Murillo was too much absorbed with his pencil to allow a word to be
spoken but what related to their occupation; but the moment he
disappeared conversation began, and naturally turned to the subject in
which they were all interested.
"Beware, Sebastian, of the lash," said Mendez, "and watch well for the
culprit; but give me the Naples yellow."
"You do not need it, Señor Mendez; you have made it yellow enough
already; and as to the culprit, I have already told you that it is the
Zombi."
"Are these negroes fools with their Zombi?" said Gonzalo, laughing.
"Pray what is a Zombi?"
"Oh, an imaginary being, of course. But take care, Señor Gonzalo,"
continued Sebastian, with a mischievous glance at his easel, "for it
must be the Zombi who has stretched the left arm of your St. John to
such a length that if the right resembles it he will be able to untie
his shoe-strings without stooping."
"Do you know, gentlemen," said Isturitz, as he glanced at the painting,
"that the remarks of Sebastian are extremely just, and much to the
point? Who knows but that from grinding the colors he may one day
astonish us by showing he knows one from another?"
* * * * *
It was night, and the studio of Murillo, the most celebrated painter in
Seville, was now as silent as the grave. A single lamp burned upon a
marble table, and a young mulatto boy, whose eyes sparkled like
diamonds, leaned against an easel. Immovable and still, he was so deeply
absorbed in his meditations that the door of the studio was opened by
one who several times called him by name, and who, on receiving no
answer, approached and touched him. Sebastian raised his eyes, which
rested on a tall and handsome negro.
"Why do you come here, father?" he asked, in a melancholy tone.
"To keep you company, Sebastian."
"There is no need, father; I can watch alone."
"But what if the Zombi should come?"
"I do not fear him," replied the boy, with a sad smile.
"He may carry you away, and then the poor negro Gomez will have no one
to console him in his slavery."
"Oh, how sad! how dreadful it is to be a slave!" exclaimed the boy,
weeping bitterly.
"It is the will of God," replied the negro, with an air of resignation.
"God!" ejaculated Sebastian, as he raised his eyes to the dome of the
studio, through which the stars glittered--"God! I pray constantly to
Him, my father (and He will one day listen to me), that we may no longer
be slaves. But go to bed, father; go, go, and I shall go to mine there
in that corner, and I shall soon fall asleep. Good-night, father,
good-night."
"Good-night, my son;" and having kissed the boy, the negro retired.
The moment Sebastian found himself alone he uttered an exclamation of
joy. Then suddenly checking himself, he said: "Twenty-five lashes
to-morrow if I do not tell who sketched these figures, and perhaps more
if I do. Oh, my God, come to my aid!" and the little mulatto threw
himself upon the mat which served him for a bed, where he soon fell fast
asleep.
Sebastian awoke at daybreak; it was only three o'clock. "Courage,
courage, Sebastian," he exclaimed, as he shook himself awake; "three
hours are thine--only three hours; then profit by them; the rest belong
to thy master. Slave! Let me at least be my own master for three short
hours. To begin, these figures must be effaced," and seizing a brush, he
approached the Virgin, which, viewed by the soft light of morning,
appeared more beautiful than ever.
"Efface this!" he exclaimed--"efface this! No; I will die first. Efface
this--they dare not--neither dare I. No--that head--breathes--speaks; it
seems as if her blood would flow if I should offer to efface it, and
that I should be her murderer. No, no, no; rather let me finish it."
Scarcely had he uttered these words, when, seizing a palette, he seated
himself at the easel, and was soon totally absorbed in his occupation.
Hour after hour passed unheeded by Sebastian, who was too much engrossed
by the beautiful creation of his pencil, which seemed bursting into
life, to mark the flight of time.
But who can describe the horror and consternation of the unhappy slave,
when, on suddenly turning round, he beheld all the pupils, with his
master at their head, standing beside him!
Sebastian never once dreamed of justifying himself, and, with his
palette in one hand and his brushes in the other, he hung down his head,
awaiting in silence the punishment he believed that he justly merited.
Murillo having, with a gesture of the hand, imposed silence on his
pupils, and concealing his emotion, said in a cold and severe tone,
while he looked alternately from the beautiful picture to the terrified
slave,
"Who is your master, Sebastian?"
"You," replied the boy, in a voice scarcely audible.
"I mean your drawing-master," said Murillo.
"You, señor," again replied the trembling slave.
"It can not be; I never gave you lessons," said the astonished painter.
"But you gave them to others, and I listened to them," rejoined the boy,
emboldened by the kindness of his master.
"And you have done better than listen; you have profited by them,"
exclaimed Murillo, unable longer to conceal his admiration. "Gentlemen,
does this boy merit punishment or reward?"
At the word punishment Sebastian's heart beat quick; the word reward
gave him a little courage; but fearing that his ears deceived him, he
looked with timid and imploring eyes toward his master.
"A reward, señor," cried the pupils, in a breath.
"That is well; but what shall it be?"
Sebastian began to breathe.
"Speak, Sebastian," said Murillo, looking at his slave. "Tell me what
you wish for; I am so much pleased with your beautiful composition that
I will grant any request you may make. Speak, then; do not be afraid."
"Oh, master, if I dared--" And Sebastian, clasping his hands, fell at
the feet of his master.
With the view of encouraging him, each of the pupils suggested some
favor for him to demand.
"Ask gold, Sebastian."
"Ask rich dresses, Sebastian."
"Ask to be received as a pupil, Sebastian."
A faint smile passed over the countenance of the slave at the last
words, but he hung down his head and remained silent.
"Come, take courage," said Murillo, gayly.
"The master is so kind," said Ferdinand, half aloud, "I would risk
something; ask your _freedom_, Sebastian."
At these words Sebastian uttered a cry of anguish, and raising his eyes
to his master, he exclaimed, in a voice choked with sobs, "The freedom
of my father! the freedom of my father!"
"And thine also," said Murillo, who, no longer able to conceal his
emotion, threw his arms round Sebastian, and pressed him to his breast.
"Your pencil," he continued, "shows that you have talent; your request
proves that you have a heart; the artist is complete. From this day
consider yourself not only as my pupil, but as my son. Happy Murillo! I
have done more than paint. I have made a painter."
Murillo kept his word, and Sebastian Gomez, better known under the name
of the Mulatto of Murillo, became one of the most celebrated painters in
Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated
picture which he had been found painting by his master, and others of
the highest merit.
THE DUCK HAT.
BY IRVING L. BEMAN.
Dick Smith's home was in the West, and as the incident I am about to
relate happened a good many years ago, he must have been then only
thirteen or fourteen years old. He was a brave, hearty lad, full of
enthusiasm and love of adventure, but especially abounding with
ingenuity, and always doing something new and curious. Thus he has been
known all his life as an "inventor," and still shows the same quality.
He lived on the bank of a river, and being fond of the water, became an
expert swimmer and oarsman. Although he had no gun, yet with cunning
traps and many original devices he caught considerable game, some for
its fur, and some for its meat. It is about one of his boyish inventions
that I am going to tell you.
At certain seasons of the year great flocks of ducks came into the
river, and staid many days eating the Indian rice (_Zizania aquatica_)
that grew in the shallow water. But as Dick's father had no shot-gun or
any convenient way of capturing them, the ducks came and went
unmolested.
At length ingenious Dick set to work to contrive some method of catching
them. He obtained a section of thin bark from some tree, and arranged so
that it would just slip over his head and rest on his shoulders, like
the crown of a large old-fashioned hat, the top of it reaching several
inches above his scalp.
In this he cut holes for his eyes and mouth, so that he could see and
breathe. He also fastened leaves and vines on the top and around it to
partly conceal it.
When this was done, he put it on and started for the ducks. Reaching a
thicket on the river's brink near the game, he laid aside his clothes
and took to the water. He had often been in the river where the rice
grew, and knew just what difficulties he would have to overcome in
swimming and wading. Out he went, and as he came near the ducks he moved
very slowly and cautiously so as not to alarm them.
Pretty soon he was in the midst of an immense flock, and although they
were extremely wary and quite suspicious of the vine-covered bark, yet
within a short time he succeeded in grasping quite a number by the legs,
and jerking them under the water. When he had secured all he could
fairly manage, he quietly made his way home. His catch proved most
delicious eating, and was very acceptable to the family, as it came at a
time in the year when no other meat was generally available. Frequently
while the wild rice lasted did he repeat the operation, bringing home
the fattest specimens that came to the river.
But one day as he sat beneath the bushes on the edge of the water about
a quarter of a mile from home, examining some ducks just caught, his
little dog by his side, suddenly a huge panther pounced down from the
high bank above, and rushed for the dog. Away went the dog for dear
life, and the panther after him. But Dick knew well enough that the dog,
which was very fleet, would escape, and that the great cat would soon
give up the race and come back for himself. But the lad had no notion of
affording the panther a boy for dinner; and so, perfectly cool and
brave, set to thinking how to escape. If he should run away, the animal
would follow his track and soon overtake him, for he could not equal the
dog in speed; if he should climb a tree, the creature could excel him in
climbing; if he should wade or swim into the river and the panther
should see him, she might follow and get him there. But Dick was not to
be caught so easily; what worked so well in deceiving ducks might do
even better with the panther. And so, instantly slipping on his "duck
hat," as he called it, he waded rapidly into the water a few rods, and
settled down so that he could just breathe and see, and turning around,
watched the shore. Hardly had he reached this position when the panther
pounced down as before from the high bank and began smelling and looking
for the boy. Failing to detect his whereabouts, she pawed over the ducks
Dick had left; and since she could not have dog or boy for dinner, she
decided to take duck.
Dick felt quite certain that when his dog reached home in fright and
excitement the attention of the family would be attracted, and his
father would shoulder his rifle and start out to investigate the matter.
And Dick was not mistaken. In a very few minutes he saw his father in
the canoe swiftly paddling along the shore, peering sharply for his boy.
But the spot occupied by the panther was around a little curve in the
bank, where she would not see the man until he was close upon her.
Before Mr. Smith reached this place he saw the lad's "duck hat," and
Dick contrived to lift one hand carefully above the water and point
where the creature was dining.
The father understood the signal, and giving the canoe a strong pull,
seized the gun, and prepared to fire the instant he saw anything to fire
at. A moment more the rifle's sharp crack rang out, the panther sprang
into the air, and fell back among the ducks, dead as they were.
Even yet, Dick, now elderly "Mr. Richard Smith," delights in telling how
he escaped in a "duck hat" from a panther.
ART.
BY JIMMY BROWN.
Our town has been very lively this winter. First we had two circuses,
and then we had the small pox, and now we've got a course of lectures. A
course of lectures is six men, and you can go to sleep while they're
talking, if you want to, and you'd better do it unless they are
missionaries with real idols or a magic lantern. I always go to sleep
before the lectures are through, but I heard a good deal of one of them
that was all about art.
Art is almost as useful as history or arithmetic, and we ought all to
learn it, so that we can make beautiful things and elevate our minds.
Art is done with mud in the first place. The art man takes a large chunk
of mud and squeezes it until it is like a beautiful man or woman, or
wild bull, and then he takes a marble grave-stone and cuts it with a
chisel until it is exactly like the piece of mud. If you want a solid
photograph of yourself made out of marble, the art man covers your face
with mud, and when it gets hard he takes it off, and the inside of it is
just like a mould, so that he can fill it full of melted marble which
will be an exact photograph of you as soon as it gets cool.
This is what one of the men who belong to the course of lectures told
us. He said he would have shown us exactly how to do art, and would have
made a beautiful portrait of a friend of his, named Vee Nuss, right on
the stage before our eyes, only he couldn't get the right kind of mud. I
believed him then, but I don't believe him now. A man who will contrive
to get an innocent boy into a terrible scrape isn't above telling what
isn't true. He could have got mud if he'd wanted it, for there was
mornamillion tons of it in the street, and it's my belief that he
couldn't have made anything beautiful if he'd had mud a foot deep on the
stage.
As I said, I believed everything the man said, and when the lecture was
over, and father said, "I do hope Jimmy you've got some benefit from the
lecture this time"; and Sue said, "A great deal of benefit that boy will
ever get unless he gets it with a good big switch don't I wish I was his
father O! I'd let him know," I made up my mind that I would do some art
the very next day, and show people that I could get lots of benefit, if
I wanted to.
I have spoken about our baby a good many times. It's no good to anybody,
and I call it a failure. It's a year and three months old now, and it
can't talk or walk, and as for reading or writing, you might as well
expect it to play base-ball. I always knew how to read and write, and
there must be something the matter with this baby, or it would know
more.
Last Monday mother and Sue went out to make calls, and left me to take
care of the baby. They had done that before, and the baby had got me
into a scrape, so I didn't want to be exposed to its temptations; but
the more I begged them not to leave me, the more they would do it, and
mother said, "I know you'll stay and be a good boy while we go and make
those horrid calls," and Sue said, "I'd better or I'd get what I
wouldn't like."
After they'd gone, I tried to think what I could do to please them, and
make everybody around me better and happier. After a while I thought
that it would be just the thing to do some art, and make a marble
photograph of the baby, for that would show everybody that I had got
some benefit from the lectures, and the photograph of the baby would
delight mother and Sue.
I took mother's fruit basket and filled it with mud out of the back
yard. It was nice thick mud, and it would stay in any shape that you
squeezed it into, so that it was just the thing to do art with. I laid
the baby on its back on the bed, and covered its face all over with the
mud about two inches thick. A fellow who didn't know anything about art
might have killed the baby, for if you cover a baby's mouth and nose
with mud it can't breathe, which is very unhealthy, but I left its nose
so it could breathe, and intended to put an extra piece of mud over that
part of the mould after it was dry. Of course the baby howled all it
could, and it would have kicked dreadfully, only I fastened its arms and
legs with a shawl strap so that it couldn't do itself any harm.
[Illustration: "THE MOMENT THEY SAW THE BABY THEY SAID THE MOST DREADFUL
THINGS."]
The mud wasn't half dry when mother and Sue and father came in, for he
met them at the front gate. They all came upstairs, and the moment they
saw the baby they said the most dreadful things to me without waiting
for me to explain. I did manage to explain a little through the closet
door while father was looking for his rattan cane, but it didn't do the
least good.
I don't want to hear any more about art or to see any more lectures.
There is nothing so ungrateful as people, and if I did do what wasn't
just what people wanted, they might have remembered that I meant well,
and only wanted to please them and elevate their minds.
[Illustration: The Voices of the Flowers]
[Illustration: Volume IV.]
OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.
"I hate to apologize; I do not like to admit that I was in the wrong."
I do not know who the speaker was. I did not even see his face as he
passed the window where I was sitting, resting in the shadow of the
curtain, and thinking, dear children, about you. I am sure that he was a
boy, however, for such a fresh, decided voice, and such a quick step,
could belong to nobody in the world but a boy.
Somehow I felt very sorry indeed when I thought about what he had said:
"Hate to apologize! Not like to confess one's self to have been in the
wrong!" Why, that is not noble.
Every one of us--you, Elsie, at your pretty embroidery, you, Dora, at
your map drawing, you, Horace, over your chemistry, you, Theobald, deep
in Virgil, I, the Post mistress, with my heaps of letters--every one of
us, my dears, is liable sometimes to be in the wrong. We say something
hastily, and hurt somebody's feelings, and then we are sorry. We do
something which is foolish, and which we regret. The only brave
course--the only course open to honorable people--is to apologize, to
ask pardon, if necessary, of the person whom we have vexed or annoyed.
It is always manly in a boy to own up and bear the blame if he has made
a mistake. Many of the troubles and heart aches that people have to bear
would be done away with if everybody who did wrong was willing to admit
it, and if those who were wronged would be forgiving.
And now for the good things with which this number of the Post-office
Box is fairly overflowing.
* * * * *
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA.
I live in San Francisco. I often drive out to the beach with papa
and mamma. A little way from the shore there is a large pile of
rocks, and upon them you can see hundreds of sea-lions climbing
about, and can plainly hear them barking or roaring. I often drive
through the Golden Gate Park too. It is beautifully laid out with
flowers, and at the large conservatory the beautiful "Victoria
Regia" is in bloom now--a lily whose blossoms open three times, the
first day a pure white, with a large white crown in the centre,
then closes to open the next day a pale pink, then closes to open
the last time almost purple. The leaves are saucer-shaped, about
one yard across, and will bear the weight of a child three or four
years old standing on them. But I must stop now, so good-by. I am
nine years old, and study at home.
BIRDIE.
Thank you, dear, for your description of the superb Victoria Regia.
* * * * *
MOUNT VERNON, OHIO.
I am a little girl nearly nine years old. I go to school every day.
We have but one pet; it is a kitty, and its name is Amorita. I am
working a motto. It is my first, and my friends think it very
nicely done. Mount Vernon is the county-seat of Knox County, Ohio.
I have two sisters, Anna and Ruth, and one brother, Budge. On rainy
days we have very pleasant times playing with dolls and books and
sleds. To-night we had a circus in the parlor. Budge and Ruth were
the lions, and I was the keeper; but soon they became unmanageable,
and were sent to bed. It is drawing near my bed-time, and I will
ask you to please print this, for I enjoy reading the letters, and
want to see my own name in the Post-office Box. Good night.
CINDA B.
* * * * *
SAVANA LA MAR, JAMAICA, WEST INDIES.
This is my first letter. We live in Jamaica, West Indies, and I
like to read the letters from other boys and girls.
I am twelve years old, and have five brothers and two sisters. One
brother is in England at the Blue-Coat School; the others learn
lessons here at home. We have black people to do our work.
HARRY M.
* * * * *
BUTTERNUT LAKE, WISCONSIN.
My sister Kate and I send you some yellow violets which we picked
this afternoon while we were out walking. Is that not good for so
far north? We are about fifty-three miles from Lake Superior. I
love YOUNG PEOPLE very much, and I like the Post-office Box best.
KATE B. and FANNIE T. M.
Brave little violets, and bright eyes that found them! Thank you, Kate
and Fannie, for sending the pretty flower to me.
* * * * *
NEW YORK CITY.
I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE from the first number, and enjoy it very
much. I returned from the sea-shore not long ago, and brought with
me many pretty shells. I also brought a piece of sea-weed, which is
a very good weather guide. When it is soft you may know it will be
clear, and when it is hard it will be stormy.
LULU L.
I suppose you will ask your sea-weed to tell you in the morning whether
or not to wear your water-proof and overshoes to school. If it is
doubtful, and papa says the wind is in the east, the safest way will be
to wear them in New York.
* * * * *
THOMASVILLE, GEORGIA.
Last Christmas my papa presented me with HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and
it has afforded me a great deal of pleasure, and I intend to
continue reading it always. I am eight years old, and since last
fall have gone to school. I am now in the Fifth Reader, and work
sums in fractions; but somehow I still love to play, and ride my
velocipede, while my sister Sadie, who is five years, and Edna,
nineteen months, amuse themselves with dolls. We live in a town
quite famous as a winter resort, and many come here to escape the
cold North and West, and to enjoy our pine regions.
HERBERT J. H.
* * * * *
BELDEN, TEXAS.
I am a little boy nine years old. I have been taking YOUNG PEOPLE
since last November. I have several pets. I have a dog, a pony, a
pig, and three chickens; but the sweetest pet of all is my little
baby brother; his name is Charley, but we call him Carly. I want to
tell about my pig, he is so smart he thinks he is a dog. Everywhere
the dogs go, the pig goes too. He helped me drive the horses to
water yesterday. I live on a farm. I do not go to school; mamma
teaches me at home.
WALTER J. M.
A very remarkable pig. It must be funny to see him trotting off after
the dogs and their little master.
* * * * *
NEW YORK CITY.
I am a little girl thirteen years old. I have a little dog, but he
is very homely. We have three little kittens, and they are pretty.
My brother found them in the garden. The cats and the dog do not
fight. I have a papa and a mamma, and an auntie, and two big
brothers. My auntie reads all the little letters to me. I have
taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE since the first number.
NETTIE B. M.
* * * * *
MONTICELLO, NEW YORK.
Have you, dear Postmistress, ever been to Monticello? I think it is
a lovely place. And there are such beautiful views. If I look to
the north, I see quite a stretch of woods and hills, and away off
in the distance a ridge of very high hills. I am staying on a farm
where there are seven cows and four calves. Their names are Bessie,
Brownie, Bright-eyes, and Bunker Hill. They are just as gentle as
lambs. In the house there is a cat called Manners, and she has two
kittens, Miss Muffet and Pussy Tiptoes. Tiptoes (or Tip, as she is
called) has white-tipped paws, and a bib of white just under her
chin. Muffet is gray and white.