Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 139. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, June 27, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: UNROLLING THE SCHOONER'S SAILS.]
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE RESULTS OF LONG TRAINING.
Mr. Stubbs's brother had been a close observer of all that was going on,
with a view probably to guarding against another sudden fright such as
the overture had given him, and the moment Ben commenced to revolve, he
leaped from the tree, running with full speed toward the whirling
acrobat.
Toby started to catch him, but the monkey was too quick in his
movements. Before any one could prevent him, he had caught the revolving
boy by one leg, and for a few seconds it was difficult to tell which was
Ben and which the monkey.
Of course such an interruption as that broke up the performance for the
time being, and Toby was obliged to exert all his authority to
disentangle the monkey from the performer.
"I knew it wouldn't do to let him be loose," said Toby, in a
half-apologetic tone. "Now I'll set here, an' hold him while you
commence over again, Ben."
"Well, now, be sure you hold him," said Ben, seriously, "for I don't
want him to catch me again when I'm goin' 'round so fast, for it hurts a
fellow to tumble the way he made me."
Bob offered to help hold the unruly monkey, and when he and Toby had
taken a firm grip on the collar, the music was started again, and Ben
recommenced his performance.
This time he got through with it in a highly successful and creditable
manner; he proved to be a really good acrobat, so far as turning
hand-springs and standing on his head were concerned, and Toby felt
certain that this portion of the entertainment would be pleasing.
Bob now went into the ring, and began to sing the "Suwanee River" in a
manner which he intended should captivate his audience; but he had
neglected to give the band any orders, and the consequence was that when
he commenced to sing, Leander began to play "Old Dog Tray," which mixed
the musical matters considerably.
"You mustn't do that, Leander," Bob said, sharply, after he had done his
best to sing the band down, and failed in the attempt. "It won't do for
you to play one thing while I'm tryin' to sing something else. Now you
be restin' while I'm doin' my part."
Leander was so deeply interested in the enterprise that he was perfectly
willing to keep on playing without ever thinking of taking a rest; but
in deference to Bob's wishes he ceased his efforts, although he did
venture to remark that he noticed particularly, when the real circus was
there, that the band always played when the clown sang.
Bob got along very well with his portion of the rehearsal after the
first mistake had been rectified; and when he finished he bowed
gracefully in response to the applause bestowed upon him.
"Now's the time when you come in, Toby," said Bob; "an' if you'll see
how you can ride the ponies, Joe'll run around the ring with 'em."
Toby was willing to do his share of the work, and all the more so
because he could see that Abner, from his cozy seat under the bushes,
was deeply interested in all that was going on.
Joe got one of the ponies while Toby made his preparations; and after
the little horse had been led around the circle two or three times to
show what was expected of him, Toby got on his back. This was Reddy's
opportunity to act the part of ring-master, and he seized his long whip,
standing in the centre of the ring in what he believed to be the proper
attitude.
"Run around with him till I tell you to let go," said Toby, as he tied
the reins together to form a bridle, and then stood on the pony's back
as Mr. Castle had taught him to do.
There was so great a difference between the motion of this horse and
that of the one owned by Mr. Douglass that Toby began to understand it
might be quite as necessary to train the animal as its rider.
Owing to his lack of practice he was a little clumsy; but after one or
two attempts he went around the ring standing on one foot almost as well
as he had done it when with Ella.
The boys, who had never seen Toby ride before, were thoroughly elated by
the brief exhibition he gave them; and if he had done as they wanted, he
would have tired both himself and the pony completely.
"I'll practice some, now Abner can come out," said Toby, as he led his
steed to a spot where he could get more grass, but neglected to fasten
him; "an' I wouldn't wonder if I could ride two at once, after a little
while."
His partners in the enterprise were more than delighted with their
rider, and they already began to believe they should have such a circus
as would in some points eclipse the real one that had lately visited the
town.
After the excitement caused by Toby's riding had in a measure died away,
Ben continued with his feats according to the programme, and then Bob
commenced his second song.
The audience of partners were listening to it intently, the more because
it seemed to them that Bob had made a mistake as to the tune, and they
were anxious to see what he was going to do about it, when the pony Toby
had been riding suddenly dashed into the ring, with what looked very
like a boy on his back.
The partners were amazed at this interruption, and Bob continued to
sound the note he was wrestling with when he first saw the pony coming
toward him, until it ended almost in a shriek.
"Who is it?" cried Joe, as the pony dashed across the pasture, urged to
full speed by its rider, and in an instant more all saw a long curling
tail, which showed unmistakably who the culprit was.
"It's Mr. Stubbs's brother!" cried Toby, in alarm, "and how shall we
catch him?"
It was indeed the monkey, and during the next ten minutes it seemed to
the boys that they ran over every square foot of that pasture, scaring
the cows, and tiring themselves, until the frightened little horse was
penned up in one corner, and his disagreeable rider was taken from him.
This last act of the rehearsal had occupied so much time, and the monkey
was making himself so troublesome, that Toby decided to go home, the
others promising to come to Uncle Daniel's barn that afternoon, when
Reddy was to explain how the tent was to be procured--a matter which up
to this time he had kept a profound secret from all but Bob.
Short as the time spent at the rehearsal seemed to the boys, it was
considerably too long for one in Abner's weak condition, as was evident
from his face when Aunt Olive came to the door to help him out of the
carriage.
He seemed thoroughly exhausted, and as soon as he got into the house,
asked to be allowed to lie down--a confession of weakness that gave Aunt
Olive a great deal of uneasiness, because she considered herself in a
great measure responsible for the ride and its results, as she had urged
Abner to go before the doctor's advice had been heard in the matter.
Toby's fears regarding the invalid were always reflections of Aunt
Olive's; but when he saw Abner go to sleep so quickly, he thought she
was alarmed without cause, and believed his friend would be quite
himself as soon as he should awaken.
Dinner-time came and passed, and Abner was still sleeping sweetly.
Therefore Toby could see no reason why he should not join his partners,
whom he saw going into the barn before dinner was over.
"The boys have come up to see 'bout the tent," he said to Aunt Olive,
"an' I'm goin' out to the barn, where they're waitin' for me. Will you
call me when Abner wakes up?"
Aunt Olive promised that he should be informed as soon as the sick boy
could see him, and Toby joined his partners with never a fear but that
Abner would soon be able to participate in all his sports.
That the boys had come to Uncle Daniel's barn on very serious business
was evident from their faces, and the two large packages they brought.
Two rolls of what looked to be sail-cloth were lying on the barn floor,
and around them Bob, Reddy, Joe, Ben, and Leander were seated, with a
look on their faces that was very nearly a troubled one.
"What's them?" asked Toby, in surprise, as he pointed to the bundles.
"The tent," and Reddy gave a big sigh as he spoke.
"What, have you got two?" asked Toby, a look of glad surprise showing
itself on his face.
Reddy shook his head.
"What's the matter? If there ain't two tents here, what makes the two
bundles?" And Toby was almost impatient because he could not understand
the matter.
"Well, you see, this is just how it is," said Reddy, as he began to
untie the fastenings from the rolls of canvas. "When I told you I could
get a tent, I'd asked Captain Whetmore to lend me two of the sails what
he took off his schooner, an' he told me yes."
"An' you've got 'em, haven't you?" and Toby looked meaningly at the
canvas.
"Yes, we've got 'em," replied Joe; "but now we don't know how to fix
'em, 'cause you see we've got to put 'em up like a roof, an' we ain't
got anything for the ends."
Reddy had planned to use each of the sails as a side to the tent,
fastening them along the top to a ridge-pole; and it had never occurred
to him, in all the time he had had to think the matter over, that as yet
he had nothing with which to form the ends.
It was a question that puzzled the boys greatly, and caused their faces
to grow very long, until Toby said:
"I'll tell you how we can fix one end. We can put it right up against
the barn, where the little door is, an' then we can have the stalls for
a dressin'-room."
The faces of the partners lightened at once, and each wondered why he
had not thought of such a plan.
"An' I'll tell you how we could fix the other end," said Toby, quickly,
as another happy thought presented itself. "If Mr. Mansfield would lend
us his big flag, it would jest do it."
"That's the very thing, an' I'll go an' ask him now;" and Bob started
out of the barn at full speed, while Reddy, now that the important
question was settled, displayed great alacrity in unrolling his
treasures.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
MAX RANDER'S FENCING EXPERIENCE.
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
I don't know whether it was on account of the loss of the eggs or not,
but mother still continued in poor health, until at last the doctor
advised her to quit Paris and try country air for a week or two. So
father went with her to some place with a compound name, leaving Thad
and me at Mrs. Freemack's. But we hadn't been there long when he wrote
saying that they had decided to remain away a month at least, and asking
if I thought we could make the half-day's journey there by ourselves.
Feeling that I was indeed experienced above my years, I replied that of
course we could, and Mrs. Freemack having bought our tickets for us and
put us on the cars, we set out in high spirits, for that same kind lady
had just made each of us a present of a toy sword, with belt and
scabbard complete, and as the train moved off, leaving us with the
first-class compartment to ourselves, we foresaw a splendid opportunity
of practicing the manly art of fencing then and there.
I had lately been reading up on the subject, and had plied Mrs. Freemack
with so many questions about thrusts, foils, longeing and parrying, that
I do not wonder she had decided on swords as the most welcome parting
gifts she could bestow on us. But she hadn't given us any foils, so I
begged Thad to be careful to thrust only "in fun."
We waited until after the conductor had looked at our tickets from the
window; then I gave the word, whereupon we both whipped out our
glistening blades and flourished them about our heads.
"Now parry, Thad," I cried, as I brought my weapon down with a whiz; but
instead of parrying, he began laying about him like a pirate with his
cutlass. Of course I couldn't help laughing, although I had to jump
around pretty lively to protect myself.
However, I soon made him comprehend that he must obey the rules and
stand more on the defensive, and then we sat down to rest a minute
before making a fresh start.
"Now, ready again!" I exclaimed; and this time things went a little more
artistically, although the noise our blades made as they clashed
together reminded me strongly of father and the carving-knife just
before dinner at home.
Presently we both began to grow excited, and suddenly, to avoid one of
my thrusts, Thad jumped up on the seat behind him. Quick as thought I
sprang up on the other, and then we fought in gallant style across the
chasm, which to our vivid imaginations ran red with blood or white with
foaming floods. We quite forgot where we were, and shouted and danced
about like a couple of Zulus.
On a sudden, ker-chink went my sword right through a little piece of
looking-glass, shaped like a triangle, and set in the cushions just
behind Thad.
"Now you've done it!" he cried, jumping to the floor to escape the
falling fragments.
"Oh, pshaw!" I returned, "it won't take much to pay for that. I don't
see what use such a little bit of a mirror is, anyway. But, hello! what
are we stopping here for, I wonder?" for the train was gradually slowing
down, and finally came to a stand-still in the open country.
Meanwhile, I began calculating how much such a piece of glass as I had
broken ought to cost, and had just decided on two francs (forty cents),
when the guard appeared at the window again, looked in, then pulled open
the door with a jerk, sprang into the compartment, and pointing to the
broken glass with one hand, seized me with the other, and then--but of
course that was all I could understand.
However, I wasn't a bit frightened, although I wondered how he had found
out about it so soon. Simply putting my hand in my pocket, I pulled out
two francs and offered them to him. But instead of taking them with a
polite "merci," as I had expected, he swept them to the floor; then
lifting me in no very gentle fashion on to the seat, he planted me
squarely in front of a small placard fastened just below where the
mirror had been, and which I had never taken the trouble to read before,
supposing it to be all in French. It was printed in French, German, and
English, and announced that if, in a case of necessity, the presence of
the guard was required, the glass was to be broken and a cord pulled
inside. Should this be done, however, it went on to state, without good
and sufficient reason, a fine would be imposed, the amount of which far
exceeded the sum of money I had with me.
I understood it all now; my sword had not only broken the glass, but
caught in the ring attached to the alarm-rope, thus causing the stoppage
of the whole train, and my present predicament.
What was to be done? I was not able to pay out that which I did not
possess, explain matters I could not, and meantime the conductor
continued to storm and rage, curious passengers began to gather about
the open door, and Thad grew pale with fright.
Suddenly I thought of a possible way out of the scrape, and heroically
determined to make the necessary sacrifice. Drawing forth my precious
watch, I handed it to the guard.
He smiled and nodded as he took it, and the next moment the train
started on again. But there was no more fencing for us that day, and I
sat gazing drearily out of the window, in grief for my lost time-piece,
nearly all the rest of the journey.
Father said afterward that it served me right, and would teach me there
was a place for everything; but before we left France he redeemed my
watch for me.
[Illustration: THE FIRST MUSIC LESSON.]
A LITTLE DUKE.
BY ELIZABETH ABERCROMBIE.
In the beautiful old Abbey of Westminster, London, among the tombs of
illustrious men and women is a tablet inscribed to "William, Duke of
Gloucester, the last surviving son of Queen Anne, together with
seventeen of her other infant children."
This little boy was born in 1689, and great were the rejoicings thereat.
His sponsors were King William and Queen Mary themselves; for having no
children of their own, this royal couple looked upon this baby nephew as
the future heir of all their greatness.
It is no slight thing, however, to be born a royal Prince, and this poor
child, owing to ill health, had but a sorry time of it from the first.
When he was five years old he was still supporting himself as he went up
and down stairs by holding on to people's hands. This his father, burly
Prince George of Denmark, declared was a shame and disgrace for any heir
of England. Accordingly his mother, who had a tender heart, with a sigh,
took her boy apart and tried to reason him out of what was thought to be
only a stupid habit; but as this did no good, she put a birch rod into
her husband's hand, and he whipped his son till the little fellow from
sheer pain was forced into running alone. After that he never asked any
help when walking, but it seemed, if possible, as though he was oftener
ill than ever.
So little was understood about disease in those early days that
sometimes odd reasons were assigned for these attacks of the Prince. It
had long been the custom of the English court to wear leeks on St.
David's Day, out of compliment to the Welsh. One of silk and silver had
been given Gloucester for his hat one year, but not satisfied, he
insisted on seeing the real thing.
Now his tutor's name was Lewis Jenkins, and as he was a Welshman, Lewis
was only too happy at the thought of showing off the famous plant of his
country to his royal charge. A bunch of the harmless leeks was at once
procured, with which Gloucester amused himself for some time, tying them
round the masts of a certain toy ship by which he and his boys were
taught something of the great British fleet. But suddenly he threw
himself down, and went to sleep.
When he awoke he was terribly ill, and it was many days before he could
leave his bed. There was a great outcry in the palace, and you may think
how poor Lewis Jenkins quaked in his shoes, for they said this illness
was all the fault of the leeks!
Even while Gloucester was in bed, his father's system of education was
being carried on, and the plays devised by his attendants were intended
to be instructive as well as amusing.
Ever since he could walk the Duke had been the leader of a little
company of boy soldiers. These were posted as sentinels at his door,
tattoos were beat on the drum, while toy fortifications were built by
his bed, and once there had nearly taken place a _bona-fide_ fight over
the little prostrate body, not laid down; I fancy, in Prince George's
rule.
Mrs. Buss, the nurse, was the cause of the quarrel. Wishing to amuse the
invalid, she sent by an unlucky Mr. Wetherby an automaton representing
Prince Louis of Baden fighting the Turks. "As the young Duke had given
up toys since the preceding summer, his masculine attendants started the
idea that the present was a great affront, and it was forthwith
sentenced to be torn in pieces--an execution which was instantly
performed by the Duke's small soldiers." Still not satisfied, however,
they next declared that Mr. Wetherby himself ought to be punished for
daring to bring such a thing as a _doll_ to the heir of England.
Wetherby, getting an inkling of how matters stood, ran away, but only to
be discovered, captured, and brought into the Duke's presence, who
gravely pronounced his sentence. The unhappy man was then bound hand and
foot, mounted on a wooden horse, and soused all over with water from
enormous syringes and squirts. When nearly half drowned, he was again
drawn on his horse into the royal bedroom, and I am sorry to find it on
record that the young tyrant enjoyed the sight of the man's sorrowful
condition immensely.
Still this little boy often showed great kindness of heart. Like most
mothers the Princess Anne was anxious that her son should use no vulgar
expressions in conversation. She was much shocked one day to hear him
say he was "confounded dry."
"Who taught you those words?" she asked.
"If I say Dick Drury, he will be sent down-stairs," the child whispered
to one of the court ladies standing by, then added aloud, "I invented
them myself, mamma."
And so Dick Drury was saved from punishment for once in his life, if no
more.
"Papa, I wish you and mamma unity, peace, and concord, not for a time,
but forever," was Gloucester's grave address to his father and mother
when celebrating one of the anniversaries of their wedding day.
"You made a fine compliment to their Royal Highnesses to-day, sir," said
Lewis Jenkins, afterward.
"Lewis," earnestly returned the boy, "it was no compliment--it was
_sincere_."
After the death of Queen Mary, King William on one occasion paid a state
visit to his little namesake, and was much gratified at being received
by the child under arms, with all the military honors which a great
field-marshal would pay to his sovereign.
"Have you any horses yet?" asked the King, by way of opening
conversation.
"Yes," was the answer, "I have one live one and two dead ones."
"But soldiers always bury their dead horses out of their sight," said
his Majesty, laughing. That laugh could not be forgotten. The moment his
visitor had gone, the boy insisted on burying his two _dead_ horses
(which, of course, were animals of wood) deep down in the ground. This
was done amidst much pomp and ceremony, after which Gloucester wrote an
epitaph upon his two poor lamented wooden beasts.
Young as he was, this little Duke seems to have known the value of
loyalty and truth. Once when a plot was discovered against the King, and
it was hard to tell who might not be a traitor at heart, Gloucester sent
an address to his uncle which he made every member of his boy regiment
and of his household also sign.
"_We your Majesty's subjects will stand by you while we have a drop of
blood_," ran this loyal address, upon reading which I doubt not King
William ever after felt perfectly secure and at ease.
A great many stories are told of the battles, sieges, and adventures of
the Duke and his boys, and the palace must have rung with their shouts.
Still there was plenty of hard work as well as play.
When Gloucester was seven years old, his tutor, whom he loved, Lewis
Jenkins, to the great grief of both, was dismissed, and he was placed
under the charge of a bishop. Four times a year, too, a strict
examination was held by four learned lords of the realm to make sure
Bishop Burnet was making his pupil as wise as they thought the future
King of England ought to be. Poor child! his answers on jurisprudence,
the Gothic laws, and the feudal system were marvels, we are assured, but
for all his study, I am afraid he knew really very little about those
abstruse subjects, while it is saddening to read how all his happy
sprightliness faded away under this severe course.
While visiting one of the great college libraries in Oxford, I was much
pleased to discover the quaint and most deliriously funny little
composition given below. It had grown yellow with age, lying for so many
years stored away in its glass case, together with many other
interesting hits of penmanship.
The writing, I am bound to confess, was beautifully clear and good. The
composition was given both in Latin and English, while the corrections
by Bishop Burnet could plainly be seen in the margin:
"COMPOSITION OF WILLIAM, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER.
"A Tyrant is a savage hideous beast. Imagine that you saw a certain
monster armed on all sides with 500 horns on all sides dreadfull
fatned with humane intrails drunken with humane blood this is the
fatal mischiefe whom they call a Tyrant.
"WILLIAM.
"_June_ 13, 1700."
The pen of this little scholar was soon after laid aside forever. After
a short illness of five days, he died, July 30, 1700.
OLD LIGHT'S JOKE.
"I say, have your folks got a horse?"
"Yes, we have, and I'm a-going to lead him down to water by-and-by."
"Is it your own horse?"
"Yes, he is. We've had him ever so long. His name's Lightning. What's
your name?"
"Johnny Craddock; and I heard your mother call you Peter, when she said
what she'd do if you went away from the gate before dinner was ready."
"That's only because we've just come. She won't be afraid about me after
I get used to it."
"There's lots of nice boys around here. Me and Joe Somers and Put Medill
and a whole crowd. Some of us have got horses. We've got four, but they
belong to old Squire Potter, and he keeps 'em. Some day you may go with
me and see 'em."
A clear ringing voice sounded across the village street just then:
"Johnny!--Johnny Craddock!"
"Guess your mother wants you. It's dinner-time."
Johnny knew it, but he left a promise behind him, as he darted away,
that he would come back after dinner and see Pete Burrows ride Lightning
down to the river to water. The arrival of a new boy was a great event
in Ridgeville, and his new neighbors were as eager to make his
acquaintance as they had been shy about coming too near the house while
the furniture was unloading and being carried in.
Johnny Craddock and two others were pretending to play jackstones in the
grass near the big gate when Pete Burrows at last came out through the
lane from the barn, with Lightning, at the end of a halter, behind him.
"Ain't he a big one?"
"He's blind of one eye."
"Can he go?"
"He's the biggest kind of a hoss," remarked Pete, proudly, "and when
he's brushed up he's pretty nigh red."
"Did you ever ride him?" asked Put Medill, doubtfully.
"Ride him? I'll show you."
He led his big, raw-boned, one-eyed sorrel wonder right alongside of the
fence, and in another moment he was mounted.
"There! He's as gentle as--"
"I say, will he carry double?"
"Of course he will. I've seen him carry three, and he didn't care any
more what they weighed--"
That was almost enough, and boy after boy gathered courage to follow
Johnny Craddock, for Lightning really seemed to take no notice whatever
of his increasing burden. He shook his ears a little when Joe Somers dug
his bare heels into him, and then he walked calmly away from the fence.
He could see the wide, shallow river spreading out above the bridge, and
knew very well what was expected of him.
The four boys clung tight to each other at first, for they were on a
very high horse as well as a strange one, but before they reached the
bridge they had gathered courage enough to "hurrah" two at a time, and
to answer questions other fellows asked them from the sidewalk.
"Stop him, won't you?" shouted Put Medill, as Lightning's big feet began
to splash in the water. "I want to get down."
Pete might have tried, if the halter had been in his hand, but the
lowering of the great heavy sorrel head toward the cool surface below
had jerked the strap from his grasp, and Lightning was a free horse. He
was free, and he had at once determined not to do his after-dinner
drinking just there at the river's edge. There was more and deeper water
further on, and it might be better.
Four half-grown boys will fill up the back of any one horse pretty well,
however large he may be, and there was not room for any more. When his
head was down, there did not seem to be quite enough, and a good push
would have sent Pete Burrows down the animal's neck; that is, if the two
handfulls of sorrel mane he was grasping should come out.
There were boys on the bridge now, and others along-shore, and they were
all making remarks, and more were coming, besides three men, and old
Grandmother Medill, and Mrs. Craddock, and all three of Joe Somers's
aunts, who lived with his mother, and kept the milliner shop.
[Illustration: "LIGHTNING WALKED STRAIGHT AHEAD."]
Lightning walked straight ahead until the water arose above his knees.
Horses were driven through the river right there every day, and he knew
there was no danger of his getting drowned; but it was a green-head fly
that stung him and made him shiver. It seemed to the boys they were
going to be shivered off into the water, and they all dug their heels in
hard and shouted, not very loud, "Hold on!"
That was pretty nearly in the middle, and Lightning had taken three long
drinks and a short one, but his halter was as far out of reach as ever.
"He'll go across," said Joe Somers, "and we can get off."
"Perhaps he'll turn back," said Put Medill; but Pete Burrows knew
better, for he could see which way Lightning turned his head.
"He's going up stream. Oh dear!"
That was precisely what he began to do, and before he had gone a rod he
stumbled dreadfully over a stone on the bottom, and the boys on the
bridge gave a shout, and Johnny Craddock could hear his mother calling
him to "come right back this minute."
Grandmother Medill said something too, and so did Joe Somers's three
aunts; but old Lightning had only just settled in Ridgeville, and was
not acquainted with either of them. He stumbled right along into still
deeper water, and his four riders clung to him and to each other
desperately.
"There's the island!" gasped Johnny Craddock. "It's awful deep and swift
both sides of that."
A long, low, bushy affair was the island, and the water poured all over
it in flood times; but it was dry now, and the grass had a fresh, green,
inviting look to the eyes of Lightning. He had been drinking, and he
would now eat. He made straight for the island, and his load held on
until he got there.
They did not utter a sound while he was pulling his feet out of the mud
at the shore, but the moment he was high and dry among the grass and
bushes, boy after boy came sliding down, until Lightning's long back was
bare again.
"Here we are! Hurrah!"
Three of those boys had been born and brought up in Ridgeville, but not
one of them had ever before been to that island on horseback.
There was something almost grand about it until Mrs. Craddock and the
rest gathered on the river-bank, within very easy speaking distance, and
began to tell what they thought of the performance. There were at least
six distinct voices telling Peter Burrows to catch his horse, and bring
to the shore the three poor fellows upon whom he had played that wicked
trick.
Poor Pete! Just at that moment old Lightning had discovered that all the
grass on the island was coarse, hard, speary bunch-grass and
swamp-grass, unfit for a horse like himself. He turned willingly away
from it, and before a grasp could be made at his halter, he was pulling
his feet out of the shore mud again, as he waded away from the island
into the river.
He walked about half-way across, and then stood still, in pretty deep
water. He looked at the island and the boys, and then he looked at the
bank and the young and old ladies, and he put out his long neck, with a
loud whinny.
"Hear him!" exclaimed Pete. "That's his way of laughing. It's an awful
joke on us. Can we ever get ashore?"
"Get ashore?" said Johnny Craddock, looking very miserable. "My mother's
going for Jones's boat now. She'll be here less 'n no time."
Old Lightning stumbled on, over the stones and through the water, and he
reached the bank just in time for Mrs. Burrows to take him by the
halter. She did not lead him away at once, for she wanted to see if
there would be any room in Mr. Jones's boat for the boys. It looked as
if there would not, for all the women were in it, and so was little Vic
Doubleday, shoving from the stern with a pole. One old horse had carried
the boys to the island, but it took a boat and a mother and a
grandmother and three aunts and a second cousin to bring them away from
it.
When Pete Burrows came at last, and his mother gave him the end of the
halter, she said to him:
"Pete, did you let any of those Ridgeville boys know how scared you
was?"
"No, ma'am, I wasn't scared."
"That's right, Pete. I wasn't, either, and all those women were. I'll
settle with you when we get to the house. Go right along now. Not one of
'em shall say a word to you. Put Lightning in the stable, and come to
me."
CAPTAIN ORTIS[2]
[2] Motley's _History of the United Netherlands_.
BY MARY A. BARR.
Rich was the city of Antwerp, richer than can be told--
Full of precious things from the East; full of silver and gold;
Full of merchants like princes, and of burghers bold and free,
Ready to fight for their faith and rights, proud of their liberty.
Alva took it for Philip of Spain with a wild fanatic band--
Hungry, desperate, cruel men, each fighting for his own hand;
For Alva had vowed, when Antwerp fell, each captain in his host
Should have for plunder whatever thing he thought would please him most.
Antwerp went down in fire and blood. Each captain, as he pleased,
Palace, or guild, or store, or gold for his own profit seized.
Then Captain Caspar Ortis spoke, "Duke Alva, for my share
I choose the city prison, and for nothing else I care."
The prison was full of patriots, of felons of every kind,
Of wealthy burgomasters who had dared to speak their mind,
Of heretics to Rome's high Church; and monks and priests cried out,
"These prisoners are the Pope's and King's: take care what you're
about."
But Alva coldly made reply: "Ortis shall have his way;
He is my soldier, and his sword good work has done to-day.
Antwerp is mine; and what care I for Pope, or King, or Cortes?
I keep my word--the city prison belongs to Captain Ortis.
"If 'tis his whim these heretics to burn, that is his right;
You would have done the same, I know. Go quickly from my sight."
Then Ortis flung the prison gates as wide as they could be;
"Jailer," he said, "loose every bond, and set the prisoners free."
Then forth from rack and torture rooms, from darkness and from pain,
They trooped into the prison-yard--they saw the light again--
Women and children, rich and poor, young men and burghers old.
Said Ortis, "Who for liberty can measure me their gold?"
The wealthy gave him there their bond; they gave it cheerfully.
Unto the poor he only said, "Go forth; you too are free."
The women wept about his knees, the pale sick children feared,
And Ortis grimly smiled on them, and chewed his long black beard.
But not in all of Alva's host was captain, young or old,
Who for his share of plunder won such honor and such gold.
The ransom fees rolled up and up--he scarce their sum could count--
And not one thaler was grudged gold, whatever the amount.
Perhaps you think a hero should have set his prisoners free
Without a claim of any kind, without a ransom fee;
But good is good, however small; and in those wild dark days
His deed was thought most merciful, and worthy of all praise.
And, it is said, in after-years, when all his gold was spent,
He was with Antwerp's booty roll above all else content,
And that when old and weak he kept one single memory--
"Jailer, bring forth your prisoners, and let the poor go free."
PERIL AND PRIVATION.
BY JAMES PAYN.
WAGER ISLAND.
Part I.
In 1740 the English fitted out a fleet against the Spaniards, among
which was the _Wager_, an old East India-man that had been transformed
into a man-of-war.
In those days there were no iron-plated vessels, and the main difference
between traders and ships of war lay in their guns. But the _Wager_ was
not a good ship, to begin with, and was now laden and encumbered with
every description of military stores. Moreover, her crew consisted
chiefly of "pressed men"--men who, having just returned from long
voyages on their own account, had been seized, perhaps just as they
reached their native land, and made men-of-war's men against their will,
as was then the custom.
In England and America we should think the system employed by other
nations of compelling men to become soldiers, their lot being decided by
a number drawn from an urn, most intolerable; but the old system of
"pressing" for the navy was far worse. Going to sea was not then looked
upon as now as an honorable profession, with its compensations and
pleasures, and not more difficult and dangerous than many another way in
which the poor man has to earn his living. A sea-faring life, owing to
the miserable equipment of the ships and the insolence and brutality of
the officers, was considered by many a lot to which death was almost
preferable. To obtain sailors for merchant vessels was so difficult that
gangs of men were sent out who would overpower and seize any able-bodied
man they might find in the streets, carrying him aboard a vessel at
night, and keeping him in confinement until away from land, when he
would be released and compelled to do his share in managing the vessel.
Any attempt at remonstrance would be promptly quelled by blows and
injuries of a fouler character.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that among the crew of the
_Wager_, made up as it was in this way, a spirit of insubordination and
a hatred of authority existed. This will explain many things that
happened on this unhappy voyage that would otherwise be hard to believe.
The vessel had always difficulty in keeping up with the rest of the
squadron; and meeting with a gale on the 7th of April, was so greatly
shattered and disabled that she lost sight of her sister ships
altogether, and could obtain no help from them. The place of rendezvous
was the island of Socoro; but the weather was too bad to take an
observation, as it is called, whereby to judge of her position. There
were no charts on board of the neighborhood whither she had been driven,
but an "abundance of weeds and the flight of certain birds" indicated
her approach toward land of some sort.
The gale by this time had reduced the vessel to a mere wreck, and every
endeavor was made to keep her from going ashore. It was difficult enough
to set the top-sails, since "it was so extremely dark that the people
could not see the length of the ship, and no sooner had it been
accomplished than the wind blew them from the yards."
At four in the morning of the 14th, though she had her head to the west,
and was therefore standing off shore, the _Wager_ struck violently on a
hidden rock. It helps us to picture the force of waves in storm to learn
that the people on board at first took this concussion for the mere
striking of a heavy sea. But the next minute the ship was laid on her
beam ends, and the sea made a fair breach in her.
The consequence of this was an almost universal panic. Those who were
not drowned in their berths rushed up on deck, and many appeared
deprived of reason. One man, armed with a cutlass, struck at every one
about him, and had to be knocked overboard, and another, "though one of
the bravest men on board," was so dismayed by the terrible aspect of the
breakers that he tried to throw himself over the rails of the
quarter-deck. Others abandoned themselves to sullen despair, and were
carried to and fro, with every shock of the ship, like inanimate logs.
The man at the wheel, however, kept his station, though both rudder and
tiller were gone, and Mr. Jones, the mate, cried out, in order to
encourage the crew: "What, my men, did you never see a ship among
breakers before? Come, lend a hand; here's a sheet, and here's a brace;
lay hold. We shall bring her near enough land yet to save our lives."
This was the more creditable in him, as he knew what "breakers" were,
and had a firm conviction in his own mind, as he afterward confessed,
that nothing short of a miracle could save them.
But the ship drove on, and contrived to strike just between two large
rocks. One of them partially sheltered her from the beating of the sea,
which nevertheless threatened every minute to rend her to pieces.
As soon as day dawned, the barge, the cutter, and the yawl were
launched, though with the greatest difficulty, and so "many leaped into
the first that she was greatly overloaded." The bonds of discipline, it
will thus be seen, were already relaxed; nor must the saying of the
Captain, that "he would be the last man to leave the ship," be set down
as very heroic, for Captain Cheap had recently dislocated his shoulder,
and would have found getting into a boat a very difficult job indeed. Of
all those in authority with whom we have to deal in these scenes of
peril and privation, Captain Cheap, of the _Wager_, was, I think, the
most selfish and incompetent. At the same time, as will be seen in the
sequel, he had plenty of courage. Even on the present occasion, as
Midshipman Byron witnesses, the Captain issued his orders "with as much
calmness as ever he had done during the former part of the voyage."
But only a very few obeyed him. Many of those who had not gone in the
boats "broke open every box and chest they could reach, stove in the
heads of the casks of wine and brandy," and got so helplessly
intoxicated that "they were drowned on board, and lay floating about the
decks for days afterward."
Those who had reached land in the boats, the number amounting in all to
no less than 140 persons, had but little to congratulate themselves
upon. Whichever way they looked, horror and desolation presented
themselves: on one side the wreck, containing all they had to subsist
upon; on the other, bleak and barren rocks. They found, however, a
deserted Indian hut, into which they crowded for shelter from the storm
which still raged.
In the morning the pangs of hunger seized them. Most of them had fasted
for forty-eight hours, yet only three pounds of biscuit dust had been
brought ashore with them, while all the land afforded had been a single
sea-gull and a handful of wild celery. These they made into a kind of
soup, which, little as it was among so many, caused the most violent
sickness and swooning. The biscuit dust had been put into a tobacco bag
which had not been entirely cleaned out, and thus the whole party was
very nearly poisoned to death.
The Captain and officers had now come on shore, but many of the crew had
refused to do so. The storm continuing worse than ever, however, they
got frightened, and since the boats could not be got out to them
immediately "they fired one of the quarter-deck guns at the hut" as a
gentle reminder.
The men on land occupied a rocky promontory so exceedingly steep that
they were obliged to cut steps to ascend and descend it, which they
called--not inaptly--Mount Misery. The knowledge that their comrades
were in a state of open mutiny did not tend to raise their spirits. They
would have been willing enough, perhaps, to leave them to their fate,
but for the necessity of getting provisions.
[Illustration: WITH ONE BLOW CAPTAIN CHEAP FELLED HIM TO THE GROUND.]
When at last they were brought to land, they presented an extraordinary
appearance. They were armed to the teeth, and only by the resolution of
the officers, who "held loaded pistols to their breasts," could they be
induced to give up their weapons. They had rifled the chests in the
cabins, and put the laced clothes they found in them over their own
greasy raiment, and the boatswain, their ring-leader, was rigged out in
the most splendid attire. One is glad to read that, without respect to
the figure he made, Captain Cheap felled him to the ground with his
cane, and for a few hours order was restored.
As the hut could only hold a few people, the cutter was turned keel
upward, and fixed on props, which made a very tolerable habitation. But
food was still so scarce, though the scanty provisions from the ship had
been hoarded with great frugality, that the men were glad to eat the
carrion crows that preyed on the corpses from the wreck, which every
tide cast on shore.
The ship was now under water, except the quarter-deck and part of the
forecastle, and all that was procurable from it had to be drawn up by
large hooks--"an occupation much obstructed by the bodies floating
between-decks."
It was not until the 25th of May (eleven days after the shipwreck) that
provisions began to be regularly issued from the store tent, which was
guarded by the officers night and day. On the 28th, three canoes with
Indians came alongside the wreck, and from them they purchased "a dog or
two and some very fine mussels."
The language of these men was utterly unintelligible: their clothing was
composed of skins and feathers, and they had evidently never seen a
white man before. But the castaways contrived to ascertain from them
that they were on some island on the coast of Patagonia, about three
hundred miles north of the Straits of Magellan.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration]
THESE MY LITTLE ONES.
BY MONA NOEL PATON.
II.
When young Master Dreamer came out of the store, three radiant faces
almost paid him for his self-denial.
"Oh, Nellie!" whispered Bill, trembling with delight.
"God bless him!" said Nellie.
"What shall we buy?" said Bill. "This will buy heaps."
"Billy," said Nell, "don't let us buy candies. They would soon be gone.
Let us buy something to amuse Bab when we are away at school."
Poor Billy sighed. It was hard to leave the tempting window. But he was
not selfish.
"Shall we buy a dog?" said he.
"No. Mother says they eat too much. Besides, it would run away."
"Rabbits?"
"No; we could not keep them in the room. What do you say to a bird?"
"The very thing!" cried Bill. "Let's go to the bird man's, and see what
we can get."
Off they started, Bab trotting along bravely.
An hour later, as night was falling, up the dark stair of Nellie's home
came three pairs of eager feet. Mother came to the door to meet the
children.
"How late you are, dears!" she said. "I was beginning to be anxious
about you."
"Mother! mother!--look! look!" was all the answer she received; and a
poor rumpled pigeon was pressed so close to her face that she could
hardly see it.
And then the tired mother heard the story of the wonderful
afternoon--how kind the little gentleman had been, how grim and cross
the bird man, at first ordering them away without listening to them,
then refusing to sell them anything for a shilling, and finally giving
them this darling pigeon that he thought was going to die, and giving
them back their shilling too. There it was, smooth and shining, and
Nellie held it out for mother to see.
Before one of the little ones would taste a bite of food, the pigeon had
to be fed and warmed. A basket was filled with soft rags, and set near
the fire, and in it the sick bird was placed. Then it was fed with
delightful bread and milk, each child sparing a part of its own supper.
Its bright eyes watched the children go to bed, and before they went
there was a prayer softly breathed, in which the little gentleman was
not forgotten, nor yet the rough bird man.
Long before it wanted to be, the next morning, the pigeon was awakened
by tender caresses, and fed before they so much as looked at their own
breakfast. Certainly it looked better. The shilling was put carefully
away to buy its food. When Nellie and Bill, after a last loving glance,
had gone to school, Bab sat down by it on the hearth.
"Oh, pigeon, pigeon," she whispered, "do live! I love you so! I do love
you so! Oh, pigeon, live!"
The pigeon did live. It was drooping for just what the children gave
it--a little love. Day by day it grew bigger and stronger. Soon it would
hop all over the room, perch on Bab's head, and eat its dinner from her
plate. When spring came, and the days grew warm, the window was always
left open, only a little bit, lest Bab should fall out, but still enough
to let the pigeon hop in and out at its own sweet will.
When summer came, though it was much nicer than winter, the close air of
the court made poor Bab feel quite ill in the hot mornings. In the
afternoons her brother and sister would take her far away on a long walk
to the sweet grassy meadows outside the old city walls. They had found
out now where their "little gentry" lived; and the great pleasure of the
day was in returning from the meadow, and peeping in at the beautiful
garden where the two happy children seemed to spend their whole time in
play.
The grass in this garden was often quite white with daisies, and the
poor children used to stretch through and try to gather a few, but they
were almost always just out of their reach.
One very hot afternoon they were coming home through the square rather
tired. There seemed to be something wrong with Bab. She was cross and
languid. She cried when Nellie's hand could not reach the daisies.
"Hush, hush, dear; the little master will hear you," whispered Nellie,
while Bill stretched in his arm, and succeeded at last in getting one of
the coveted flowers. The little master had heard and seen. He came up to
them, and asked, shyly,
"Do you want some daisies?"
"If you please, sir," said Bill and Nellie, in a breath.
In a moment the little fellow was down on his knees among the daisies
gathering busily.
"I would 'ike to gaver some myse'f," said Bab to Nellie.
The little boy looked up and paused. His companions were at play not far
distant. He looked half afraid.
"Nellie, me s'ould 'ike to gaver some myse'f," whimpered the tiny voice.
He hesitated no longer, but sprang up. "Come to the gate, and I'll let
you in," he said, in a low voice; and then added, "but you must go out
again as soon as she has got some."
The next minute Bab was down in the soft, sweet grass, gathering the
daisies with both little hands.