[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. IV.--NO. 158. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, November 7, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "ALL HANDS SCRAMBLED UP THE RIGGING."]
PERIL AND PRIVATION.
BY JAMES PAYN.
THE WRECK OF THE "JUNO."
Of all the sufferers from shipwrecks, women are the most to be pitied;
for children do not know the full extent of their danger until death
relieves them, while women usually overestimate it. Their mental agonies
are therefore greater than those endured by men, while their physical
privations are as great, without the same strength to bear them.
Mrs. Bremner, wife of the Captain of the _Juno_, bound from Rangoon to
Madras, had perhaps as terrible an experience of shipwreck as ever fell
to the lot of any of her sex. The ship's crew consisted chiefly of
Lascars, with a few Europeans, among whom was John Mackay, the second
mate, who tells this story.
Soon after the _Juno_ set sail she sprang a leak, which increased more
and more on account of the sand ballast choking the pumps, until on the
twelfth evening she settled down. From the sudden jerk all imagined they
were going to the bottom, but she only sank low enough to bring the
upper deck just under water.
All hands scrambled up the rigging to escape instant destruction,
"moving gradually upward as each succeeding wave buried the ship still
deeper. The Captain and his wife, Mr. Wade and myself, with a few
others, got into the mizzentop. The rest clung about the
mizzen-rigging. Mrs. Bremner complained much of cold, having no
covering but a couple of thin under-garments, and as I happened to be
better clothed than her husband, I pulled off my jacket and gave it
her."
On the first occurrence of these calamities such unselfishness is not
uncommon; it is the continuous privation which tries poor human nature.
But it must be said to John Mackay's credit that he behaved most
unselfishly throughout, and stood by this poor woman like a man.
The ship rocked so violently that the people could hardly hold on, and
though excessive fatigue brought slumber to some eyes, Mr. Mackay did
not snatch a wink. "I could not," he says, "sufficiently compose myself,
but listened all night long for a gun, several times imagining I heard
one; and whenever I mentioned this to my companions, each one fancied he
heard it too." It is noteworthy that the same thing happened throughout
the calamity as to seeing land. When one would imagine that he saw it,
the others were persuaded that they saw it too.
The prospect at dawn was frightful: a tremendous gale; the sea running
mountains high; the upper parts of the hull going to pieces, and the
rigging giving way that supported the masts to which seventy-two
wretched creatures were clinging.
After three days, during which their numbers were much diminished, the
pangs of hunger became intolerable. "I tried to doze away the hours and
to induce insensibility. The useless complaining of my fellow-sufferers
provoked me, and, instead of sympathizing, I was angry at being
disturbed by them." He had read of similar scenes, and his dread of what
might be was at first more painful than his actual sufferings.
Presently, however, he learned by bitter experience that imagination
falls short of reality.
For the first three days the weather was cold and cloudy, but on the
fourth the wind lowered, and they found themselves exposed to the
racking heat of a powerful sun. Mackay's agonies, especially his
sufferings from thirst, then became terrible. The only relief from them
was afforded by dipping a flannel waistcoat which he wore next his skin
from time to time in the sea. He writes, however, that he always "found
a secret satisfaction in every effort I made for the preservation of my
life." On the fifth day the first two persons died of actual starvation,
their end being attended by sufferings which had a most sorrowful effect
on the survivors.
As the sea was now smooth, an attempt was made to fit out a raft (the
boats having been rendered useless), but this being insufficient to
contain the whole crew, the stronger beat off the weaker. Though Mackay
succeeded in getting on board, Mrs. Bremner did not, and he asked to be
put back again, which was readily done. He resumed his place by her in
the mizzentop. Her husband had by this time lost his wits, and would not
even answer when addressed. "At first the sight of his wife's distress
seemed to give him pain as having been the cause of her sufferings, and
he avoided her; but now he would barely permit her to quit his arms, so
that they were sometimes even obliged to use force to rescue her from
his embraces." His frenzy (as often happens in such cases) took the form
of seeing an imaginary feast, and wildly demanding to be helped to this
or that dish. On the twelfth day he died, and it was with the utmost
difficulty that they threw the body into the sea, after stripping off a
portion of his clothing for his wife's use.
There were two boys on board the _Juno_, who were among the earliest
victims. Their fathers were both in the foretop, and heard of their
sons' illness from those below. One of them--it was the thirteenth day
of their misery--answered with indifference that he "could do nothing"
for his son. The other hurried down as well as he could, and, "watching
a favorable moment, scrambled on all fours along the weather gunwale to
his child, who was in the mizzen-rigging. By that time only three or
four planks of the quarter-deck remained, and to them he led the boy,
making him fast to the rail to prevent his being washed away. Whenever
the lad was seized with a fit of sickness, the father lifted him up and
wiped away the foam from his lips, and if a shower came, he made him
open his mouth and receive the drops, or gently squeezed them into it
from a rag. In this terrible situation both remained five days, until
the boy expired. The unfortunate parent, as if unwilling to believe the
fact, raised the body, looked wistfully at it, and when he could no
longer entertain any doubt, watched it in silence until it was carried
off by the sea. Then, wrapping himself in a piece of canvas, he sank
down and rose no more, though he must have lived--as we judged from the
quivering of his limbs when a wave broke over him--a few days longer."
In all the annals of shipwreck I know no more pathetic picture than
this.
But for showers of rain all would have been dead long since. They had no
means of catching the drops save by spreading out their clothes, which
were so wet with salt-water that at first it tainted the fresh. Mackay,
however, before these timely supplies arrived, had had a very unusual
experience. Maddened by the fever which consumed him, and in spite of
the ill consequences he expected to happen, he had gone down and drank
two quarts of sea-water. "To my great astonishment, though this relaxed
me violently, it revived both my strength and spirits. I got a sound
sleep, and my animal heat abated." Another expedient for getting some
moisture into their mouths was to chew canvas or even lead. Shoes they
had none, as leather dressed in India is rendered useless by water, and
Lascars never use any shoes. There were, indeed, some bits of leather
about the rigging but the smell and taste of it were found "too
offensive to be endured." The rains and their fatigue made them very
cold at night. In the morning, as the heat increased, "we exposed first
one side and then the other to it, until our limbs became pliant; and as
our spirits revived, we indulged in conversation, which sometimes even
became cheerful. But as mid-day approached, the scorching rays renewed
our torments, and we wondered how we could have wished the rain to
cease."
It must be understood that the ship, though its hull was under water,
was moving on all this time. On July the 10th, being the twentieth day
from its partial sinking, one of the people, as had often before
happened, cried out, "Land!" His cry was now heard without emotion,
though, "on raising my head a few minutes afterward," says Mackay, "I
saw many eyes turned in the direction indicated." Mrs. Bremner inquired
of him whether he thought it might be the coast of Coromandel, which
seemed to him so ridiculous that he answered that if it was, "they ought
to be exhibited as curiosities in the Long Room at Madras under the
pictures of Cornwallis and Meadows."
It was, however, really the land, though they had small chance of
reaching it. Indeed, before evening, the ship, under water as it already
was, struck on a rock. The tide having fallen, the remaining beams of
the upper deck were left bare, and Mackay and the gunner tried to get
Mrs. Bremner down to them, "but she was too weak to help herself, and we
had not strength to carry her." The Lascars--for the raft had come back
with them, as it could make no headway--offered to help if she gave them
money. She happened to have thirty rupees about her, which was afterward
of great use, and she did not stint it in helping her preservers. They
brought her down for eight rupees, and insisted on being paid on the
spot. With that exception, it is pleasant to read that their conduct was
excellent throughout, and their behavior to Mrs. Bremner singularly kind
and delicate.
In the gun-room, which they could now reach through a hole in the deck,
were found some cocoa-nuts, which one would have expected the finders to
retain. On the contrary, they shared them, and insisted only upon
keeping the milk in the nuts. This consisted of only a few drops of
rancid oil; nor had the solid part of the cocoa-nuts--a fact to be
remembered by those who buy them out of barrows--the least nourishment
in it. They found themselves rather worse than better for eating them.
They were past the worst pains of hunger by this time, but the frenzied
desire for water still continued. "Water, fresh-water," says Mackay,
"was what perpetually haunted my imagination; not a short draught which
I could gulp down in a moment--of that I could not endure the
thought--but a large bowlful, such as I could hardly hold in my arms.
When I thought of victuals, I only longed for such as I could swallow at
once without the trouble of chewing."
Hope now began to animate them, and though it was the twenty-first day
of their sufferings, it is noteworthy that no one died after they first
saw land. Toward evening six of the stoutest Lascars, though indeed they
were all shadows, tied themselves to spars, and reached the shore. They
found a stream of fresh-water, of which those on board could "see them
drinking their fill." In the morning they beheld these men surrounded by
natives, and were all attention to see what sort of treatment they met
with. The natives "immediately kindled a fire, which we rightly
concluded was for dressing rice, and then came down to the water's edge,
waving handkerchiefs to us as a signal that we should come ashore. To
describe our emotions at that moment is impossible."
But these poor folks could not get on shore, and least of all the poor
woman. Boats there were none, and if there had been, there was such a
surf between the ship and the land that no boat could live in it. But to
remain was certain death. "I felt myself called upon," says Mackay, "to
make the attempt." With great difficulty he got out a spar and tied it
to him with a rope. He then took leave of Mrs. Bremner, who was of
course utterly helpless. "She dismissed me with a thousand good wishes
for my safety." While they were speaking, the spar broke loose, and
floated away. He paused one moment, then plunged into the sea. Though he
could "hardly move a joint" before, his limbs immediately became limber
in the water, and the spar helped to sustain him; but "being a perfect
square, it turned round with every motion of the water, and rolled me
under it." Eventually, however, a tremendous wave carried him to land.
Some natives, speaking in the Moorish tongue--"at which I was overjoyed,
for I feared we were beyond the Company's territories, and in those of
the King of Ava"--observing his ineffectual efforts to rise laid hold of
him and bore him along. As they passed a little stream he made signs to
be set down. "I immediately fell on my face in the water and began to
gulp it down." His bearers finally dragged him away lest he should drink
too much. They took him to a fire, round which the Lascars were sitting,
and gave him some boiled rice, "but after chewing it a little I found I
could not swallow it." One of the natives, seeing his distress, dashed
some water in his face, which, washing the rice down, almost choked him,
but "caused such an exertion of the muscles that I recovered the power
of swallowing. For some time, however, I was obliged to take a mouthful
of water with every one of rice. My lips and the inside of my mouth were
so cracked with the heat that every motion of my jaws set them
a-bleeding and gave me great pain."
As soon as he was a little recovered, his first care was for Mrs.
Bremner, and on pointing out that she had some money about her, the
natives were persuaded to take her off the ship. This was accomplished
only a few hours before it parted in two. She was totally unable to
walk, but her remaining rupees, joined to liberal promises, to be
performed on her reaching her journey's end, procured her a litter, in
which she was conveyed to Chittagong.
No woman probably ever went through such an experience and survived it
as this unhappy lady. Mackay, having no money--for Mrs. Bremner had no
more to give him--had to walk, and speedily broke down. The natives left
him behind without a scruple. He fell in, however, with a party of Mugs,
the chief of whom was full of human kindness. He washed Mackay's wounds,
which were filled with sand and dirt, supplied him with rice, and
endeavored to teach him how to make fire by rubbing two pieces of bamboo
together. Mackay finally arrived at Chittagong, though in a pitiable
condition.
In a postscript to this miserable story he says, "With respect to the
fate of my companions in misfortune, Mrs. Bremner, having recovered her
health and spirits, was afterward well married." So it seems that with
time and courage one really does get over almost everything.
BUSY BIRDS.
BY MARCIA BRADBURY JORDAN.
A broad green marsh, with sullen pools
Of brackish water here and there,
With mounds of hay on wooden piles,
And squares of yellow flowers like tiles,
And swamp-rosemary everywhere.
The straight road stretches, gray with dust,
From distant pine-trees to the hill;
The warm breath of an autumn day
Prevails, and with its languid sway
Keeps every little song-bird still.
But all along the wire line
That telegrams unnumbered brings,
Small chirping birds are perched secure,
With down-bent head and mien demure,
And gray brown lightly folded wings.
And do you ask, dear girls and boys,
What calls these flatterers from home,
Why restlessly they care to roam
Far from the foliage-guarded nest?
A new idea has come to me;
I wonder if you will agree
To what I'm going to suggest.
When in some quite mysterious way
A trifling fault strikes mamma's ears,
I'm confident you must have heard
Of that communicative bird
Who's always telling all he hears.
A little bird told me, she says,
Of what I never should suspect.
Suppose these listening songsters light
Upon the wires there in sight
To get the latest news direct!
If they're the gossips of bird land,
Reporters for the "Night-hawk Press,"
Then very likely they indulge
In other meddling, and divulge
The tiny secrets so few guess.
They hover near the open door
In summer; past the eaves they dart,
And very likely understand
When any hidden mischief's planned,
And straightway hasten to impart,
To those, they think it may concern,
Their interesting items. Why,
I seem to see their bright eyes shine,
Their cunning heads sideways incline
Inquisitively, full of joy.
The only way I know is this--
To always try to do so well
That when the busy birds appear
To carry secrets through the air,
They won't have anything to tell
Except those messages that bless
Obedience and truthfulness.
[Illustration: A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER.]
NAN.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 157, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE,
AUTHOR OF "MILDRED'S BARGAIN," "AUNT RUTH'S TEMPTATION," ETC.
CHAPTER III.
Nan's visitor, Miss Rolf, left the little shop, and walked away in the
winter's dusk up the main street, and down one of the more secluded
streets, where the "upper ten" of Bromfield lived. Bromfield was a large
dull town, full of factories and smoke, and had a general air of
business and money-making. The houses on the pretty street to which Miss
Rolf directed her steps seemed to be shut away from all the dust and
noise of the town, and Mrs. Grange's gateway was the finest and most
aristocratic-looking one in the row. Miss Rolf went in at the gate, past
a pretty lawn dotted with cedars, to the side entrance of a long low
stone house, within the windows of which lights were already twinkling.
She had a curious, amused smile on her face as she went down the hall,
and it had not faded when she entered the parlor fronting the garden and
the lawn.
Three people were seated in the fire-light--an elderly lady with a pale
sweet face, a tall boy of fifteen, and a gentleman whose face was like
Miss Rolf's in regularity of feature, but much softer in expression.
In the luxurious room Miss Rolf looked much more in her place than in
Mr. Rupert's butter shop, and if Nan could have seen her "second cousin
Phyllis" there, she would have been more than ever certain that she
belonged to those who had the money.
Miss Rolf was greeted by all three occupants of the room at once.
"Well, Phyllis?"--from the gentleman.
"Did you see her?"--this from the boy.
"Well, what happened?"--this from the lady.
Miss Rolf sank into one of the many easy-chairs, and, leaning back,
began to draw off her long gloves.
"Yes, I saw her," she answered, smiling. "It was really very
interesting. Quite like something in a story. There was the horrible
little store, and Mrs. Rupert, a vulgar sort of woman; and then the
little girl came in--dreadfully untidy and dowdy-looking, but really not
at all so common as I feared. She has the hazel eyes every one admired
so in her father."
"And did you tell her that her aunt Letitia wants her to go to
Beverley?" said the boy, eagerly.
"No, I didn't," rejoined Miss Rolf. "I thought I'd do that when I went
to-morrow. There was no time to discuss the matter. Besides, I wanted to
see the child alone first."
"Why not send for her to come here?" Mrs. Grange said, gently.
"Not a bad idea," said Miss Rolf, sitting upright. "She might come
to-morrow, instead of my going there."
"I can't help thinking Letitia will regret it," said the gentleman, who
was Miss Rolf's father.
"Why should she, papa?" said the boy, quickly. "Surely it is only fair.
Her father was left out of Cousin Harris's will just for a mere caprice,
and why should Cousin Letty have everything, and this child nothing? I
don't see the justice of that."
"But to remove her from a low condition; to place her among people she
never knew--I am afraid it is unwise," said Mr. Rolf, shaking his head.
"You don't understand it, Lance; I don't expect you to. Just wait, and
see my words come true."
Lance, or Lancelot Rolf, laughed brightly. He seemed quite prepared to
take the risks on Miss Letitia Rolf's venture. While Miss Rolf wrote her
letter to little Nan, the boy watched her earnestly. He was intensely
interested in this new-found cousin, and, had he known where to go,
would certainly have paid a visit to the cheese-monger's family himself.
He would have found an excited little party had he done so, for by eight
o'clock Mrs. Rupert had indulged in every possible speculation about
Nan's future. Mr. Rupert, a tall, thin, weather-beaten man, had come in
for tea, and was told of the visitor, and obliged to hear all Mrs.
Rupert's ideas and hopes on the subject, while Nan herself was the only
quiet member of the party. She sat at the tea-table, for once in her
life very quiet and repressed. Just what she hoped or thought she could
not have told you; but it seemed to her as if something like her old
life with her parents might be coming back. Could it be she was to go
away, and leave Bromfield, the cheeses and butter and eggs, her aunt's
loud voice, Marian's little airs of superiority, and Phil's rough
kindness, forever behind her?
"Come, Nan, you may as well help with the tea-things, if you _are_
going to see your rich relations," said her aunt's voice, sharply
recalling her to her duties, and Marian laughed scornfully.
"I don't suppose we'll know Nan, or she us, by to-morrow night," she
said, with a shrug of the shoulders.
[Illustration; "NAN WAS DRESSED BY MRS. RUPERT AND MARIAN."]
Early the next morning a man-servant from Mrs. Grange's brought a note
for Nan, which she read in the little untidy parlor, surrounded by all
the family. It was from Miss Rolf, requesting Nan to come as soon as
possible to Mrs. Grange's house, and it produced a new flutter in the
household. Nan was dressed by Mrs. Rupert and Marian in everything that
either of the girls' scanty wardrobe possessed worth putting on for such
a visit. Had she but known it, a much simpler toilet would have been far
more appropriate and becoming, for her purple merino dress and Marian's
red silk neck-tie, her "best" hat with its green feathers, and Mrs.
Rupert's soiled lavender kid gloves, were a very dreadful combination.
Nan, as she walked up Main Street, did not feel entirely satisfied with
the costume herself. If her head had not been so dazed by what the
Ruperts already called her "good fortune," she would have felt it all
more keenly. As it was, she went into Mrs. Grange's gateway feeling
herself in a dream, and wondering how and where she would wake up.
CHAPTER IV.
Nan was admitted by a very grave-looking man-servant, who, on hearing
her name, led her down the softly carpeted hall, and upstairs to the
door of a cozy little sitting-room, where Miss Rolf was waiting for her.
The many luxuries of the room, its brightness and air of refinement,
made Nan half afraid to go farther, and suddenly she seemed to feel the
vulgarity of her own dress; but her "second cousin," Miss Rolf, smiled
very pleasantly upon her from the window, and coming up to the little
girl, kissed her affectionately.
Miss Rolf in the morning light, and in a long dress of pale gray woollen
material, looked to Nan like nothing less than a princess. She was
apparently about twenty one or two, with a fair face, soft waves of
blonde hair, and eyes that looked to Nan like stars, they were so
bright, and yet soft with all their sparkle. Nan scarcely noticed the
imperious curve of her new cousin's pretty mouth or the disdainful pose
of the head. She thought of nothing then but her beauty and grace and
charming manners.
"Well, my dear," this dazzling princess said, "take off your hat and
cloak, and sit down by the fire. I want to have a talk with you." Nan,
very much subdued by everything she saw about her, obeyed, while Miss
Rolf seated herself in a low chair, and looked at her little cousin
critically.
"Now, Nan," she said, gravely, "do you know that your father would have
been a very rich man but for an absurd quarrel with his elder brother?"
"I knew there was something," said Nan, who was afraid of her own voice.
"Well, then," continued Miss Rolf, "when your grandfather died, he left
everything to his elder son and daughter. The son, your uncle Harris, is
a confirmed invalid--indeed, he is not altogether right in his mind--but
your aunt Letitia, your father's older sister, is strong and well, and
they live together at Beverley. Miss Letitia has suddenly taken it into
her head to hunt you up, and as my father and I were coming here on a
visit, she asked me to try and find you."
Miss Rolf paused, and Nan, who sat very still, her hazel eyes fixed on
the young lady's face, nodded, and said, in a sort of whisper, "Thank
you."
"Your aunt," continued Phyllis, smiling pleasantly, "told me that I was
to invite you, in her name, to come on a visit, to Beverley. Mind, Nan,
don't get it into your head that it is more than a visit--unless you
prove so nice and pleasant a little visitor that she will want you to
stay always."
Nan's face broke into a smile that made her really pretty.
"I'll try and be pleasant," she said, brightly.
"So you would like to go?" said Miss Phyllis, looking at her earnestly.
"Wouldn't you miss--the Ruperts?"
Nan's face flushed.
"Yes," she said, looking down, "I shall miss aunt--and Philip."
Miss Phyllis said nothing for a moment. She had more to tell, but she
thought it as well not to say it now. She had taken a sudden fancy to
Nan; she wanted the child to come to Beverley, and perhaps, if she told
her all, Nan would refuse; at least, looking at the child's honest,
fearless eyes, she felt it more prudent to say no more. So Nan was told
that she was to go, if she liked, in a week, to her grandfather's and
her father's old home.
"Your aunt thought," said Miss Phyllis, "that you might need some new
clothes. You see, you will have to dress more at her house than here in
Bromfield, and so we will take a week to get you ready. Perhaps it would
be as well for you to stay here to-day, and go out with me."
Nan's eyes danced. Never but once since she lived in Bromfield had she
owned an entirely new dress. Everything she wore had been "made over"
from Mrs. Rupert's or Marian's, and she faintly understood that new
clothes of Miss Phyllis's buying would be something unthought of in the
Rupert mind.
"I'll leave you here a little while, Nan," said the young lady, "and you
can amuse yourself with the books and papers."
But Nan needed nothing of the kind. When the door was closed, she
uttered a little half-scream of delight, and jumped up, walking over to
the window, where she looked out at the dull town lying smoky and hazy
in the distance, and which she felt sure she was about to leave forever.
She hardly heard Miss Phyllis returning, and felt startled by the sound
of her voice, saying, "Nan, are you ready?" And there was the beautiful
young lady in her furs and broad-brimmed hat, with a purse and a little
note-book in her hand, ready to lead Nan into the first scene of her
enchantment.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
VENOMOUS SNAKES.
BY W. L. ALLEN.
Venomous snakes are those which have two hollow teeth in the upper jaw
through which they inject poison into the wound made by their bite. The
great majority of snakes are not venomous, but nevertheless there are
more venomous snakes in the world than most men really require.
There are two classes of venomous snakes--those whose bite is certain
death, and those whose bite can be cured. The only venomous snake
inhabiting Europe is the viper, but its bite is seldom fatal. In the
United States, with the possible exception of New Mexico and Arizona,
there are only three venomous snakes--the rattlesnake, the copperhead,
and the moccasin. All our other snakes are harmless. In some places the
copperhead is known as the flat-headed adder, but the other species of
snakes, to which the name "adder" is often given by country people, are
as harmless as the pretty little garter-snake.
Central and South America have many venomous snakes whose bite is always
fatal. Among these the best-known are the coral-snake, the tuboba, and
the _dama blanca_. A British naval vessel, on its way up a South
American river a few years ago, anchored for the night, and a number of
the officers thought they would go ashore, and sleep in a deserted
shanty that stood on the bank, where they fancied that the air would be
cooler than it was on board the vessel. When they reached the shanty,
one of them said he thought he would go back to the ship, and all the
others, with one exception, said that they would follow him. The officer
who determined to stay swung his hammock from the beams of the roof, and
was soon asleep. He woke early in the morning, and, to his horror, found
that three snakes were sleeping on his body, and that others were
hanging from the rafters or gliding over the floor. He recognized among
them snakes whose bite meant death within an hour or two, and he did not
dare to move a finger. He lay in his hammock until the sun grew warm and
the snakes glided back to their holes. His companions had noticed that
the place looked as if it was infested with snakes, but had cruelly
refrained from warning him. The officer was one of the bravest men that
ever lived, but he could never speak of his night among the snakes
without a shudder.
In one of the West India Islands--Martinique--there is a snake called
the lance-headed viper, which is almost as deadly as the coral-snake.
The East Indies are full of venomous snakes, and in British India nearly
twenty thousand persons are killed every year by snake bites. Of the
East Indian snakes whose bite is incurable the cobra is the most
numerous, but the diamond snake, the tubora, and the ophiophagus are
also the cause of a great many deaths. The British government has
offered a large reward for the discovery of an antidote to the poison of
the cobra, but no one has yet been able to claim it.
Africa, like all tropical countries, has many species of venomous
snakes. The horned cerastes is the snake from whose bite Cleopatra is
said to have died, and from its small size, and its habit of burying
itself all but its head in the sand, it is peculiarly dreaded by the
natives. The ugliest of these snakes is the great puff-adder, which
often grows to the length of five or six feet, and whose poison is used
by the natives in making poisoned arrows.
It is a very curious fact that the poison of venomous snakes can not be
distinguished by the chemist from the white of an egg. And yet one kind
of snake poison will produce an effect entirely unlike that produced by
another kind. The blood of an animal bitten by a cobra is decomposed and
turned into a thin, watery, straw-colored fluid, while the blood of an
animal bitten by a coral-snake is solidified, and looks very much like
currant jelly. Nevertheless, the poison of the cobra and that of the
coral-snake seem to be precisely alike when analyzed by the chemist, and
are apparently composed of the same substances in the same proportion as
is the white of an egg.
THE TRAIN BOY'S FORTUNE.
BY ELIOT McCORMICK.
I.
"Papers! Harper's Weekly! Bazar! All the monthly magazines!"
Jim Richards wished that he might have a dollar for every time he had
repeated that cry. He was sure he had said it, during the three years he
had been train-boy on the road between Philadelphia and New York, as
many as fifty thousand times. Even ten cents each time would give him
five thousand dollars. What could he not do with as much money as that?
His mother should have a new dress, for one thing. He would give little
Pete for his birthday the box of tin soldiers in the toy-shop window;
and Lizzie, for hers, the doll on which her heart was set. Then they
would all move into a new house somewhere in the country, instead of
their wretched tenement in New York. Jim himself would give up his place
as train-boy and go into the company's machine shop, which he could not
do now, because his earnings from the sale of the papers were pretty
good, while the machine-shop wages would be for some time small. But
these were dreams; the train was approaching Trenton, where Jim would
find the New York evening papers, and he had still to go through the
last car. It was Saturday evening, and he must make enough to buy his
mother's Sunday dinner.
"Papers!" he cried, slamming the door after him, and beginning to lay
them one by one in the laps of the passengers. The first passenger was
an old gentleman, and in his lap Jim laid a copy of a weekly paper.
"Take it away!" exclaimed the old man. "I don't want it."
Jim, in his hurry, had passed on without hearing.
"What! You won't, eh?" the old man went on, provoked by Jim's seeming
inattention. "Then I'll get rid of it myself."
Crumpling it up into a ball, he turned around and threw it violently
down the aisle, narrowly missing Jim's head, and landing it in the lap
of an old lady on the opposite side.
"You won't lay any more papers in my lap, I guess," he added, shaking
his head threateningly as Jim came back.
Jim was angry. He picked up the paper and smoothed it out as well as he
could, but it was hopelessly damaged, and no one would think of buying
it.
"You'll have to pay me ten cents for that," he exclaimed.
The train was now slacking, and the old gentleman, who was evidently
bound for Trenton, had risen from his seat.
"Not a cent," he declared; "not a single cent. You hadn't any business
to put it in my lap. I told you not to, but you persisted in leaving it
there. You train-boys are a nuisance. It'll be a lesson to you."
"But I'll have to pay for it myself," cried Jim.
"Serve you right. You'll have ten cents less to spend for cigarettes."
By this time the train had stopped, and the passengers were crowding
out. The old man was already on the platform, and Jim was standing by
the seat, angrily uncertain whether to follow him out or stay and pick
up the few papers he had distributed before returning to the
baggage-car. In his moment of uncertainty he happened to look down upon
the floor. There in the shadow of the seat lay a long leather
pocket-book. No one but the old gentleman could have dropped it. Jim
stooped and picked it up. Here was a chance to pay off his venerable
friend.
In another instant, though, a better impulse came to him.
"What would mother say?" he thought. He threw down his papers, rushed to
the door, jumped from the steps, and ran along the platform through the
crowd in pursuit of the old man. In the confusion and darkness it was
not easy to find anybody. Jim thought he saw him a little way ahead, but
at the same moment the bell rang for the train to start. Should he
follow the man or not? There must be time, he thought. In a moment more
he had caught up with the person, but it was not his man at all. It was
too bad, but he had done his best. He did not know that where he had
failed, two other persons--dark-looking men, whom he had noticed getting
off the car--had succeeded, and were now following the old gentleman
along the passageway that leads up to the street.
Still uncertain what to do, Jim turned around, only to see the train
moving off. It was but a few steps back to the track, and Jim ran with
all his speed. But when he got there, the rear platform of the last car
was a hundred yards away, and all that he could see was the red lantern
winking at him, as it seemed, through the darkness.
The train had gone off with all his papers, including those which he had
expected to sell between Trenton and New York. There would be no Sunday
dinner to-morrow; indeed, Jim would be lucky if he were not discharged
from his place.
For a moment Jim was bewildered. Then he bethought himself of the
pocket-book. He would, at any rate, find out what was in that, only no
one must see him do it.
So he walked down the track until he was quite out of sight, and by the
light of a match carefully opened the leather flap. On the inside, in
gilt letters, was the owner's name--John G. Vanderpoel, 11 Sycamore
Street, Trenton. Jim had no excuse now for not returning it at once.
The sight of the name, though, brought back his anger.
"Old screw!" he said, half aloud. "I guess if he'd only known what was
going to happen, he'd have paid me my ten cents. Let's see what's in it,
anyhow."
[Illustration: "$5000!"]
The match had gone out, but Jim had another. Striking it, he looked into
the pockets, one of which seemed to contain something green. Jim pulled
it out with a beating heart. Yes, it was money--a package of
greenbacks--and the label on the outside, though Jim's hands shook so
that he could hardly make it out, read "$5000."
II.
Not only was Jim ignorant that the old gentleman was being followed, but
Mr. Vanderpoel did not know it himself. He walked out of the station
with a firm, brisk step, his overcoat tightly buttoned over the place
where he supposed his money to be, and congratulating himself that he
had at length collected the debt which it represented.
It was not far to his house, which was in a side street, and occupied
several lots of ground. A long path led up from the front gate, lined
with shrubbery, and lighted only by the pale rays that gleamed from the
front door. Alongside of the path stretched a little duck pond. It was a
quiet, retired street, and when Mr. Vanderpoel turned into it, he left
the crowd behind. He did not leave, however, the two men who had kept
him in sight all the way from the station, and who now quickened their
steps so that when he stopped at his gate they were not more than a few
feet in the rear. Mr. Vanderpoel opened the gate, and went in. The gate
swung back on its hinges, and was held open by one of the men, while the
other entered. Not hearing the latch click, Mr. Vanderpoel turned
around, and was met face to face by the intruder.
"Well, what do you want?" he demanded, angrily.
For an answer the old gentleman's arms were promptly seized and pinioned
behind his back, and he himself was laid at full length along the garden
path.
"Keep still now," hissed a rough voice. "We ain't no idea o' hurtin' ye,
but what we want is them five thousand dollars."
It was not the slightest use to struggle. One man held him fast, while
the other went through his pockets. Presently the first inquired of his
partner,
"Where do you s'pose he's hid it?"
If it was the money they were speaking of, Mr. Vanderpoel knew perfectly
well where he had hid it. It was, or ought to be, in the very pocket
which the man was now searching--the breast pocket of his overcoat--and
he waited breathlessly for the man's answer.
"Don't know," growled the thief, after a moment. "'Tain't here."
Mr. Vanderpoel almost jumped. If it were not there, where could it be?
He had certainly put it in that pocket. He was glad, of course, that the
thieves could not find it, but that did not relieve his mind as to its
safety. However, if it had already been stolen, or if he had lost it, he
could afford to lie still and enjoy what promised to be a humorous
situation. Indeed, he felt almost inclined to laugh; and the robbers
themselves, it seemed, began to realize that they were the victims of a
sell.
"'Tain't on him nowhere," gruffly remarked the one who had been making
the search.
"Feel in his breeches pocket," suggested the other.
The man transferred his hand from the coat to the trousers without
success. "'Tain't there neither," he growled. "I don't believe he
fetched it tonight."
"There's his shoes," observed the first man, who was evidently the more
persevering of the two. "See if it ain't in them."
The other tore open the gaiters and dragged them off. The cold air
struck Mr. Vanderpool's stocking feet very unpleasantly, and filled him
with dismal visions of rheumatism and gout; but he bore it bravely, and
by a tremendous effort stopped a threatening sneeze.
"I tell yer he ain't got it," declared the first man. "We're left;
that's what it is. What'll we do with the old chap?"
His partner scowled. "Chuck him into the pond."
He chucked into a pond at his time of life, and with his rheumatism! It
would be the death of him. The prospect of a ducking loosened his
tongue.
"Help! murder! thieves!"
At this moment the gate clicked. Both men heard the sound, and started
for the shrubbery at the side of the path. Almost before the old
gentleman was aware that they had gone, their retreating footsteps were
echoing down the street.
Mr. Vanderpoel felt that he was saved. He would have risen to his feet
but for the fact that his shoes were off. The person who had come in the
gate, and who was now standing before him, was a lad dressed, as it
seemed to Mr. Vanderpoel's confused sight, in the District Telegraph
uniform.
"Well, young man," he exclaimed, "I guess you've saved my life. Just
help me on with my shoes, will you, and we'll go into the house."
It was some time before Jim could take in the situation, and he stood
gazing at the old man without saying a word.
"What are you staring at?" cried Mr. Vanderpoel, hotly. "Do you suppose
I'm sitting here in my stocking feet for amusement? I've been knocked
down and robbed--or I would have been robbed if some one else hadn't
done it already. If anything could reconcile one to the thought of being
robbed by one set of thieves, it would be that they left nothing for the
next set. But I certainly believe they would have killed me if you
hadn't come up. Easy, now"--as the boy drew the gaiter over the old
man's knobby foot--"look out for that corn. Now the other one. There!
never mind the buttons. Lend me your arm, will you? I'm lame and bruised
where I fell. It was lucky I didn't hit my head. Well, I'm sorry I lost
the money, but I'm mighty glad those fellows didn't get it."
"Was it much?" asked the boy, briefly. They had now gone up the steps,
and, while Mr. Vanderpoel drew out his latch-key, were standing in the
light that gleamed through the door. As Mr. Vanderpoel turned around, he
recognized, as he had not done before, the boy's features.
"Hello!" he cried, "you're that train boy. Yes, it was a good deal. Do
you know anything about it?"
Jim's face took on a non-committal look.
"Well," he said, "I found something in the cars. Perhaps you'd better
identify it. Prove property, you know."
"Come in," said Mr. Vanderpoel, drawing Jim inside and closing the door.
"Was it a pocket book you found?"
Jim nodded.
"With money in it?" eagerly.
Jim nodded again.
"Five thousand dollars?" Mr. Vanderpoel whispered.
"I didn't count it," said Jim, briefly. "There it is."
[Illustration: "HE HANDED OVER THE BOOK, WHICH MR. VANDERPOEL
SEIZED."]
He handed over the book, which Mr. Vanderpoel seized and breathlessly
opened. The money was in fifty dollar bills, and did not take long to
count. When counted it proved to be all right.
"Yes," said Mr. Vanderpoel, delightedly. "It's all there. It must have
dropped out of my pocket when I threw that paper at you in the car.
Served me right for making such a lunatic of myself! But what a sell!"
rubbing his hands gleefully. "What a tremendous sell on those villains
that they didn't get a penny of it! Now come in to dinner"--leading the
way through the hall--"and tell me all about yourself. You saved my
life, and I'm going to do the correct thing."
* * * * *
And so the train-boy came into his fortune. In the end it amounted to a
good deal more than $5000, for Mr. Vanderpoel's ideas of correctness
turned out to be on a liberal scale. The family was brought to Trenton
and put in a neat little cottage; Pete had all the tin soldiers that he
could use, and Lizzie more dolls than she could possibly take care of;
the mother got her dress, and Jim had his heart's desire, by being put,
not in the company's machine-shop, but in a great deal better one, in
which Mr. Vanderpoel was interested, and where Jim himself will no doubt
one day be an owner. But better than all is the sense which Jim has of
having fought against and overcome a great temptation. And this sense, I
think, is the train-boy's fortune.
[Illustration: THE NOVICE.--FROM A PAINTING BY M. ALEXANDRE ROBERT.]
THE SINGING LESSON.
BY M. E. SANGSTER.
What an interesting picture they make, the old music master and his
young pupil! By his cowled head we see that the teacher is a monk, and
we remember to have read in our histories about the convents, where,
during the fierce conflicts of the Middle Ages, holy men lived peaceful
lives, wrote books, painted pictures, and set beautiful Latin hymns to
lovely music. Those times were wild and dark enough. The brave young men
who put on the armor of knighthood and rode forth to defend the weak and
right the oppressed found plenty to do. Ladies sat in their castles,
working endless pieces of tapestry in stitches which have lately been
revived. Boys found pleasure in learning all sorts of manly sports. Here
and there one would be found who was quiet and gentle, and he would
perhaps be taught to read and write, and would be regarded as a
wonderful scholar.
From the sweet rapt look on the face of this little chorister we see
that he is one of the pure and noble natures which would not care for
fighting, or pitching quoits, or rushing along with hawk and hounds. He
loves art, and puts his whole soul into its study.
The gray-bearded master has trained many boys, and while kind and
tender, is severe in requiring his pupils to do their best. The score on
which the boy's eyes are resting is familiar to him through long years
of use, and he feels that it is sacred. He shivers with horror when a
note is flatted, as it sometimes is by a giddy singer whose ear is not
accurate or whose voice is not disciplined.
The little fellow to whom the master is listening so critically while
the sweet full tone chords so perfectly with the long-drawn note on the
violin will be only one among a multitude of others in the great
cathedral. But when the choir uplifts the Te Deum or the Inflammatus
with its waves of melody floods every nook and corner of the grand
church, one voice untrained and out of tune might mar the harmony.
THE MULATTO OF MURILLO.
A TRUE STORY.
One beautiful summer morning, about the year 1630, several youths of
Seville approached the dwelling of the celebrated painter Murillo, where
they arrived nearly at the same time. After the usual salutation they
entered the studio. Murillo was not yet there, and each of the pupils
walked up quickly to his easel to examine if the paint had dried, or
perhaps to admire his work of the previous evening.
"Pray, gentlemen," exclaimed Isturitz, angrily, "which of you remained
behind in the studio last night?"
"What an absurd question! Don't you recollect that we all came away
together?"
With these words Mendez, with a careless air, approached his easel, when
an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and he gazed in mute
surprise on his canvas, on which was roughly sketched a most beautiful
head of the Virgin.
At this moment some one was heard entering the room. The pupils turned
at the sound, and all made a respectful obeisance to the great master.
"Look, Señor Murillo, look!" exclaimed the youths, as they pointed to
the easel of Mendez.
"Who has painted this--who has painted this head, gentlemen?" asked
Murillo, eagerly. "Speak; tell me. He who has sketched this head will
one day be the master of us all. Murillo wishes he had done it. What
skill! Mendez, my dear pupil, was it you?"
"No, señor," replied Mendez, in a sorrowful tone.
"Was it you, then, Isturitz, or Ferdinand, or Carlos?"
But they all gave the same reply as Mendez.
"I think, sir," said Cordova, the youngest of the pupils, "that these
strange pictures are very alarming. To tell the truth, such wonderful
things have happened in your studio that one scarcely knows what to
believe."
"What are they?" asked Murillo, still lost in admiration of the
beautiful head by the unknown artist.
"According to your orders, señor," answered Ferdinand, "we never leave
the studio without putting everything in order; but when we return in
the morning, not only is everything in confusion, our brushes filled
with paint, our palettes dirtied, but here and there are sketches,
sometimes of the head of an angel, sometimes of a demon, then again a
young girl, or the figure of an old man, but all admirable, as you have
seen yourself, señor."
"This is certainly a curious affair, gentlemen," observed Murillo, "but
we shall soon learn who is this nightly visitant. Sebastian," he
continued, addressing a little mulatto boy about fourteen years old, who
appeared at his call, "did I not desire you to sleep here every night?"
"Yes, master," said the boy, with timidity.
"And have you done so?"
"Yes, master."
"Speak, then; who was here last night and this morning before these
gentlemen came?"
"No one but me, I swear to you, master," cried the mulatto, throwing
himself on his knees in the middle of the studio, and holding out his
little hands in supplication before his master.
"Listen to me," pursued Murillo. "I wish to know who has sketched this
head of the Virgin and all the figures which my pupils find every
morning here on coming to the studio. This night, in place of going to
bed, you shall keep watch, and if by to-morrow you do not discover who
the culprit is, you shall have twenty-five strokes from the lash. You
hear! I have said it. Now go and grind the colors; and you, gentlemen,
to work."