[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 21, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 847. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
THE WRECK OF THE "MARIA HELENA."
BY REAR-ADMIRAL T. H. STEVENS, U.S.N.
On the 20th of December, 1848, I sailed from Honolulu, where I had been
naval-store-keeper for many years. My vessel was the Chilean
merchant-ship _Maria Helena_, and she carried as passengers several
others who had long resided in the Hawaiian Islands, and who were now
returning for a definite stay at home; among those were my wife, another
lady, and two small children.
It was somewhat melancholy to bid farewell to the friends among whom we
had lived so long, and whom we never expected to meet again, but never
did a ship leave port under more favorable auspices. Wind and weather
combined their happiest influences, and over the smooth water we sailed,
until the island of Oahu, with its pleasant valleys and bold, romantic
scenery, was lost to view. The next morning we saw Hawaii, with Kilauea
breathing fire and smoke from its lofty crest, and Maui a cloudy speck
in the distance. They also were soon lost to view, and nothing remained
for the eye to rest on but the heaving ocean and here and there a
solitary sea-bird. After losing sight of the islands, nothing of
interest occurred until the 3d of January, when a large fish was
harpooned, the liver of which was to have afforded a fine breakfast for
the inmates of the cabin the next morning.
At one o'clock that night the Captain, supposing that we would pass
Christmas Island about that time, took two observations of the stars for
the latitude. These put us in the latitude of the island, but, as there
was no indication of land, and as the chronometer put us forty miles to
the eastward, the skipper felt secure, and turned in for the night. The
cabin lights were put out and all was quiet; nothing disturbed the
stillness of repose save the deep breathing of the tired sleeper,
dreaming, perhaps, of the native land that he hoped to see so soon
again. Suddenly a startling and alarmed voice was heard from the
look-out on the fo'c's'le, "Breakers ahead! Hard alee! Hard alee!"
Like an electric shock that sound passed through the souls of the
sleepers, spreading consternation, and rousing them to a sense of
dreadfully imminent danger. With one impulse all rushed on deck, to
behold through the darkness of the night a long uninterrupted line of
breakers, and to hear, above the stern words of command and the tread of
hurrying feet, the wild angry roar of the surf. But even in that time of
dread, hope was with us, and as the ship, still obedient to the will of
her master, came slowly to the wind, there yet remained a chance of
escape. The awed stillness of all on deck proclaimed how deep was the
suspense. One brief moment more and the ship will be headed to sea; but
suddenly she strikes; she trembles through all her strong timbers, and
then resigns herself to her fate, and the breakers wash around her
decks.
All hope of saving her was now at an end, and preparations were
immediately begun to get the gig and whale-boat alongside in readiness
to receive the women and children. Some delay occurred before this could
be accomplished, and it was fully an hour before the boats were ready.
During this time no expression of fear escaped from either of the
ladies.
Notwithstanding the violent shocks that the ship received as she rose
and fell upon the rocks with the heave of the sea, the children slept
soundly, and when the boats were reported ready, with a small quantity
of provisions, water, and clothing, they and their mothers were passed
into them without the smallest accident, although the exploit was
attended with much danger, as the ship had by this time been driven
close on to the roughest water about the reef.
As soon as the whale-boat had her full complement of passengers, I among
them, she was hauled astern of the ship, which was lying parallel to the
shore, and pulled seaward. When about a hundred yards away, the men lay
on their oars, and all waited anxiously for the dawn to reveal the full
extent of the danger.
Half an hour after we left the ship we heard an awful cracking of
timbers above the roar of the breakers, and could just make out through
the gloom of night the falling masts as they tottered one by one, and
fell over to leeward. We immediately pulled toward the ship, and hailed
her to inquire if any one was injured and how they were getting on. Some
one replied that all was well, and that the vessel was lying much
easier.
About half past four the waning moon rose, and we supposed that day was
about to break, and that the sun would soon appear to show all the
circumstances of our perilous position; but although we were in a
condition of the most trying nature--our ship ashore on a frightful
coast, and ourselves tossed about on the open sea in a leaky boat,
totally ignorant of the character of the island and its extent--no one
despaired.
At last, the day dawned, and revealed to our anxious eyes a line of low
coast twenty or twenty-five miles in extent, making out in a
considerable point to the north and west, the shore bounded, as far as
the eye could reach, by a line of sullen breakers. In the indistinctness
of the twilight some imagined that they could see houses, but these
proved afterward to be clumps of low bushes scattered here and there
upon a sandy and uninhabited island.
Soon after sunrise the Captain joined us in the gig, and, upon
consulting together, we concluded to pull around the point referred to,
and seek a landing under the lee side of the island. Had this plan been
carried out we must all have suffered very much before we could have
procured relief, as we had but a small breaker of water and a few
biscuits in the boat, and would have had to pull a long distance before
finding a suitable landing-place. After pulling about a mile to the
westward we reflected on this want of provisions, and decided to return
and try to land under the lee of the ship.
Preparatory to making the attempt, the gig was sent alongside to get a
full crew, and then to land before us; but in attempting to board the
ship she got into the rollers, and was capsized before she could be
pulled clear. Some of the men were injured, but they finally reached the
shore, although with a badly stove boat.
This was poor encouragement for us, but having come to the conclusion
that there was only one course for us to take, we made all necessary
preparations, and confiding the steering-oar to an experienced hand,
waited for a smooth time to make our effort.
After waiting a few moments a favorable time came, and the boat was
headed for the seething breakers. As we approached them all conversation
ceased, and the compressed lip and rigid features showed our painful
appreciation of the approaching crisis. Soon a huge roller lifted the
little boat far above the surrounding water, and she sped on like an
arrow. Scarcely had we begun to feel the swiftness of our flight before
we struck the beach, and the ladies and children were landed and out of
present danger. During the whole of the day they remained on the beach,
with nothing but two small umbrellas to shelter them from the rays of a
tropical sun, while the gentlemen, Captain, and crew were engaged in
saving provisions and baggage from the wreck. This work continued until
four in the afternoon, when the sea became so high and the surf so
violent as to render further efforts impracticable.
We also saved some sails and spars, by means of which we erected a
commodious tent for the ladies and passengers, and another for the men.
Shortly after being installed in our new quarters dinner was served, and
was enjoyed by every one, as it was the first food we had had for
twenty-four hours.
Before this, Mr. Christie, one of the passengers, had come in and
announced that he had seen two sails in the offing, and without rest or
refreshment he, the Captain, and a couple of sailors started off to make
an effort to communicate with the welcome strangers. The rest of us
retired to rest upon rude couches made from the wreckage, and after the
fatigue and excitement of the day our sleep was sound.
About eight in the morning the exploring party returned with the news
that they had found the wreck of the ship _Mozart_ upon the eastern end
of the island, that from a slip of paper they had found that she had
gone ashore on the 7th of the previous December, and that the supposed
sails in the offing were a couple of tents erected for shelter by her
crew. Although our disappointment regarding the supposed ships was
great, we were glad to learn from the note left that the crew of the
_Mozart_ had been taken from the island by a passing vessel within a
week of her misfortune, and that therefore there seemed a reasonable
prospect of our own early rescue.
Meanwhile we had to consider the necessities of a food and water supply.
The water of the island was brackish and almost undrinkable, and food
was scarce in the extreme, consisting mainly of the scanty stores taken
from the _Maria Helena_, and some biscuits found aboard the _Mozart_.
Sea-birds were plentiful, but difficult to capture.
The Captain and I soon overcame the water famine, however, by
constructing a distiller from a rusty musket barrel and the remains of
an old copper boiler.
About a week after the wreck the _Maria Helena_ went to pieces during a
storm, and in a short time her broken and ragged timbers strewed the
shore. Soon after this the whale-boat, with Mr. Christie, the second
mate, and four sailors started off to a low promontory about fifty miles
away, to erect a signal for the attention of any passing ship, and to
learn something of the character of the island.
In three days one of the men returned with the news that the boat had
been upset in the breakers about forty miles away, and two seamen so
badly injured that the rest of the party had been compelled to leave
them behind with all the water that had been saved. The uninjured ones
then started to return to the ship, which they reached after incredible
difficulty and hardship, and a few days afterwards the wounded men were
found and brought back.
In the mean time the long-boat of the _Mozart_ had been found and decked
over for sea-service. We intended to send her to Honolulu to give
intelligence of our precarious situation, and to beg for relief. During
the time occupied in her refitting we passed many long hours in writing
to our friends. At last the letters were finished, the boat ready, and
we only awaited a smooth time for her launch. This came on a Sunday, but
we all felt that our situation justified a seeming violation of the day.
The word was given to shove off, and with lusty strokes the little boat
was impelled forward. Breaker after breaker followed each other in quick
succession, like the sturdy blows of the smith; yet she rode safely. But
like a stealthy thief in the night was the insidious wave that began to
form beyond the breaking waiters. At first but a barely perceptible
undulation, it acquired volume and power as it approached the reef, and
came thundering on as though conscious of its fearful majesty and might.
Nearer and nearer came that dreaded enemy, rearing its horrid form
aloft, until it struck the boat, and its work was accomplished. We
watched the receding wave with straining eyes, and were right joyous to
see all the crew clinging to the capsized boat or striking out manfully
for the shore. All but one landed safely, and four or five of the
watchers dashed in to his rescue. At last the Captain succeeded in
hauling him ashore, but although for two hours we made every effort to
restore him to consciousness, all our exertions failed.
After this fruitless attempt we were obliged to wait a fortnight until
the surf was moderate enough to warrant another trial. On the 7th of
February the boat was launched again, placed in charge of her crew,
which consisted of the first mate and four men, and anchored outside the
reef in safety. The rest of the day was passed in provisioning her for
her cruise, and on the morning of the next day the little vessel weighed
anchor, made sail to the northward and eastward, and went gallantly on
her way amid our cheers and blessings.
A long period of suspense was now passed, but on the morning of the 16th
of March a sail hove in sight, and soon proved to be the French frigate
_Sarcelle_, which had been despatched to our assistance by the French
consul at Honolulu as soon as he heard of our disaster from the first
mate. The long-boat had made her perilous journey in twenty-two days.
The surf was too rough to attempt embarkation the morning after the
_Sarcelle_ arrived, and we sent a message off to her by a Kanaka, who
was the only one of the party that could be trusted in the heavy
sea--which no boat could have lived through. He was furnished with a
small surf-board, and the note was hung in a bottle, which he tied
around his neck. He then walked out to the edge of the breakers, and
waited for a favorable opportunity before he attempted to breast them.
The enterprise that he was about to undertake was hazardous in the
extreme, and his every movement was watched intently by all hands
standing on the beach. The quick succession in which the rollers
followed each other, their irregularity, and the sharp coral rocks just
below the surface made the surf here particularly dangerous. Skill and
courage were necessary to pass safely through the boiling waters.
For ten or fifteen minutes after the boy was ready he stood silently
watching the breakers, waiting for a lull, and then sprang forward,
keeping his surf-board extended before him. The skill and ease with
which he ascended the perpendicular rollers as they came towering on,
and the courage which he displayed throughout, were the admiration of
all. As some huge breaker, more formidable than any that had preceded
it, formed outside and came thundering on, all expected to see him
thrown back before its tremendous power; but with his board raised
perpendicularly before him, he climbed to the lofty crest, and was lost
to view behind the conquered wave that came rushing on to break sullenly
on the shore. Again and again he encountered his enemy, again and again
to succeed.
In returning, the surf-board was thrown away, and awaiting a good
opportunity as before, he swam boldly into the rollers, keeping his face
toward them, and diving whenever they threatened to break. In this way
he reached the shore without a single bruise, bringing an answer that
the _Sarcelle_ would go around to the lee side of the island, where we
could embark in safety.
The next morning our caravan started, and after much suffering from
fatigue and thirst, we reached the French camp at 11 P.M. of the second
day.
We were treated with the utmost kindness and courtesy, and on the 26th
of March got under way for Honolulu. By ten o'clock Christmas Island,
the resting-place of so many weeks, sunk below the horizon, and in
sixteen days we stood once more on the wharf at Honolulu, surrounded
again by our welcoming friends.
SAN JACINTO CORN.[1]
[1] The writer had this incident from one who was present on the
occasion.
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
There are thousands who remember the shout of sympathy
That rolled from the New England hills down to the Mexic sea
When the brave and gallant Houston, with his desperate little band,
On San Jacinto's flowery plain won freedom for the land.
They brought before him Santa Anna, the crafty and the bold,
The wretch who wrote the cruel words: "Slay both the young and old.
Spare no American you see; set all their homes ablaze;
For they are heretics in faith, foreign in speech and ways."
A fugitive, a captive bound, he stood that bright May day
Among the stern and angry men that he had vowed to slay,
And bowed with all his Spanish grace, and said, in accents bland:
"General, you are most fortunate to lead so brave a band!
"Are they Americans? If so, I do not understand
The men whom Mexico permits to settle in this land.
I am a soldier, but ne'er saw such men since I was born."
Then Houston took out of his pouch part of an ear of corn.
"No, sir, you do not understand," he, smiling proudly, said.
"For four days we have lived on corn, tasted not meat or bread.
How could you hope to e'er enslave men that were free men born?
And who can watch and march and fight upon an ear of corn?"
Young Zavala made answer swift: "The hope indeed is vain.
General, from off that ear of corn give me, I pray, one grain;
And I will plant the precious seed, and hoard whate'er it yields,
Till I can freely scatter it o'er all my pleasant fields!"
"And I a grain!" "And I a grain!" cried all the eager band.
Till Santa Anna surely felt he could not understand
The men who prized a grain of corn because in memory
It linked itself with a Texan fight for faith and liberty.
But in a few short years each grain increased a million-fold,
And over many a lovely mile the pleasant story told.
I heard it rustling in their leaves one sunny July morn
Camping among the tasselled ears of the San Jacinto corn.
[Illustration]
THE BUFFALO DOLL SHOW.
BY ELIZABETH FLINT WADE.
All the Jenny Wrens of Buffalo were busy for weeks beforehand, preparing
for the event of the season--the _News_ Doll Show at Music Hall--and
when the opening day arrived the result of their labor must have
surprised even these industrious little workers. The first impression as
one entered the great hall was that not only all the dolls in Buffalo,
but in all the towns in the vicinity, had accepted the invitation to be
present. There were dolls everywhere. They hung from the balcony, and
clung to the fronts of the boxes; they clustered in pyramids against the
walls, and crowded the boughs of huge Christmas trees; they stood on
tables, and filled the evergreen arches; and each one seemed to be doing
her "sawdust best" to make this the finest doll show ever given.
A more democratic gathering of dolls could hardly be imagined. They came
in silks and velvets, in calicoes and muslins, in wools and in laces;
they wore gorgeous Worth costumes, tailor-made gowns, and party,
walking, and working gowns. Two came in bloomers, but seemed rather
ashamed of themselves, and tried to hide behind a group of demure-faced
nuns. There were newsboys, college-boys, Indian warriors, boy
choristers, brave knights in shining armor, and solemn priests with gown
and book. There were nurses in caps and aprons, milkmaids with milking
stools and pails, Salvation-Army lasses, royal queens of England, and
Quakers in soft gray gowns, with looks of mild astonishment at finding
themselves in such a mixed company.
The doll show was planned for the purpose of giving to every little girl
in Buffalo, between the ages of two and ten years, whom Santa Claus
seldom if ever visits, a doll at Christmas. All the dolls were to be
given away, except some of the groups, and those which were to compete
for prizes, and be afterward sold. The money taken for admission and
from the sale of dolls was to be divided between the Buffalo Fitch
Crèche and free kindergartens, so it was no wonder that every one was
interested.
Dolls were arranged to illustrate scenes from stories and from real
life, and, of course, the two charities which were to have the benefit
of the show were represented. A perfect fac-simile of the interior of
the crèche nursery, even to the wall-paper, was shown in miniature. The
nurses and babies were dolls. Baby dolls were sleeping in cradles;
others were playing in the fenced and cushioned "pond," where the little
one learns to creep; and others were sitting in the laps of doll nurses,
taking real milk out of tiny bottles. This group was made and donated by
the pupils of St. Margaret's School, and over the nursery was suspended
a beautiful doll representing St. Margaret, made after the figure of St.
Margaret in the famous painting in Glasgow.
The representation of the other charity--the free kindergarten--was so
perfect in every detail that it seemed as if a fairy must have touched a
real kindergarten with her magic wand, causing both room and pupils to
shrink to Lilliputian size. So natural were the attitudes of the dolls
at their work, play, and study, that one almost expected them to move
about like real kindergartners.
[Illustration: THE MAYPOLE DANCE.]
One of the gayest groups was arranged on a raised platform in the centre
of the hall. This was the Maypole dance, where, holding the ends of
bright ribbons, merry-faced dolls danced about two Maypoles, which were
festooned with flowers. "How natural!" was the exclamation of each
spectator, while the dolls in the balcony looked down on this group as
if envying them their good time, and wishing themselves in their places.
Two groups of special interest to the boys--for even boys condescended
to visit the doll show--were the football game and the bowling-alley.
For the football a ground had been marked off on green baize, and here a
lively scrimmage was going on; the make-up of the players was exact,
even to the long hair. One poor fellow, who had doubtless been in the
thickest of the "rush," was limping off the ground, his clothes torn and
muddy, his face stained with blood, and his football hair standing out
in every direction. In direct contrast to this scrambling group were the
tenpin-players in the bowling-alley. Two were playing--for it was a
double alley--while the others stood in order, watching the game and
waiting their turn at the bowls, each of them as silent and as grave as
the famous tenpin-players of the Kaatskills.
[Illustration: THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS.]
Whoever had read Chaucer's enchanting _Canterbury Tales_ could not fail
to recognize in one quaintly attired group the pilgrims on their way to
Canterbury, with Chancer riding in their midst. The stately knight was
at the head; following him was the "younge squire," and "short was his
gown with sleeves long and wide"; and bringing up the rear was the fat
and jolly priest. Having seen this merry company, one longed to hear
again the charming tales they told at the old Tabard Inn in Canterbury.
Next to this Old-World group was what might be called nineteenth-century
pilgrims--a band of Salvation-Army lasses marching to the sound of drum,
waving their banners, and shouting their "War-Cry."
[Illustration: THE SALVATION ARMY.]
The most elaborate group exhibited was called "A Hunt Breakfast"
(reproduced at the beginning of this article), representing the annual
"meet," when the Duke of Beaufort and the Earl of Bathurst join in a
fox-hunt, an event of great importance among English sportsmen. The
group surround a breakfast-table spread with every eatable found on an
English breakfast-table on a "meet" morning, the food, both in form and
color, being an exact imitation. The men were dressed in hunting
costumes, the Duke of Beaufort and his huntsmen wearing blue broadcloth
coats with buff facings, while the Earl of Bathurst and the "Vale of
White Horse" men wore pink broadcloth, the cloth being imported from
England expressly for these tiny huntsmen. Both parties wore white twill
hunting-breeches and high top hunting-boots, and the latter would have
taxed the skill of a fairy's boot-maker. At a side table one of the
hostesses was pouring tea, the tea-set being of Dresden china, decorated
in pink and blue, the sportsmen's colors. The whole scene was duplicated
in a three-panelled mirror at the back, which was twined with holly and
evergreens. At either side of the room was arranged an English park
scene. Pink water-lilies floated on tiny ponds, statues showed amid the
shrubbery, and a background of evergreen gave the appearance of a real
wood. This peep at the way English aristocracy amuses itself was
originated and arranged by Mrs. Harry Hamlin, of Buffalo, whose husband
takes an active part in the well-known Genesee Valley hunts, which were
described a short time ago in HARPER'S MAGAZINE.
The doll which attracted the most attention was one which had come all
the way from Paris--where she had just taken a prize at a doll show
there--to attend the Buffalo doll show, and see how such things were
done in America. From the tip of her fluffy parasol to the toe of her
slender boot she was a true Parisian. Her gown was of pink brocaded
satin, her coat and high poke bonnet were of moss-green velvet. In one
hand she held a lace fan, and in the other a ruffled chiffon parasol,
and a point-lace handkerchief peeped from a jewelled shopping-bag which
she carried on her arm. Her clothing was not her chief attraction, for
Mademoiselle could do wonderful things--for a doll. She turned her head,
fanned herself, twirled her parasol, bowed gracefully, winked in a most
coquettish manner, and shrugged her shoulders now and then as if the
great doll show was all very well for America, but couldn't compare with
Paris.
[Illustration: "THE LAST ONE!"]
One group that attracted a great deal of attention represented a little
newsboy, who is a well-known figure in Buffalo, selling his "last one"
to a lady. The doll which won first prize was a copy of Bartholdi's
Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, and was of perfect proportion,
even to the base on which it stood. Instead of a torch, she held in her
hand an incandescent light.
Saturday was children's day, and all of that day the hall was filled
with them. All the children's institutions had been given tickets of
admission, and not one child missed the show. To them it must have been
a glimpse into fairy-land. An East-Side free kindergarten teacher took
the precaution of tying the children under her charge all together with
a rope, after the fashion of a Swiss mother who passed through Buffalo a
few years ago on her way to the far West, with her ten children tied
together with a clothes-line. The children exclaimed over and admired
the grown-up dolls, but not one was heard to wish for one for her _very
own_.
"Wouldn't you like that nice doll for yours?" said an older sister to
the little maid in her charge, pointing to a doll in a wonderful Worth
gown.
"No, I would not," came the quick reply. "She's far too old. Do you
think I want to be a grandmother?"
"They're just lovely," said one little girl, as she walked round the
stage looking at the prize dolls; "but they're not nice to play with. I
want a doll that will wash."
"Here is the doll I like best of all," said a brown-eyed maid, stopping
before a two-year-old baby doll with curly hair and laughing black eyes.
"And I! And I too!" said half a dozen others, crowding closer. "She's
just the doll you could cuddle and take comfort with."
An agent of Santa Claus was at the show on children's day. A poorly clad
child was gazing wistfully at a table loaded with "every-day" dolls.
"Which of those would you like best?" said a voice at her elbow, and
there stood a stout gentleman looking down at her in the most friendly
manner. "This, sir, if you please, sir," pointing to a doll in pink
gingham. In a moment it was in her arms, and the gentleman was gone; but
he was heard from at various tables, though no one could keep track of
him very long; and owing to his kindness many children who never had a
"boughten" doll before carried one home then. No one found out who he
was, but one five-year-old, who hugged a flaxen-haired doll to her
heart, said she "guessed he was Santa Claus's brother."
There were ten thousand dolls at the doll show, and the day before
Christmas the police force and the members of the charity organizations
distributed them, and on Christmas morning there were many happy doll
mothers in Buffalo who, for the first time in their little lives, tended
doll babies--thanks to the _News_ Doll Show at Music Hall.
A PATIENT TUSSLE.
If I were you I wouldn't mind
A tussle with my Latin verb;
I'd rule myself in study hours
As if with steady rein and curb.
One day you'll find that Latin text,
If you'll have patience, just superb.
AMATEUR COOKING FOR LITTLE GIRLS.
The amount of pleasure that a little girl can have with a cooking-stove
that will really and truly cook is difficult for any one who has not
tried it to realize. In these days toy cooking-stoves are so made that a
real true fire can be made in them, and very good meals can be cooked,
even if the stove is a small one.
Two little children, a boy and girl aged respectively six and eight,
think there is no fun in the world like that of cooking their supper on
their stove, which stands on the hearth in their nursery. Their mamma is
a good housekeeper, and has a wonderful old-fashioned receipt-book, in
which she has written receipts for grown-up people's food, but which she
finds can be used by the children if only a third of the materials are
taken. Last week these two children--we will call them Howard and
Marion, although these are not their real names--were allowed to invite
their cousin Ruth to take supper with them, and to cook the supper
themselves. Howard made the fire very carefully, with only just enough
paper to start the shavings of wood. Then when it blazed up and the
draught was good he put in some more wood and some very fine coal.
Marion in the mean time was busy preparing the materials for cooking;
she had to get ready creamed chicken, creamed potatoes, and cup-cake.
The chicken had already been roasted and the potatoes boiled, but she
had to cut up both the meat and vegetable into small pieces.
The cream sauce had to be made by adding two teaspoonfuls of flour to a
half-cup of cream, and stirring it well before putting on to warm. When
the sauce was ready to heat, two saucepans were filled, one with the
chicken and the other with the potatoes, and the sauce was poured over
them. A pinch of salt was added, and they were left on the fire until
thoroughly cooked. As the fire was burning well, this was about five
minutes. Served hot, these were two delicious dishes, I can assure you.
The cake both children helped to make from the following receipt, called
cup-cake: 1 cup of butter, 2 cups of sugar, 3 cups of flour, 1 cup of
milk, 4 eggs, 1 teaspoonful of soda. This receipt is for grown-up
people, so the children only used a third of it; but it was quite as
good. Marion beat the sugar and butter together until it looked like
thick cream, while Howard was beating the eggs. Then the flour and
beaten eggs were stirred up with the sugar and butter, and the soda
(dissolved in milk) was added as a finishing touch. Then it was poured
into the cunningest little patty-pan imaginable, all buttered so it
would not stick to the bottom, and was put in the oven, where it only
had to stay fifteen minutes, as the fire was burning just right.
There are many other things these children have learned to cook, but
these three are their favorites, and they say they really can't tell
which they enjoy most, the cooking or the eating.
THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
CHAPTER III.
GRACE TAKES A HAND.
"Mother darling, may I have a good long talk with you to-day, a
confidential talk, we two by ourselves?"
"Yes, Grace, I shall be delighted."
"And when can it be? You always have so many around you, dear: and no
wonder, this is the centre of the house, this chair, which is your
throne."
"Well, let me see," said Mrs. Wainwright, considering. "After dinner the
children go to Sunday-school, and papa has always a few Sunday patients
whom he must visit. Between two and four I am always alone on Sunday,
and we can have a chat then. Mildred and Frances will probably walk home
with Miriam, and want to carry you off to the Manse to tea."
"Not on my first home Sunday, mamma," said Grace. "I must have every
littlest bit of that here, though I do expect to have good times with
the Manse girls. Is Mrs. Raeburn as sweet as ever? I remember her
standing at the station and waving me good-by when I went away with
auntie, and Amy, the dearest wee fairy, was by her side."
"Amy is full of plans," said Mrs. Wainwright. "She is going to the
League to study art if her mother can spare her. Mildred and Frances
want to go on with their French, and one of the little boys, I forget
which, has musical talent; but there is no one in Highland who can teach
the piano. The Raeburn children are all clever and bright."
"They could hardly help being that, mamma, with such a father and
mother, and the atmosphere of such a home."
All this time there was the hurry and bustle of Sunday morning in a
large family where every one goes to church, and the time between
breakfast and half past ten is a scramble. Grace kept quietly on with
the work she had that morning assumed, straightening the quilts on the
invalid's chair, bringing her a new book, and setting a little vase with
a few late flowers on the table by her side. Out of Grace's trunks there
had been produced gifts for the whole household, and many pretty things,
pictures and curios, which lent attractiveness to the parlor, grown
shabby and faded with use and poverty, but still a pretty and homelike
parlor, as a room which is lived in by well-bred people must always be.
"Well, when the rest have gone to Sunday-school and papa has started on
his afternoon rounds, I'll come here and take my seat, where I used to
when I was a wee tot, and we'll have an old-fashioned confab. Now if the
girls have finished dressing, I'll run and get ready for church. I'm so
glad all through that I can again hear one of Dr. Raeburn's helpful
sermons."
Mrs. Wainwright smiled.
"To hear Frances's and Amy's chatter, one would not think that so great
a privilege, Grace."
"Oh, that amounts to nothing, mamma! Let somebody else criticise their
father, and you'd hear another story. Ministers' families are apt to be
a little less appreciative than outsiders, they are so used to the
minister in all his moods. But Dr. Raeburn's _Every Morning_ has been
my companion book to the Bible ever since I was old enough to like and
need such books, and though I was so small when I went that I remember
only the music of his voice, I want to hear him preach again."
"Grace," came a call from the floor above, "you can have your turn at
the basin and the looking-glass if you'll come this minute. Hurry, dear,
I'm keeping Eva off by strategy. You have your hair to do, and I want
you to hook my collar. You must have finished in mother's room, and it's
my belief you two are just chattering. Harry, please, dear!"
"Yes, Miriam, I'm coming. But let Eva go on. It takes only a second for
me to slip into my jacket. I never dress for church," she explained to
her mother. "This little black gown is what I always wear on Sundays."
"I wish you could have a room of your own, daughter. It's hard after
you've had independence so long to be sandwiched in between Miriam and
Eva. But we could not manage another room just now." The mother looked
wistful.
"I'm doing very well, mamma. Never give it a thought. Why, it's fun
being with my sisters as I always used to be. Miriam is the one entitled
to a separate room, if anybody could have it."
Yet she stifled a sigh as she ran up to the large ill-appointed chamber
which the three sisters used in common.
When you have had your own separate individual room for years, with
every dainty belonging that is possible for a luxurious taste to
provide, it is a bit of a trial to give it up and be satisfied with a
cot at one end of a long barnlike place, with no chance for solitude,
and only one mirror and one pitcher and basin to serve the needs of
three persons. It can be borne, however, as every small trial in this
world may, if there is a cheerful spirit and a strong loving heart to
fall back on. Besides, most things may be improved if you know how to go
about the task. The chief thing is first to accept the situation, and
then bravely to undertake the changing it for the better.
"Doctor," said the mother, as her husband brushed his thin gray hair in
front of his chiffonier, while the merry sound of their children's
voices came floating down to them through open doors--"Doctor, thank the
dear Lord for me in my stead when you sit in the pew to-day. I'll be
with you in my thoughts. It's such a blessed thing that our little
middle girl is at home with us."
The Doctor sighed. That bill in his pocket was burning like fire in his
soul. He was not a cent nearer meeting it than he had been on Friday,
and to-morrow was but twenty-four hours off. Yesterday he had tried to
borrow from a cousin, but in vain.
"I fail to see a blessing anywhere, Charlotte," he said. "Things couldn't
well be worse. This is a dark bit of the road." He checked himself. Why
had he saddened her? It was not his custom.
"When things are at the very worst, Jack, I've always noticed that they
take a turn for the better. It may not be my way; it may not be thy way;
but yet in His own way the Lord will provide." Mrs. Wainwright spoke
steadily and cheerfully. Her thin cheeks flushed with feeling. Her tones
were strong. Her smile was like a sun-beam. Doctor Wainwright's courage
rose.
"Anyway, darling wife, you are the best blessing a man ever had." He
stooped and kissed her like a lover.
Presently the whole family, Grace walking proudly at her father's side,
took their way across the fields to church.
Perhaps you may have seen lovely Sunday mornings, but I don't think
there is a place in the whole world where Sunday sunshine is as clear,
Sunday stillness as full of rest, Sunday flowers as fragrant, as in our
hamlet among the hills, our own dear Highland. Far and near the roads
wind past farms and fields, with simple happy homes nestling under the
shadow of the mountains. You hear the church-bells, and their sound is
soft and clear as they break the golden silence. Groups of people,
rosy-cheeked children, and sturdy boys and pleasant-looking men and
women pass you walking to church, exchanging greetings. Carriage-loads
of old and young drive on, all going the same way. It makes me think of
a verse in the Psalm which my old Scottish mother loved:
"I joyed when to the house of God
'Go up,' they said to me,
'Jerusalem, within thy gates
Our feet shall standing be.'"
"Oh, Paradise! oh, Paradise!" hummed Amy Raeburn that same Sunday
morning as, the last to leave the Manse, she ran after her mother and
sisters. The storm of the two previous days had newly brightened the
landscape. Every twig and branch shone, and the red and yellow maple
leaves, the wine-color of the oak, the burnished copper of the beech,
were like jewels in the sun.
"If it were not Sunday I would dance," said Amy, subduing her steps to a
sober walk as she saw approaching the majestic figure of Mrs. Cyril
Bannington Barnes.
[Illustration: "THIS BEING BEHIND TIME IS VERY REPREHENSIBLE, MY LOVE."]
"You are late, Amy Raeburn," said this lady. "Your father went to church
a half-hour ago, and the bell is tolling. Young people should cultivate
a habit of being punctual. This being a few minutes behind time is very
reprehensible--very rep-re-hen-sible indeed, my love."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Amy, meekly, walking slowly beside the also tardy
Mrs. Barnes.
"I dare say," continued Mrs. Barnes, "that you are thinking to yourself
that I also am late. But, Amy, I have no duty to the parish. I am an
independent woman. You are a girl, and the minister's daughter at that.
You are in a very different position. I do hope, Amy Raeburn, that you
will not be late another Sunday morning. Your mother is not so good a
disciplinarian as I could wish."
"No, Mrs. Barnes?" said Amy, with a gentle questioning manner, which
would have irritated the matron still more had their progress not now
ceased on the church steps. Amy, both resentful and amused, fluttered,
like an alarmed chick to the brooding mother-wing, straight to the
minister's pew. Mrs. Barnes, smoothing ruffled plumes, proceeded with
stately and impressive tread to her place in front of the pulpit.
Doctor Raeburn was rising to pronounce the invocation. The church was
full. Amy glanced over to the Wainwright pew, and saw Grace, and smiled.
Into Amy's mind stole a text she was fond of, quite as if an angel had
spoken it, and she forgot that she had been ruffled the wrong way by
Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes. This was the text:
"Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good."
"You are a hateful, wicked girl, Amy," said Amy to herself. "Why, when
you have so much to make you happy, are you so easily upset by a fretful
old lady, who is, after all, your friend, and would stand by you if
there were need?"
Amy did not know it, but it was Grace's sweet and tranquil look that had
brought the text to her mind. One of the dearest things in life is that
we may do good and not know that we are doing it.
When the Sunday hush fell on the house of which Mrs. Wainwright had
spoken Grace came softly tapping at the door.
"Yes, dear," called her mother; "come right in."
"Mamma," said Grace, after a few minutes, "will you tell me plainly, if
you don't mind, what is worrying papa? I don't mean generally, but what
special trouble is on his mind to-day?"
"Potter's bill, I have no doubt," said the mother, quietly. "Other
troubles come and go, but there is always Potter's bill in the
background. And every little while it crops up and gets into the front."
"What is Potter's bill, dear mamma, and how do we come to owe it?"
"I can't fully explain to you, my child, how it comes to be so large.
When Mr. Potter's father was living and carrying on the business, he
used to say to your father: 'Just get all you want here, doctor; never
give yourself a thought; pay when you can and what you can. We come to
you for medical advice and remedies, and we'll strike a balance
somehow.' The Potters have during years had very little occasion for a
doctor's services, and we, with this great family, have had to have
groceries, shoes, and every other thing, and Potter's bill has kept
rolling up like a great snowball, bit by bit. We pay something now and
then. I sold my old sideboard that came to me from my grandparents, and
paid a hundred dollars on it six months ago. Old Mr. Potter died. Rufus
reigns in his stead, as the Bible says, and he wants to collect his
money. I do not blame him, Grace, but he torments poor papa. There are
two hundred dollars due now, and papa has been trying to get money due
him, and to pay Rufus fifty dollars, but he's afraid he can't raise the
money."
Grace reflected. Then she asked a question. "Dear mamma, don't think me
prying, but is Potter's the only pressing obligation on papa just now?"
Mrs. Wainwright hesitated. Then she answered, a little slowly, "No,
Grace, there are other accounts; but Potter's is the largest."
"I ask, because I can help my father," said Grace, modestly. "Uncle
Ralph deposited five hundred dollars to my credit in a New York bank on
my birthday. The money is mine, to do with absolutely as I please. I
have nearly fifty dollars in my trunk. Uncle and auntie have always
given me money lavishly. Papa can settle Potter's account to-morrow. I'm
only too thankful I have the money. To think that money can do so much
towards making people happy or making them miserable! Then, mother dear,
we'll go into papa's accounts, and see how near I can come to relieving
the present state of affairs; and if papa will consent, we'll collect
his bills, and then later, I've another scheme--that is a fine,
sweet-toned piano in the parlor. I mean to give lessons."
"Grace, it was an extravagance in our circumstances to get that piano,
but the girls were so tired of the old one; it was worn out, a tin pan,
and this is to be paid for on easy terms, so much a month."
Grace hated to have her mother apologize in this way. She hastened to
say, "I'm glad it's here, and don't think me conceited, but I've had the
best instruction uncle could secure for me here, and a short course in
Berlin, and now I mean to make it of some use. I believe I can get
pupils."
"Not many in Highland, I fear, Grace."
"If not in Highland, in New York. Leave that to me."
Mrs. Wainwright felt as if she had been taking a tonic. To the lady
living her days out in her own chamber, and unaccustomed to excitement,
there was something very surprising and very stimulating too in the
swift way of settling things and the fearlessness of this young girl.
Though she had yielded very reluctantly to her brother's wish to keep
Grace apart from her family and wholly his own for so many years, she
now saw that there was good in it. Her little girl had developed into a
resolute, capable, and strong sort of young woman, who could make use of
whatever tools her education had put into her hands.
"This hasn't been quite the right kind of Sunday talk, mother," said
Grace, "but I haven't been here three days without seeing there's a
cloud, and I don't like to give up to clouds. I'm like the old woman who
must take her broom and sweep the cobwebs out of the sky."
"God helping you, dear, you will succeed. You have swept some cobwebs
out of my sky already."
"God helping me, yes, dear. Thank you for saying that. Now don't you
want me to sing to you? I'll darken your room and set the door ajar, and
then I'll go to the parlor and play soft, rippling, silvery things, and
sing to you, and you will fall asleep while I'm singing, and have a
lovely nap before they all come home."
As Grace went down the stairs, she paused a moment at the door of the
big dining-room, "large as a town-hall," her father sometimes said.
Everything at Wishing-Brae was of ample size--great rooms, lofty
ceilings, big fire-places, broad windows.
"I missed the sideboard, the splendid old mahogany piece with its deep
winy lustre, and the curious carved work. Mother must have grieved to
part with it. Surely uncle and aunt couldn't have known of these
straits. Well, I'm at home now, and they need somebody to manage for
them. Uncle always said I had a business head. God helping me, I'll pull
my people out of the slough of despond."
The young girl went into the parlor, where the amber light from the west
was beginning to fall upon the old Wainwright portraits, the candelabra
with their prisms pendent, and the faded cushions and rugs. Playing
softly, as she had said, singing sweetly "Abide with me" and "Sun of my
soul," the mother was soothed into a peaceful little half-hour of sleep,
in which she dreamed that God had sent her an angel guest, whose name
was Grace.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.
A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XIV.
HIGH LIVING.
The gift of mimicry had now served the young spy in good stead. He lay
hidden for some time, chuckling over having barked to such good purpose.
Then he retraced his steps, and at last he found the tree. No doubt the
man he had seen there had been one of the mysterious people he was
expected soon to meet.
By leaning far out from one branch to the other, George could insert his
hand in the hole of the projecting limb. It was empty, and he dropped
his letter into the hollow. Then he returned carefully through the town
to the inn, and without much difficulty gained the top of the wall, the
projecting roof, and once more his chamber window. The falling snow, he
knew, would hide his footprints.
He was awakened the next morning by a loud knocking. He had slept late,
and the glaring sunlight, reflected from the white expanse outside, was
pouring into the room. He arose hastily and unlocked the door. One of
the inn servants was standing there. He touched his finger to his
forehead respectfully.
"The landlord's compliments, sir, and your box is here. Shall I bring it
up?" he inquired.
George had made up his mind to be surprised at nothing. "By all means,"
he answered. "Glad it has arrived."
"Oh, it has been here this fortnight," returned the man.
"Of course," George laughed; "and longer, mayhap, eh?"
"I don't know, sir. Have you the key?"
The fictitious Mr. Blount did not know what to reply. "Mr. Gerry has
it," he answered at last, mentioning the landlord's name at a venture.
"I will ask him, sir," said the servant, "and bring up the box at once."
He disappeared.
"What did it all mean?" thought George to himself.
In a few minutes the servant reappeared with a large leather-covered,
nail-studded trunk. "And here's the key," he puffed. "Mr. Gerry had it,
as you said, sir."
George raised the lid. Silk stockings, plush and velvet coats, satin
waistcoats, and frilled shirts!--the wardrobe of a dandy--was exposed
before his eyes. But instead of showing his astonishment, he merely
closed the top and said:
"Is there naught else?"
"I think not, sir," said the servant, pocketing his tip.
When he had gone, "Mr. Richard Blount" took out the articles one by one.