Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 30. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, May 25, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A MOTHER'S ANXIETIES--"WATER, WATER, EVERYWHERE!"]
[Illustration]
MEMORIAL FLOWERS.
BY M. M.
Blue violets open their saintly eyes,
Red columbines bend and sway,
White star-flowers twinkle in beds of moss,
And, blooming, they seem to say,
"We bring you the red and the white and the blue
To welcome Memorial-day."
So gather them, children, at earliest dawn,
While yet they are fresh with dew,
And we'll scatter them over the sacred mounds
Where slumber our soldiers true;
For we'll give them only the colors they loved--
The red and the white and the blue.
HOW JONATHAN BEWITCHED THE CHICKENS.
BY MARY HICKS.
"Hurrah! hurrah! Now for a long play-day; the school-master's a witch,
and we are free;" and some twenty boys came flocking and tumbling out of
the school-house door, and went swarming up the street. Not much like
the boys of to-day, except for the noise, were these twenty youngsters
of nearly two centuries ago, who skipped and ran up the streets of
Boston, dressed in their long square-skirted coats, small-clothes, long
stockings, and low shoes with their cherished buckles of silver or
brass. And very different from to-day were the streets through which
they passed as they flocked homeward talking of the master.
"He'll have naught to do but learn of the Black Man now; they do say he
rides his ferule and bunch of twigs high up in the air, like Mistress
Hibbins used her broom-stick," cried William Bartholomew, the sneak of
the school.
"He best have been switching thee with it, then," cried Jonathan
Winthrop. "Thou never hast thy share of the whippings--does he, mates?"
and frank-faced Jonathan turned to his companions.
"Truly thou and I, Jonathan, need not complain that we have not our
share of the fun and the twigs," laughed Christopher Corwin, as he laid
his arm on Jonathan's, and shrugged his shoulders at the thought of
numerous beatings. For Jonathan Winthrop and Christopher Corwin, with
their plots and pranks, were enough to make poor Master Halleck sell his
soul to the Evil One, as report said he had done.
"His ferule was sharp as a knife," said overgrown Jo Tucker, the butt of
the school.
"Truly," cried William Bartholomew, "sharper than thy wits, we doubt
not; or thy knife either, for that was never known to cut aught."
"Keep thy tongue in thy head, Billy Mew; none ever said that was not
sharp enough," put in Christopher Corwin.
"I do not believe he is a witch," said Samuel Shaddoe, a quiet boy,
dressed in very plain drab clothes, and a wider brimmed hat than the
others.
"Oh, doesn't thee?" cried several.
"Thou art but a Quaker thyself, and a Quaker's as bad as a witch any
day," shouted Robert Pike.
"There, muddle thy stockings in yon mud puddle for that speech, thou
water-loving Baptist," cried Christopher Corwin, as he jostled Baptist
Bob in some water by the way.
"Hurrah for the witch, and a long play-day!" cried the boys.
"Peace! peace! ye noisy urchins!" said Magistrate Sewall, as he stepped
suddenly from a doorway. "The master has imps of the earth as well as
the air, I see. Get ye home less noisily, or we must needs put ye in
yonder prison with the master."
The awe of the magistrate's presence had the desired effect, and the
crowd broke up in groups of two or three, and each took his way homeward
quietly.
"Jonathan, doest thou believe the master dotted his i's and crossed his
t's when he signed his name in the Black Man's book in the forest
yonder?" said Christopher, as the two boys walked home together.
"Nay, I know not," said Jonathan, absently.
"Verily, I hope the Black Man cracked him across his knuckles, if he did
not," said Christopher; and he thought of his own often-aching fists.
"Chris, thou art too wise to believe the poor master's a witch," said
Jonathan.
"Nay, how could I be, when the magistrates themselves, and all the wise
men of the town, believe it?"
"Thou doest not believe the master stuck pins in Job Swinnerton's
stomach?"
"Nay," laughed Chris; "the green apples from Deacon Gedney's orchard
were the cause of his pain."
"But, Chris, I'm afraid it will go hard with the master, for all the
boys but thou and I seem bent on making him a witch."
"Well, trouble not thyself about it. As Billy Mew says, if the master's
a witch, we will have the longer play-day. To-morrow I go to my
grandfather's, in Salem, and thou come over with thy father some day; it
will be rare fun to see the witch children act."
"Peradventure I may. It will be dull without thee, Chris; and with the
rest of the boys making the master out a witch, they'll have no time for
play."
"Well, take care of thyself, good fellow, and beware thou doest not
provoke Dame Betty too far; she has a rare relish for calling people
witches."
"Ay, that she has. There's a pail of water now at her door, and she's
talking with our Debby, I doubt not: let's turn the bottom up to dry;"
and in a wink the two boys were off for this bit of mischief.
In a few days all were off to Salem--Jonathan's father as one of the
judges, the master to be tried for a witch, with those of the children
whom he had afflicted as accusers, and jolly Chris to see the fun.
It was very lonesome for Jonathan at home, for he had no brothers or
sisters, his mother was always sick, and Debby spent all her spare time
talking with a crony across the way of the witch-woman, Bridget Bishop,
then on trial for witchcraft.
So Jonathan made playmates of and amused himself with the chickens of
the Rev. Deodat Parker, who lived next door. Now these chickens were the
source of much pleasure to Jonathan, for the Winthrops had none, neither
Jonathan nor Debby being deemed fit to be trusted with them; and
Jonathan envied the Rev. Deodat Parker his yard full of staid old fowls
and lively young chicks. Early in the spring Jonathan had loved to
caress and cuddle up the little rolls of yellow and black down; but now
that they were great stalking, ragged fowls, putting on all sorts of
airs, they excited his ridicule, and he longed to tease them, and the
last year's brood of clucking hens and crowing roosters, that didn't
quite know what to make of these new-comers.
Once he would have gone over in the yard to play with and tease the
chickens to his heart's content; but Dame Betty having traced the
overturned pail and numerous other tricks to his door, he considered her
an enemy in ambush, liable to fly out at any moment with a stout
broom-stick or hot suds, and so wisely kept at a safe distance.
But roosted on the fence, with a handful of corn, Jonathan's fears were
at rest, and he fed the chickens, drove the old roosters nearly wild
with long and loud crowing, and sometimes made a hasty jump into the
yard to set two ruffled, ambitious roosters fighting.
Now Jonathan teased and bothered the poor fowls so continually that they
began to grow afraid of him, and would not come when he called them,
much to his indignation. But one day he thought of a plan, and went
straightway to work at it.
First he went to his mother's work-basket and got a spool of thread,
then to the meal chest for a handful of corn. Sitting down on the
door-step, he tied long strings of thread to each grain of corn, then
climbed the fence, and commenced what was fun for him, but misery for
the poor chickens.
"Chick, chick," called Jonathan; and he threw his handful of corn to the
ground. "Now I've got ye, ye disobliging things," said he to himself, as
the stout old hens and pompous roosters pushed the young ones aside, and
gobbled up the corn.
Then Jonathan gave a sudden jerk to his strings, that caused the poor
chickens to feel more uncomfortable in their stomachs than they ever had
before, and made the roosters dance, and the poor old hens tumble and
bob around in all directions. Mischievous Jonathan sat and laughed until
he tumbled off the fence, which broke the strings, and set the poor
fowls free.
This mischief Jonathan carried on for a few days, until the wily chicks
would not come to get the corn when they saw him, and he had to hide
behind the fence until the poor things had swallowed their uncomfortable
morsel, and then he would pop up to see the fun.
But Betty had her eyes on Master Jonathan, and one morning, while
waiting on table, spoke her mind as follows:
"Master, I know not what's to be done with that brat Jonathan Winthrop;
now that his father's away, he behaves more unseemly than wont. The
master on trial yonder has made him a witch, and he has bewitched our
chickens."
"Why for, my good Betty?"
"Why for? Why, they scream and fly away from him on first sight; and
then he bewitches them nearer, and they are filled with pain seemingly,
and flutter and fly about as if in great distress."
"Some of his pranks, I doubt not. I'll speak to him. Serve a fowl for
dinner, Betty;" and the Rev. Deodat Parker rose from the table,
evidently not crediting Betty's story.
Well, the fowl was served for dinner, and the minister and his good wife
ate heartily, likewise Dame Betty. But that night the minister had an
uncomfortable time of it, for the fowl was a tough old hen, and didn't
sit as quietly on the minister's stomach as she would on a nest full of
eggs.
"To my thinking, that boy's a witch of the Black Man's own brewing,"
said Betty, the next morning. "He hath bewitched our chickens, for
certain."
"Nonsense, Betty," said the minister and his good wife together.
"Verily, no nonsense," snapped back Dame Betty. "That hen was bewitched
I killed and cooked yesterday, as the eating of it has proved to the
master. Never hen had such legs, or was so hard to kill; and, hark ye! I
could not keep water in the pot," said Betty, mysteriously.
"Verily, this is a matter to be looked into. Thou thinkest the boy a
witch?" And the Rev. Deodat Parker, uncomfortable from his disturbed
night, was more willing to believe.
And so, I can hardly tell how, in a short time it was whispered around
that little Jonathan Winthrop was a witch, and had bewitched the Rev.
Deodat Parker's chickens.
One day Dame Betty walked into the minister's study, and said, "Master,
come and see for thyself."
So the minister called his good wife, and the three took their station
behind a closed blind. And there, sure enough, was Master Jonathan
astride the fence, waving his hands in the air, in what seemed to them
some dreadful incantation, while on the ground four old hens and one
miserable rooster were bobbing and squawking like things bewitched.
Now, unfortunately, the minister and his good wife and old Betty could
not see the strings in Jonathan's hands, and so immediately believed him
a true witch.
"Deodat, it must be seen to," said Goodwife Parker.
"Yes, I will go at once for a magistrate." And the old gentleman hurried
off with unseemly haste, and returned in a short time with two
magistrates and a brother clergyman, all considerably out of breath as
they took their station behind the blind to see the wonderful
manifestations.
And Jonathan was at it yet. Owing to the chickens being so hard to
catch, he prolonged the fun when he did catch them. As the solemn
magistrates peeped out, Jonathan gave a jerk to his threads that made
the poor fowls fly toward him, fluttering and squawking like mad; and as
he let the thread out again they ran away with all their might, only to
be twitched back by their tormentor, who laughed until he cried at their
antics.
The two magistrates and brother clergyman were old, as nearly all men in
office were in those days, and their eyes saw no strings either. So they
had a long talk, and decided Jonathan had best be arrested and tried,
lest he should bewitch people next.
But on that day little Deliverance Parker, the minister's granddaughter,
who lived out beyond the town, came to make a visit at her
grandfather's, and she was told by Dame Betty that she must not play
with Jonathan Winthrop as she used to do, for he was a witch, and had
bewitched their chickens. And then Dame Betty showed her, as she had
many others, from behind the blinds, Jonathan as he was plaguing the
poor fowls.
Now little Deliverance had sharp eyes, saw the strings plainly, and took
in the trouble at once; but Betty was so set and stupid she could not
convince her, and they would not let her tell Jonathan of his danger.
Fortunately matters came to a crisis that afternoon. The magistrates had
been waiting for Jonathan's father to come home; but as he was kept so
long at Salem, they took matters in their own hands, and brought
Jonathan before quite an assembly in the minister's study.
The poor boy was so frightened at all the stern faces before him that he
didn't know what to say to the charge, and grew so confused and
flustered, they believed him guilty at once.
But little Deliverance waited until the magistrates had finished
talking, and then walked straight before them, and began to speak.
"Verily, he is no witch. He only ties strings to the corn that the poor
fowls eat, and by the aid of the strings pulls them about."
"Thou art mistaken, little one; we saw no strings," said the
magistrates.
"Yes, but there were;" and little Deliverance was so positive, and by
that time Jonathan had found his tongue, and both children explained the
affair so clearly, that the old magistrates looked rather foolish, and
dismissed the case with a reprimand to Jonathan for wasting his time so
foolishly. But some good came of the boy's prank after all. For his
father, seeing how near Jonathan came being proved a witch, bestirred
himself in favor of poor School-master Halleck, who was set free from
prison in consequence.
[Begun in No. 19 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, March 9.]
ACROSS THE OCEAN; OR, A BOY'S FIRST VOYAGE.
A True Story.
BY J. O. DAVIDSON.
CHAPTER XII.
THE "HEATHEN CHINEE" AT HOME.
The first sight of China--that region of marvel and mystery, where
everything seems exactly opposite to what one sees at home, and the
fashions of three thousand years ago are supreme as ever--is a great
event in any one's life. So thought Frank Austin, who was on the watch
for the Chinese coast long before it came in sight, although the run
from Singapore was an unusually quick one; for the _Arizona_ exerted all
her speed to "get in for a cargo" before a rival steamer, which had kept
close to her all the way, coming so near at times that the respective
officers could exchange a little good-humored "chaff" through their
speaking-trumpets.
[Illustration: A CHINESE TRADING FLEET SAILING WITH THE MONSOON.]
But our hero got a glimpse of the "Celestials" sooner than he expected.
For the last two or three days of the voyage the sea was literally
covered with Chinese junks, large and small, many of them strongly
manned, and armed with cannon, to guard against the countless pirates of
the "China seas." At every moment it seemed as if the _Arizona_ must run
some of them down; but just as the crash was about to come, the junk
would veer, and slide nimbly away. When several of them came by
together, the barking of dogs, crowing of roosters, and shouts of
children made Frank feel quite as if he were in a town instead of on the
open sea. So steadily do the "trade-winds" (here called "monsoons") blow
from one quarter, that these junks, starting at the same time every
year, often make a whole voyage without shifting sail at all.
Frank was delighted with the picturesque sight, and overwhelmed Herrick
with questions, that the old tar answered readily enough.
"That's right, lad," he would say; "keep your eyes open, and when you
don't know a thing, never be ashamed to ask. That's the way to git
on--you see if it ain't! Why, there's that feller Monkey, now: 'stead o'
lookin' about him when we were at Singapore, I found him fast asleep in
the shadder o' the quarter-boat, never knowin' whether he was in Malacca
or Massachusetts! If you'd been one o' _that_ sort, 'stead o' bein'
supercargo, you'd ha' been shovellin' coal down thar yet?'"
* * * * *
For some time past Frank had noticed a curious change in one of the men,
who, after showing himself, a brave and able seaman in the earlier part
of the voyage, had suddenly, without any apparent reason, become so
gloomy and miserable that his mates nicknamed him "Dick Calamity." The
surgeon, though finding no sign of actual illness about the man, had
pronounced him quite unfit for duty, and thenceforth the poor fellow
would sit for hours looking moodily over the side, with a weary,
hopeless expression, which, as Herrick truly said, "made a man's heart
ache to look at."
One evening there was some music on the after-deck (there being several
good musicians among the lady passengers who had come aboard at
Singapore), and Frank, with some of the officers, stood by to listen. As
the last notes of "Home, Sweet Home" died away, Austin's quick ear
caught a smothered sob behind him. Following the sound, he discovered
poor Dick crouching under the lee of one of the boats, and crying like a
child.
Frank spoke to him kindly, but for some time could get nothing from him
but sobs and tears. At last, however, the whole story came out. The man
was homesick.
"I want to be home agin!" he groaned, "and I don't care to live if I
can't. If I could just git one glimpse o' my little farm yonder among
the Vermont hills, it 'ud be worth every cent I've got."
"But you'll soon be home _now_, you know," said Frank, cheerily. "We're
close to Hong-Kong, and you can get a passage home from there whenever
you like."
Dick only shook his head mournfully; but after a time he seemed to grow
quieter, and went below. His mates--who had long since left off making
fun of him, and now did all they could to cheer him up--helped him into
his bunk, and recommended him to go to sleep.
The next morning an unusual bustle on the forecastle attracted Frank's
attention, and he went forward to ask what was the matter.
"Poor Dick's gone and killed himself,"[1] answered one of the men,
sadly. "I was al'ays afeard that 'ud be the end of it."
It was too true. An hour later the poor fellow's body, sewn up in a
hammock, and weighted with a heavy shot, was plunged into the sea; and
Herrick, drawing his rough hand across his eyes, muttered, "_That's_
what comes o' goin' to sea when you ain't fit for it."
* * * * *
On the seventh day of the voyage the Chinese coast was seen stretching
like a thin gray cloud along the horizon. Presently the mountains began
to outline themselves against the sky, and as the vessel drew nearer,
the huge dark precipices and smooth green slopes grew plainer and
plainer, while in the background towered the great blue mass of Victoria
Peak, at the foot of which lies Hong-Kong.
[Illustration: CHINESE FISHING FLEET OFF CANTON.]
Frank was not a little puzzled by a number of strange-looking brown
objects that lay close inshore, tumbling and bobbing about like
porpoises. But as the steamer approached, they turned out to be Chinese
"sampans" and fishing-boats, hard at work. Some had white sails
criss-crossed with strips of bamboo, others huge brown sails of woven
matting, like bats' wings; and altogether--what with the brightly
painted boats, the queer faces and gestures of the pigtailed fishermen,
the barking of the big dogs which seemed to act as sentries, the
glittering scales of the fish that came pouring out of the nets, and lay
flapping on the deck, the general bustle and activity--it was a sight
well worth seeing.
Over the after-part of each boat was an awning of straw or matting,
under which the fisherman's family could be seen at work upon their
morning meal of rice and fish, flipping it into their mouths with long
knitting-needles, which Herrick said were the famous Chinese
"chopsticks." They hardly took the trouble to look round at the steamer
as she passed, seeming to care very little whether she happened to run
them down or not.
And now larger junks began to appear, together with not a few foreign
vessels, which seemed to start out of the solid mountain, for as yet no
opening was to be seen. But all at once the _Arizona_ made a sharp turn
to port, around the elbow of a huge headland, and there, through a gap
in the cliffs, appeared the beautiful harbor of Hong-Kong, right
ahead.[2]
"Dutch Gap, by hoe-cake!" cried a tall Virginian, with a joyful grin.
"Ah! don't I jist wish it was!" muttered another, who was beginning to
feel a touch of poor Dick Calamity's complaint.
Gliding past the pretty little islet that sentinels the entrance, the
_Arizona_ ran in and dropped anchor, while the rival steamer, came
slowly up behind her.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A fact.
[2] The Russian port of Balaklava, in the Crimea, has an entrance of the
same kind.
THE STORY OF A WINGED TRAMP.
BY FLETCHER READE.
Tramps, you think, are a modern invention, and a very disagreeable one,
too; but if you had chanced to live so long ago as when the earth was
young, you would know that the institution is a very old and honorable
one.
You would have heard, too, in that far-off golden age, of the winged
tramp--a beautiful youth who spent his life in travelling from place to
place, sometimes on the earth, sometimes in the air, walking or flying
as the humor seized him: a merry fellow withal, and the very Prince of
the wandering brotherhood.
He was, indeed, a true Prince, for his father, Zeus, was King of
Olympia, and his mother, Maia, was descended from the Titans, an ancient
and royal family.
Instead of living in the grand Olympian palace, however, Maia preferred
to remain in her own home--a beautiful grotto on the hill Kyllene, and
it was here that the young Prince Hermes was born.
Even then babies were wonderful beings, as they are now, and always must
be; but of all astonishing and precocious infants Hermes was certainly
the most remarkable.
Cuddled and wrapped in his cradle, and six hours old by the sun, he
leaped to his feet, and ran swiftly across the hard, uneven floor of
Maia's cave.
Just outside the door he spied a tortoise.
"Aha, my fine fellow!" said this wonderful baby, "you are just the
person I wished to see."
The tortoise was so taken by surprise that he could not find a word to
say, and by the time he had made up his mind that the best thing for him
to do was to get out of the way, there was nothing left of him to get
away with, for the baby Prince had thrust out his eyes, and had
converted his shell into a lyre.
Hermes smiled as he held it between his hands, and then, seating himself
by his mother's side, he began to sing, recounting to her all the most
wonderful events of her life.
It was now that Maia discovered for the first time that her baby wore
on his feet a curious pair of sandals, on each of which grew tiny wings.
She turned quickly to clasp him in her hands, for she knew by the sign
of the winged shoes that he would soon fly away from the little grotto
of Kyllene.
But Hermes sprang out of her reach, and laughed gayly as she chased him
about the cave, hardly stopping to turn his head as he bounded past her,
and out into the open air, carrying his lyre in his hand, and wearing on
his head a funny little hat, on which were two wings like those upon his
shoes.
Faster and faster he flew, now floating on the wind like a swallow, now
bounding over the earth, and now rising just above the tops of the
highest trees.
This was the little tramp's first journey, and his errand, I am sorry to
say, was a very wicked and mischievous one; for no sooner did he see the
cows of Prince Apollo feeding in the pastures of Pieria than he decided
to steal a couple of them for his breakfast, and to let the rest stray
away. Having accomplished this piece of mischief, he went back to his
cradle, gliding through the open door as swiftly and softly as the
summer wind.
Phoebus Apollo soon discovered what had happened, and started off in
pursuit of the robber; but Hermes was by this time fast asleep.
"What! I steal your cows!" he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes, as Apollo
stood at the door of Maia's cave. "I beg your pardon, but I do not even
know what a cow is."
Then he laughed to himself, and hid his face under the clothes; but
Apollo was not to be deceived, and Hermes was compelled to leave the
pleasant grotto, and appear before Zeus to answer for his crime.
Still the little tramp denied the theft: "No, no," he said, "I never
stole a cow in my life. I do not know a cow from a goat. I, indeed!" And
the boy turned on his heel, laughing as he spoke.
"Hermes," said Zeus at length, from his royal throne, "it is useless for
you to try longer to deceive us. Return the cows, make up the quarrel,
and Apollo will forgive the theft."
Hermes saw that his secret was discovered, and confessed his fault as
gayly as he had before denied it.
Prince Apollo was still somewhat out of humor, but as the boy led him
back along the sandy shores of Pieria, he told such pleasant stories and
sang such bewitching songs that the angry Prince began to smile, and at
last declared that the music was worth the loss of a hundred cows.
Hermes, who was as generous as he was mischievous, immediately made
Apollo a present of his lyre, and Apollo, not to be outdone, gave him in
return a magic wand. This wand, which was so cunningly carved that it
looked like two serpents twining around a slender rod, was called a
caduceus, and Hermes carried it with him in all his wanderings.
After Apollo and Hermes had exchanged presents, they swore eternal
friendship to each other; and then, having pointed out the place where
the cows were hid, Hermes hurried back to Olympus.
Having once tasted the delights of travel, he could not endure the
thought of a quiet humdrum life in the little cave at Kyllene, and he
besought the King to send him on some foreign mission.
Zeus, pleased with the boy's adventurous spirit, appointed him his
special Ambassador.
Light of foot and light of heart was the bright-haired messenger of the
gods, the very merriest tramp that ever walked, or flew, or ran.
Sometimes he showed to travellers the road they had lost, and sometimes
he led them far out of the way, stealing their purses, and then laughing
at their tears.
On one occasion, having found Zeus in great distress because the Queen
had determined to kill Io, a lovely young girl of whom the King was very
fond, he declared that he alone would save her.
Zeus at first changed Io into a heifer, but the Queen discovered the
secret, and sent Argus, a monster with a hundred eyes, to watch her.
It seemed impossible that the lovely Io could escape, and the poor old
King was in despair.
"Trust me," said the cheerful Hermes, "I will manage the matter."
Swifter than a cloud that flies before the wind, he glided through the
air until he reached the spot where the monster lay in wait for Io.
With one touch of his wand Hermes put the beast to sleep, and before he
had time to wink even one of his hundred eyes Argus was dead.
It would take too long to tell of all the wonderful deeds which Hermes,
the "Argus slayer," the messenger of the gods, performed.
Wherever he went he was greeted with prayers and songs and gifts, for
although he sometimes wrought more harm than good, the winged tramp was
always a welcome visitor both to gods and men.
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 24, April 13.]
THE STORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON.
BY EDWARD CARY.