alphabets and ciphers that he has

ever heard of; perhaps some that he made up. Here in the upper wood-cut,

for example, is a curious tree alphabet. The letters follow the regular

order of the Arabic alphabet, each letter varying from the others by

the arrangement of the branches on one side or the other of the trunk.

Placing these in regular order with the corresponding Arabic letters

underneath, the Arab had a simple cipher which the ordinary Oriental who

only knows his own letters could scarcely read without the key. Another

alphabet, as shown in the second wood-cut on p. 773, is evidently based

upon a picture of the sun for _alif_, or A; while B, C, D, and the

following letters are made by varying the first character. Remember that

these, being Asiatic alphabets, are written so as to be read from right

to left; but the letters are here placed in reverse order to be read like

our own alphabet from left to right. This book contains also alphabets

founded on the signs for the moon, and on those for the planets, Jupiter,

Saturn, Mars, Mercury, and Venus. The one shown on this page is still

another, which the author calls the “oldest Chaldean Alphabet.” And one

can really trace a resemblance to Phœnician letters in some of these old

signs. In fact, it is easy to invent fancy alphabets, as soon as the idea

of an alphabet is familiar to the mind; but it is not so easy to induce

people to use them. The alphabets actually used by the various nations

of the world have been brought to their present state of perfection, as

you have seen, by a slow process of growth, one step at a time, and each

step the product of intense thought and ingenuity. The Cherokee is an

interesting exception to this rule. Of late centuries, there have been

few, almost no improvements in our alphabet. This is partly because it

is so well adapted to our use, but principally because the invention of

printing has tended to fix the style of printed type in one fashion. It

is true that when books were first printed in England, the characters

used were the indistinct so-called Gothic, or black-letter; but printers

soon saw the advantages of the later Italian, or Roman, styles, and

have kept to them ever since. The people of Germany are troubled to-day

with near-sightedness. It has been claimed, with a great show of truth,

that this is largely owing to the fact that the Germans still retain

the old black-letter of the early Irish and the Anglo-Saxons. But every

year the Germans are printing more and more books in Roman type, and

for generations Roman type and Roman script have been taught in their

schools, together with the angular Gothic.

[Illustration: THE OLDEST CHALDEAN ALPHABET.]

Among the half-civilized nations which are now being taught our wisdom,

many are learning to use our alphabet; and it seems almost certain that

in time the whole world, excepting perhaps the Mohammedan nations, will

express their thoughts in our version of the letters that came down

from the Phœnicians. What a glory for that strange old folk of the

Mediterranean Sea!

[4] This massive collar or bracelet, here reproduced from Mr. George

Stephens’s “Old Northern Runic Monuments,” was made of twisted gold, and

was found at Buzeo, in Wallachia, upon the site, probably, of a heathen

temple. The runic characters inscribed upon it mean “dedicated to the

temple of the Goths.” This torque was worth nearly twenty thousand

dollars.

A BALLAD OF BASE-BALL.

BY I. D.

I.

Now that Summer has just reached its mark,

And the schooling and fishing are done,

Come! To-morrow get up with the lark

(And you know she gets up with the sun)—

Come along! who would shirk or would shun

The game that is best of them all,

For glory and frolic and fun?

So hurrah for the Bat and the Ball!

II.

Yes, hurrah! we’ll be first in the Park;

Our Nine will go up there as one,

_Not_ to see all the beasts of the Ark,

Nor the birds, nor the beetles,—no fun!—

But around the green Diamond to run,

And the Red-stockings’ hearts to appall,

And to show how a game may be won:

So hurrah for the Bat and the Ball!

III.

We’ve a Catcher as keen as a shark,

For fouls—well he can’t be outdone;

And our Batters could bat in the dark,

And our Pitcher knows every one

Of the “curves” and the “shoots”; not a run

Did he give those Red-stockings last Fall

In the champion match that we won.

So hurrah for the Bat and the Ball!

Jack, throw down your rod and your gun,

Let kite and top go to the wall,

Of _good_ games there’s not more than one,

So hurrah for the Bat and the Ball!

MAN OVERBOARD!

BY H. A. JOHNSON.

[Illustration: OFF TO THE RESCUE.]

The cry of “Man overboard!” always has a startling sound on an ocean

vessel. In a naval ship, such accidents, or emergencies, are provided

against in advance. Two boats, one on each side of the ship, are kept

ready for instant use, and are equipped with everything necessary for

a speedy rescue, as well as an outfit, including provisions, for a

prolonged search in case immediate rescue is not possible. Picked seamen

in each “watch” are assigned to special duty as a life-boat crew, and

must be ready to jump into their boat at a moment’s notice.

Some ships are provided with “life-buoys”—queer-looking objects hanging

from the stern. In case of a man’s falling overboard at night, one of

these life-buoys can be dropped into the water, and lighted immediately,

so that the poor fellow can strike out for it at once and cling to it

until picked up.

Sometimes, however, the sea runs so high that no small boat could be

lowered without swamping and perhaps drowning the entire crew. To decide

the question whether to attempt the rescue of a poor fellow who has

fallen overboard, at the risk of losing others who might be sent to his

aid, is a fearful responsibility for a commanding officer, and requires

the coolest exercise of his judgment.

THE KELP-GATHERERS.

[_A Story of the Maine Coast._]

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

CHAPTER IX.

LOADING THE KELP.

With the first flush of dawn kindling the sky, Perce Bucklin opened his

eyes in great bewilderment. But the sight of the sea, and the sand, and

his two companions still asleep under their blankets, brought him quickly

to his senses.

“‘Wake Nicodemus’!” he shouted, giving each a shake. “The tide is up!

the wind is all right, and the kelp is landing! ‘Hurrah for the great

jubilee’!”

Moke yawned a sleepy “hurrah!” while Poke, sitting up and rubbing his

eyes open, made some complimentary reference to “Uncle Moses.”

“Uncle Moses was right,” Perce admitted. “Now we must have breakfast and

be ready for work by the time the tide has gone down a little. Start up

the fire while I go and see to the oxen.”

Rubbish had already been gathered, and left to dry about their camp-fire

of the evening before. Moke produced some matches, while Poke prepared

a wisp of hay for lighting. And now, completely awake, both sang, while

Perce was starting off:

“‘Run and tell Elijah to hurry up Pomp,

And meet us at the gum-tree down in the swamp,

To wake Nicodemus to-day!’”

The sun came up gloriously over the ocean. It was a superb morning.

The wind had gone down during the night, and only a gentle breeze was

blowing. The receding tide left long rows and scattered heaps of kelp,

rockweed, and other _algæ_ high on the beach.

The boys were in the gayest spirits. While the oxen were still feeding,

and the fire getting in condition to roast corn and potatoes, Perce

proposed that they should make the most of their time by gathering

driftwood.

Then a question of equity arose. The twins thought it fair that all they

both secured should be theirs; by which arrangement Perce could have

expected to get no more than half as much for his share.

“But why not divide the floodwood the same as we do the seaweed?” he

demanded—“Half and half.”

“Because your oxen——” began Moke.

“Don’t help,” added Poke.

“But they’re here on your account as much as they are on mine,” said

Perce. “They’re giving their valuable time all the same, whether they

help or not.”

“All right! what do you propose?” cried the twins.

“That we divide equally everything we find on the beach—driftwood,

seaweed, no matter what,” Perce replied. “Half for you two, and half for

me and the oxen.”

The twins agreed good-naturedly, and all set merrily to work. After

gathering driftwood for a while, they dug out a place in the hot coals,

into which they put their potatoes, wrapped in green sea-moss, and left

them to cook. Then the corn was made ready and roasted on the ends of the

sticks that had served the same purpose the night before, and at last

came breakfast—which they ate with such appetites as I fear some boys who

read this know nothing about.

“Won’t Olly be mad when he knows what he has missed?” cried Perce.

They all had to speak loud, to be heard above the sound of the surf.

“If he comes back by the coast——” said Moke.

“We shall see him,” said Poke. “I should think it was time.”

“It’s time to begin on the kelp!” Perce exclaimed, throwing away his last

corn-cob, and springing up from his seat on the sand.

The ox-cart was brought around, and halted alongside the heaps of still

dripping and glistening seaweed. The larger part of this was kelp, and

the most valuable part in the estimation of farmers who make use of these

products of the sea to enrich the land.

The kelp grows upon deep-sunken ledges, from which it is detached only

by the agitations of great storms,—a weird sort of plant, which in still

weather may sometimes be seen, far down, waving mysteriously, with

every fluctuation of the tide, in the silent ocean depths. It is often

of gigantic proportions, its slippery stems and great, glossy leaves

measuring many yards in length. It frequently comes up with clusters of

blue mussels and other shells clinging to its roots.

With the kelp, were mixed a tangled rockweed, eel-grass, and Irish moss;

all of which the boys pitched on the cart together; Perce starting up the

oxen now and then and stopping them again where the litter was thickest.

“How’s this for a devil’s apron?” cried Poke, struggling with an immense

leaf of kelp, to which he merely gave the picturesque, popular name; for

the twins were well-brought-up boys, who would not for anything have

uttered a profane word.

It flopped salt water in his face as he was getting it on the cart; and

then, as the oxen started forward, trailed its smooth, wet, snaky stem

along the ground.

[Illustration: PERCE FINDS THE WATCH. (SEE NEXT PAGE.)]

“It’s ugly stuff to pitch,” said Moke, twisting the root in the tines of

his fork to assist his brother.

“It’s strange that it always lands against the wind!” said Poke.

“I don’t see that it’s strange at all,” replied Perce. “The only things

that the wind from the sea blows ashore are things afloat on the surface,

like driftwood. It blows the surface water too, but that is all the time

running back; and it carries with it things below the surface.”

“Of course! I know all about that!” said Poke.

“The under-tow,” suggested Moke.

“Well! it’s the under-tow that lands the kelp,” returned Perce. “It works

both ways. When the wind blows off shore it blows the surface water back;

and that brings up the under-current with the seaweed. That’s the way it

is on our beaches.”

Moke and Poke knew the facts well enough; but Perce, who prided himself

on being a rather intelligent boy, liked to explain things. He went on:

“There’s another thing you’ve noticed: how much warmer the water is

sometimes when there’s a sea-breeze, than when it blows off the land;

just the contrary of what you would expect.”

“I guess every fellow who goes in swimming much——” Moke began.

“Has noticed that,” Poke ended.

“It’s because the sea-breeze is cooler than the land-breeze,” said Moke.

“And that makes the water seem warm to you,” said Poke.

“There’s something besides that,” Perce replied. “It’s the surface water

that is warmest; and the sea-breeze keeps that rolling on the beach. I’m

speaking of sunny days; in cloudy weather there isn’t much difference.

The sun warms the sand, and the sand warms the water. But a land-breeze

blows it off, and brings up the cold under-current. Think of that the

next time you go in swimming, and see if it isn’t so.”

The twins thought it strange he should know so much, as he had no Uncle

Moses; he didn’t tell them he had got his lore from his father, who was

one of the most intelligent farmers on the coast.

“I shouldn’t like to go in swimming here now!” said Poke, turning to look

at the waves, still dark with rolling seaweed and sand.

“It’s wonderful,” said Perce, “how pure the ocean keeps, with all the

dirt and things forever washing into it,—though it isn’t always so

pure as it looks. Don’t you know that fishermen have to take up their

gill-nets and dry ’em about every four days?”

“That’s to keep ’em from rotting,” said the twins.

“But what makes them rot?” returned Perce. “It isn’t the water; it’s

what’s _in_ the water.”

“The slime,” said Moke.

“They come up all covered with slime,” said Poke.

“That slime,” Perce replied, “is all a kind of life. Drying kills it.

But if the nets are left long in the water, it grows, and takes the life

out of ’em; that’s what you call rotting. In a few days you can see fine

green grass growing all over the twine. Then, how quick the bottom of a

boat, or a rope left in the water, or a sunken anchor, gets coated with

barnacles! The clearest sea water is swarming alive with things you can’t

see!”

CHAPTER X.

WHAT PERCE FOUND ON THE BEACH.

The boys worked well while they talked; and often the cart went with its

shaggy and dripping load to the two piles of seaweed they were depositing

high on the shore.

“Have you thought, boys,” said Perce, as he backed the cart around, after

one of these short trips; “it’s just along here somewhere that the body

of the old lobsterman came ashore, after the gale three years ago?”

All stopped to look at the tumbling breakers, still casting up their

burden of kelp.

“The storm caught him when he was out,” continued Perce; “but nobody

ever knew whether he got capsized pulling his lobster-pots, or trying to

land afterward. His boat was found stove to pieces on the rocks the next

morning, but he wasn’t found for several days. Then, wasn’t it dreadful?

Two men discovered him, when they were loading kelp!”

The boys worked for some time in silence, and then the conversation

turned upon wrecks and accidents at sea, until the cart-box was once more

filled with its heaping load.

This time the twins went with the oxen to dump it, while Perce stood

leaning on his fork, looking down at the last marks of the receding tide,

left in wavy lines along the sand.

Where some jags of seaweed had just been thrown up, these lines

disappeared, giving place to little straight channels cut by the water

dripping from them and running back to catch the retreating waves. He

was curiously watching these effects, and throwing up some straggling

stems of kelp with his fork, when he stopped suddenly with a start of

surprise. Something brighter than the glistening golden-green leaves and

stems had caught his eye. It was in the midst of a heap which had hardly

yet landed, and which seemed ready to slide back into the sea with the

next wave. He thrust in his fork to hold it; and, stooping, saw that the

object was a bit of shining metal.

“Gold!” he exclaimed gleefully.

He took hold of it, but found that it did not come so easily out of the

mingled mass of kelp and rockweed as he had anticipated. He pinched it

firmly, pushing back some clustering pods of rockweed, and gave it a

gentle pull.

“A gold chain!” he exclaimed in the greatest astonishment.

He had at first seen and touched only the end of the chain. But now he

drew and drew, removing the soft, slimy incumbrance with his other hand,

when up came, dangling before his eyes in the sun, a beautiful gold watch.

Perce Bucklin’s first impulse was to shout to his companions and hold up

the prize for them to see; but that natural movement was checked by a

more selfish consideration.

He was too honest a boy to wish to possess anything that did not truly

belong to him. But suppose the owner of the watch should never appear? It

might have been lost at sea, in the late storm; or possibly, before that,

it slipped from the pocket of some voyager on yacht or ship, who would

never pass that way again. Indeed, it might have been dropped overboard

miles from that spot, and have been brought ashore by the kelp in which

the chain was entangled.

If unclaimed, who would have a better right to it than the finder? But

then Perce remembered the unlucky agreement by which everything they

found that day on the beach was to be divided between him and the twins.

To be sure, that was meant to apply principally to seaweed and driftwood;

of course, it didn’t include watches! That seemed very plain to Percival

Bucklin. Yet, the twins might think different. It would be absurd, but

who could tell what self-interest might impel them to do?

It was this fear that prompted Perce to resolve upon a very foolish

thing. He glanced around, and seeing that the twins had just dumped their

load, and were lifting the cart-box back into its place, having quite too

much to attend to at the moment to be observing him, he slipped watch and

chain into his trousers-pocket. It had a hunter’s case, which, if it had

so far kept it from being broken, would probably preserve it still.

“I won’t tell them,” he said to himself, “till I’ve had a little time to

think.”

He was much excited; and if the twins had had keen eyes for anything that

wasn’t lying on the beach, they must have noticed, when they returned,

that something had happened to him in their absence.

He fell to pitching kelp again, but his talk was fitful and

absent-minded. He was all the while thinking of what he had found, and

instinctively looking for more watches and other valuables in the seaweed.

He also thought of something he wouldn’t have liked so well to find. The

loser of the watch might have lost himself with it; and perhaps he, too,

like the old lobsterman, had come ashore in a shroud of kelp.

CHAPTER XI.

ANOTHER DISCOVERY.

Perce’s eyes wandered up and down the beach, and finally, with thoughts

of shipwreck, he stood leaning on his fork and gazed abstractedly out to

sea.

“What’s the matter with you?” cried Moke.

“Why don’t you start up the team?” demanded Poke. “We’re waiting!”

Perce left his fork sticking in the sand, and starting suddenly, with his

face turned toward the sea, uttered an exclamation:

“My gracious, boys! Look!”

“Where? What?” cried the twins.

“On the ‘Old Cow!’ There’s somebody there!”

“That’s nothing strange,” Moke replied.

“Some fisherman,” Poke added.

They took the discovery coolly, not having Perce’s reason for attaching

to it a tragical importance.

“It’s no fisherman!” he exclaimed. “See! he is making some sort of

signal!” And he added, in great excitement, “It’s somebody cast away on

the rock! There’s been a wreck, boys! There’s been a wreck!”

He was so certain of this that he would have told them then and there

what he had found on the beach, but for the awkwardness of explaining

why he had previously concealed it. And, after all, he reflected, the

castaway—if such indeed he was—might not be the loser of the watch.

Without producing that evidence, he soon convinced his companions

that there had been some sort of disaster off the coast, and that the

movements they saw on the “Old Cow’s” back were signals of distress.

“He has a board or something in his hand, and he is beckoning with it!”

cried Perce. “He wouldn’t be waving it that way if he wasn’t in trouble!”

“I don’t see what _we_ can do,” said Moke.

“He can’t be in any great danger,” added Poke.

“But he may have been there all night; we don’t know what condition he

is in!” Perce replied. “We can give the alarm, and, may be, go for him

ourselves, if nobody else will.”

The twins didn’t see how they could afford to leave their work. There

was another cart already at the other end of the beach, and more

kelp-gatherers would probably be coming soon. They didn’t fancy the idea

of giving up the advantage gained by spending the night on the shore and

beginning work in the morning before anybody else arrived.

But, though Perce could do a rather underhand thing in keeping the watch

from them, he wasn’t a boy to let that or any other selfish consideration

prevent him from attempting the rescue of a person in distress.

“Besides,” he said, “it may be somebody we know. Don’t you remember when

that man was seen clinging to the rigging of the wreck off Rocky Shoals,

Tom Bowers was one of the men that volunteered to launch a boat and try

to take him off. Tom’s mother said all she could to prevent him, for

there was a tremendous sea running, but he went; and the man turned out

to be his own father—her own husband! and the only one saved from the

wreck.”

The twins remarked that it wasn’t any father of theirs on the “Old Cow’s”

back, at that time in the morning, very sure! And they were reluctant

to have their rich harvest of seaweed interrupted. Yet they thought

something ought to be done.

“Call out and tell old Homans,” they said.

“Old Homans” was the man who had come on at the other end of the beach

with his cart. But Perce didn’t see what he could do.

“He might do what we do; then he won’t be getting seaweed while we’re

off,” said the twins.

“Well, you can tell him while I run up to the boarding-house,” cried

Perce. “Here’s a boat; I’ll get oars, and, maybe, some men to help.”

Old Homans didn’t take much interest in the report the twins brought him

of a human being on the lonely outlying ledge.

“Big ninny! He’s no business to be there!” he exclaimed.

He spent but little time in trying to concentrate his imperfect eyesight

upon the figure they described.

“I can’t make out any human critter, nor any critter,” he said, and

turned again to forking seaweed. “If _you_ see anybody, better find a

boat and pull out, and see what simpleton it is, and what in the world

he’s there fur.”

[Illustration: LAUNCHING THE BOAT IN THE SURF.]

The twins returned to their own ox-cart; and soon Perce came running with

a pair of oars.

“Here are oars,” he said. “But there are no men at the house. They went

off in the yacht Susette yesterday, and haven’t been heard from. And Olly

hasn’t got back, though Mrs. Murcher says he ought to have come an hour

ago.”

“May be it’s the yacht that’s been wrecked,” suggested the twins.

“She’s afraid it is; and the ladies are all excited about it. I tried to

get a spy-glass to look through; one of the men owns one, they said, but

he must have taken it with him.”

The boys turned the oxen about, and left them eating the hay that had

served for a bed the night before. Then they dragged the dory down from

beside the bathing-houses, and got it ready to launch. Perce took the

precaution to put on board some provisions, and selected from the piles

of driftwood a strip of board that would do to steer with.

Then the boat was shoved into the surf. The twins scrambled aboard and

took the oars, ready to pull the moment Perce gave the word.

“Now!” he cried; and, pushing the dory over the next wave, at the same

time he leaped into the stern.

The oars dipped and bent; he assisted with his strip of board; and the

skiff reared and pitched on the breakers, cheered by the ladies from the

boarding-house, who had hastened down to the beach to see them off.

The twins, having embarked in the adventure, were now almost as

enthusiastic as Perce himself. The wind was light, the morning sun

sparkled on the waves, and the dory went dashing over them as if rowed

for a race.

The tide had not yet fallen much, and the ocean swells broke in a field

of white foam completely over the “Calf’s” back, while the tail wagged

up and down. But the “Old Cow” was clear above the line of surf about

her flanks; and there, on the highest hummock, stood the castaway, now

more distinctly discernible as the distance between him and his rescuers

diminished.

The boys made many conjectures as to who he could be and what had become

of the wreck, no vestige of which could be seen.

“He has on a white yachting-cap!” exclaimed Perce; and that confirmed

them in the opinion that the Susette had gone to pieces on the ledge.

The castaway had ceased to wave the object which had first attracted

Perce’s attention, but every now and then he threw up both arms, as he

stood facing them on the solitary rock, and made encouraging signals.

The “Cow” and the “Calf” are much farther from the coast than they look

to be in clear weather. Perce took his turn at the oars, and all worked

heroically; yet it seemed a long while before they came within hail of

the Crusoe of that small rocky island.

CHAPTER XII.

ON THE “CALF’S” BACK.

Let us take advantage of this lapse of time to go back a little and see

what had become of Olly Burdeen.

The salt water and the barnacles told but too true a tale: he had been

thrown upon the lesser rock, which the next tide would submerge.

If he had still any doubt of that terrible fact, it must have been

dispelled when the moon rose amid broken clouds and showed him the

“Calf’s tail” churning the waves at the end of his surf-fringed reef;

also the glimmering back of the “Old Cow,” with its encircling surge, a

furlong or more to the south.

An old, sad moon it was, with a distorted, melancholy face peering above

the illimitable desolation of waters; yet a welcome sight to the drenched

and shivering castaway, waiting on his lonely ledge for the tide to

return and cover it. No wonder it appeared to him not the cheerful orb

he knew, but some ancient, decayed satellite coming to look for the last

time on a lost world!

After his long labor with his rude paddle, and the effort it had cost to

swim to the rock and scramble out upon it, he was nearly exhausted; and

the discovery of barnacles in the pool had quenched what remained of his

courage. There was no shelter from the wind; and in his wet clothes he

felt a deadly chill striking to his bones.

Then followed another discovery, which did not tend to restore his

spirits.

He had from the first given up the boat as lost. It had disappeared in

the dark and turbulent water almost as soon as he left it; nor could he

see anything of it afterward.

It was an old dory that had been hired for the season by one of Mrs.

Murcher’s boarders. Olly had taken that, too, without leave; but it was

the custom on the coast for people to make rather free use of any boats

that came in their way. With it had gone his sole means of escape from

certain death; otherwise he would have cared little for the loss.

In his fearful anxiety about his own safety, he had thought little

even of the safety of the watch. He hated the recollection of it; for,

probably, if it had not been for that, it might never have occurred to

him to row out from shore in order to get a sight of the returning yacht,

around the point.

After the moon rose, he looked across the tumbling billows at the “Old

Cow” wallowing in their froth, and felt that his salvation lay in

reaching that before the rising tide should sweep him from the “Calf.”

Yet, how was that possible? The very thought of swimming so far, alone in

the night, in the wild ocean, was frightful to him. Yet as a last resort

he might be driven to make so desperate an attempt.

As for the water, it could hardly seem colder than the wind that pierced

his drenched clothes. He no longer thought of any injury to them—the

stylish suit that had been a delight to his soul a few hours before! He

wept with despair as he thought of the joy that had turned to such bitter

woe; and he wished he had never seen the giver or his gift.

Salt water might ruin the watch; but, if so, that was probably ruined

already. At all events, it was past being returned to its case in Mr.

Hatville’s room, without that gentleman’s knowledge of its having been

removed.

Past, indeed! Thinking of it, Olly put up his hand to his pocket. It gave

him a start of fresh terror, even in his utter misery and wretchedness,

to find it empty.

The watch was gone! That was his last disheartening discovery.

How long it had been gone he had not the slightest means of knowing.

His teeth chattered, and he trembled from head to foot, as he hurriedly

searched his clothing for the timepiece, but in vain.

He at first believed that he had lost it in his struggle between the boat

and the ledge; for he remembered having looked down and seen the golden

glitter of the seal, not long after he went adrift. But now the moonlight

disclosed the seal still hanging by the hook in his button-hole. The

guard had been broken, and everything, excepting the seal and a few

dangling links, had gone with the watch.

He concluded that he must have lost it when he had his first tumble in

the boat. The oar, when it struck his breast, and flew from his hand, had

doubtless caught in the chain, and snatched the watch from his pocket.

Of course he couldn’t know that this was so; but if he had foreseen what

Perce Bucklin was to find on the beach a few hours later, he would have

argued that no watch could have been conveyed so far, in so short a time,

by waves or tide.

However it might have happened, it was hopelessly gone; and now, in his

enfeebled, frightened state, he began to consider how he should escape

the suspicion of having stolen it, if ever his body reached the shore

alive or dead.

“Nobody knows I had it,” he said miserably to himself. “And why should

anybody ever know?”

He unhooked what was left of the guard, and held it, with the seal, for a

moment in his shaking fingers, considering whether he should destroy that

evidence against him by flinging it into the sea.

But he could hardly make up his mind to cast away irrevocably what might

prove of value, should the watch and the rest of the guard be found.

That might still be possible, he reasoned; and, after a few minutes of

sickening doubt and hesitation, he put the shining trinkets into his

pocket. Even as he did so, he went about mechanically searching for what

he had hardly the faintest expectation of finding. Who that has ever lost

a prized object has not done the same?—looking again and again in places

where a superstitious hope whispers that it may be mysteriously lurking.

He felt sure that it could not, without his knowledge, have dropped from

his pocket when he had stooped over the pool to grope for barnacles; and

even if it had, the moonlight must show so bright an object shining in

the shallow bottom. Yet he explored it carefully with his hands, and went

back and explored it again, after examining other parts of the ledge.

But why be so anxious about the watch, when he was in despair of saving

his own life? He said that to himself, as he searched every crevice and

hollow of the slope where he had crawled out of the sea.

It was fortunate that he had something thus to engage his wretched

thoughts and benumbed hands. And a still better employment awaited him.

He had some time before he heard a strange thumping and grinding sound,

which he supposed must be caused by the motion of the “Calf’s tail.”

The hunt for the watch had kept him from investigating it. But now that

very search led him to make a different, but even more welcome discovery.

The side where he had landed was in shadow. As he followed it around,

just out of reach of the waves, he saw to his great joy something rising

and falling in the black seaweed that grew below the gray girdle of

barnacles, and bumping on the reef. It was his boat, which the wind had

blown against the little island, and lodged not far from the “Calf’s

tail.”

It was lying on its side, and a heave of the sea threw up the dark

gunwale into the moonlight that slanted across the surf-vexed end of

the island. As the wave drew back, sucking heavily along with it the

somber fringe of rockweed, Olly stepped cautiously down on this slippery

footing, and, seizing the rail of the dory, held it fast. Then with the

next swell he lifted the end upon the barnacled rocks and held it again,

while its heavy freight of water spilled out over the side into the sea.

Getting hold of the painter, he now had the boat safe, and, by a little

management, he was able to haul it higher up the slope and tip the rest

of the water out. The exertion warmed him, and success gave him new

courage.

True, he had no oars, and the thwart he had used for a paddle was lost.

But there was a second thwart which he could detach. The dory appeared

little the worse for the rough usage it had received, and he did not

doubt but it would prove seaworthy when it should become necessary for

him to intrust his life to it, in escaping from the rock.

That might be some time yet, for it was now low water. With the turning

of the tide, the wind might change or go down; and it would probably be

near daylight before the “Calf” would be submerged.

“The trouble will be,” he reflected, “to get the dory upon that highest

part.”

That was something more for him to do. He worked it along inch by inch,

pulling seaweed from the rocks to put under it in order to make it slide

easily over the barnacles.

But this device came near causing him a sad accident. Once, when he

released his hold of the boat to take breath after violently lifting, it

broke away from him and started back down the descent, which the seaweed

he had placed there made slippery. He sprang to seize the painter, which

was dragging on the rocks, but it pulled him after, and boy and boat

barely escaped plunging together into the brine.

As it was, though, he arrested its progress just as it struck a billow.

He was compelled once more to tip it over—for he had no other means of

getting the water out—and then to perform over again the labor of lifting

it up the ledge.

But this was, perhaps, a fortunate accident, since it kept him in

exercise until he felt that his clothes were getting dry. And it showed

him, besides, the danger that would attend the final launching of the

dory.

(_To be continued._)

REGATTA.

A GAME FOR THE LAWN OR PARLOR.

BY FRANK BELLEW.

Perhaps you have never heard of a yacht-race ashore, yet that term might

almost be applied to this picturesque game, which will be found not only

exciting, but a source of great fun. It can be played out-of-doors on the

lawn or in a large room.

Two players are required for each “yacht”—the “captain,” who directs the

course of the vessel, and the “crew,” who carries the boat in his cap or

“helmet,” and obeys the orders of the captain.

To play the game, it is first necessary to lay out the “course” on the

lawn or the floor, which represents the sheet of water that is to be

the scene of the regatta. Any convenient objects can be taken for the

“stake-boats” and “turning-buoy,” and the course can be made as difficult

as desired by placing obstacles, such as chairs, boxes, or cushions, in

the way, to represent “rocks,” “reefs,” “shoals,” and “islands.” The

crews that are to compete are first allowed to sail over the course

to inspect it, and are then drawn up in line at the start, where each

puts on his “yacht-rig,” and is carefully blindfolded by the captain of

a rival yacht. At the “first gun,” or signal to make ready, each crew

turns around three times. At the “second gun,” or signal to start, they

all proceed, under command of their respective captains, to go over the

course, keeping always in “deep water” and avoiding the reefs and other

obstacles, around the turning-buoy, and back to the starting-point. The

yacht which is the first to come in wins the race.

A captain must always address his crew by the name of his yacht, and must

give his orders in nautical terms. If he fail to do so, his yacht must

stop, and turn once around before going on. The same penalty is exacted

if the crew does not understand an order and asks for an explanation; and

also whenever, through the unskillful management of the captain or the

poor sailing of the crew, the yacht runs into any of the obstacles or

into one of the other yachts.

Of course, unless the players know how to sail real boats, the orders

will often be very ridiculous; but as long as they are given in nautical

language, and the crew understands what they mean, it makes no

difference, except to add to the fun.

For instance, let us imagine the Genesta to be racing the Puritan. The

orders might sound something like this:

“Steady, Genesta, steady!” from the captain of the English cutter.

“Keep her off about two points to starboard, Puritan—steady!” from the

American skipper.

But such a command as “Hard a-port, Genesta—no, no, the other way, you

goose!” would compel the captain of that craft to stop his yacht and make

it turn once around; while, if on receiving the order, “Shake out a reef,

Puritan, and head her nor’-nor’east!” the crew should ask, “Oh, I say,

Billy, what do you mean by ‘shake out a reef’?” or “‘Which direction is

nor’-nor’east’?” then the Puritan would have to stop and turn around. And

if the captain of the Genesta, wishing to take advantage of his rival’s

set-back, should exclaim, “Now, Sam, let her go!” the English boat would

have to pay the same penalty.

Many modifications of this game will naturally suggest themselves to

those who understand sailing. The sport can be made much more difficult

and interesting by supposing the wind to blow directly up the course, so

that the yachts will have to beat down to the turning-buoy and then come

home before the wind. When the game is played out-of-doors and there is a

breeze blowing, a great deal of skill and ingenuity can be exercised in

keeping the yachts in the courses they would have to take if they were

actually propelled by the wind.

The nattiest yacht-rig is made of a square piece of cardboard that will

go just around the head of the crew. The two edges are then stitched

together to form a “helmet,” like a high hat without crown or brim. Two

notches should be cut in the top of the helmet, as shown in Fig. 1, to

receive the hull of a small toy yacht, such as can be bought cheaply at

any toy shop. The yacht is held in place by lashings passing through

holes made in the helmet. Strings should be fastened to the sides of the

helmet to tie under the chin, and a curtain of some thick, close material

may be sewed on in front, as a blindfold. The cardboard should be colored

blue to represent waves; but the curtain, flags, and strings should be of

some distinctive tint, so that each vessel can sail under its own colors.

A simpler form of yacht-rig (Fig. 2) consists of a roll of cloth about

twenty inches long, the ends of which are sewed together, forming a

ring-shaped pad to rest upon the head. The yacht, a home-made affair,

cut out of a shingle or a piece of board, is fastened upon the pad. This

helmet also has the blindfold, and strings to tie under the chin. A third

style of helmet (Fig. 3) was once formed by scooping out the end of a

watermelon to fit the crew’s head, and rigging it up with a twig mast

and a brown-paper sail. It was cheap, ingenious, and uncomfortable, and

is not recommended. There is a fourth and entirely different rig, which

consists in fastening the sails directly to the crew’s body. (See Fig.

4.) The spars—boom, sprit, and bowsprit—are of wood, shaped as in A,

and are fastened to the body by strings run through holes in the broad

ends. The sails should be attached to the spars as in real boats. A small

flagstaff in the front of the cap bears the pennant, and completes the

rig.

[Illustration]

For the benefit of those who are not familiar with sea terms, a few of

the more common directions used in this game of Regatta are here given

with their explanations:

“Port” means the left side of the yacht. “Starboard” means the right

side. To “luff” means to bring the yacht so that it will point more

toward the direction from which the wind is blowing. To “luff a-lee” is

to point the yacht directly at the wind, in the “wind’s eye.” To “tack”

is to change the course of the yacht so that it receives the wind on the

other side. The maneuver is accomplished by “luffing a-lee,” and keeping

on until the yacht presents its other side to the wind. To “fall off” is

the opposite of to “luff.” Experienced yachtsmen will know and use many

other terms, but these are sufficient for conducting a game. Stories and

books about the sea will suggest other useful words, and any one who

plays the game often will soon gain an ample vocabulary.

[Illustration: THE SEA-URCHIN]